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Mansfield Park, by Jane Austen (1775-1817)

Part 2 out of 10

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


"Well, Fanny, and how do you like Miss Crawford _now_?"
said Edmund the next day, after thinking some time on the
subject himself. "How did you like her yesterday?"

"Very well--very much. I like to hear her talk.
She entertains me; and she is so extremely pretty, that I
have great pleasure in looking at her."

"It is her countenance that is so attractive. She has
a wonderful play of feature! But was there nothing in her
conversation that struck you, Fanny, as not quite right?"

"Oh yes! she ought not to have spoken of her uncle as she did.
I was quite astonished. An uncle with whom she has been
living so many years, and who, whatever his faults may be,
is so very fond of her brother, treating him, they say,
quite like a son. I could not have believed it!"

"I thought you would be struck. It was very wrong;
very indecorous."

"And very ungrateful, I think."

"Ungrateful is a strong word. I do not know that her uncle
has any claim to her _gratitude_; his wife certainly had;
and it is the warmth of her respect for her aunt's memory
which misleads her here. She is awkwardly circumstanced.
With such warm feelings and lively spirits it must be
difficult to do justice to her affection for Mrs. Crawford,
without throwing a shade on the Admiral. I do not pretend
to know which was most to blame in their disagreements,
though the Admiral's present conduct might incline one
to the side of his wife; but it is natural and amiable
that Miss Crawford should acquit her aunt entirely.
I do not censure her _opinions_; but there certainly _is_
impropriety in making them public."

"Do not you think," said Fanny, after a little consideration,
"that this impropriety is a reflection itself upon
Mrs. Crawford, as her niece has been entirely brought
up by her? She cannot have given her right notions
of what was due to the Admiral."

"That is a fair remark. Yes, we must suppose the faults
of the niece to have been those of the aunt; and it makes
one more sensible of the disadvantages she has been under.
But I think her present home must do her good.
Mrs. Grant's manners are just what they ought to be.
She speaks of her brother with a very pleasing affection."

"Yes, except as to his writing her such short letters.
She made me almost laugh; but I cannot rate so very highly
the love or good-nature of a brother who will not give
himself the trouble of writing anything worth reading
to his sisters, when they are separated. I am sure William
would never have used _me_ so, under any circumstances.
And what right had she to suppose that _you_ would not write
long letters when you were absent?"

"The right of a lively mind, Fanny, seizing whatever
may contribute to its own amusement or that of others;
perfectly allowable, when untinctured by ill-humour
or roughness; and there is not a shadow of either in the
countenance or manner of Miss Crawford: nothing sharp,
or loud, or coarse. She is perfectly feminine, except in
the instances we have been speaking of. There she cannot
be justified. I am glad you saw it all as I did."

Having formed her mind and gained her affections, he had a
good chance of her thinking like him; though at this period,
and on this subject, there began now to be some danger
of dissimilarity, for he was in a line of admiration
of Miss Crawford, which might lead him where Fanny could
not follow. Miss Crawford's attractions did not lessen.
The harp arrived, and rather added to her beauty, wit,
and good-humour; for she played with the greatest obligingness,
with an expression and taste which were peculiarly becoming,
and there was something clever to be said at the close
of every air. Edmund was at the Parsonage every day,
to be indulged with his favourite instrument:
one morning secured an invitation for the next;
for the lady could not be unwilling to have a listener,
and every thing was soon in a fair train.

A young woman, pretty, lively, with a harp as
elegant as herself, and both placed near a window,
cut down to the ground, and opening on a little lawn,
surrounded by shrubs in the rich foliage of summer,
was enough to catch any man's heart. The season, the scene,
the air, were all favourable to tenderness and sentiment.
Mrs. Grant and her tambour frame were not without their use:
it was all in harmony; and as everything will turn to account
when love is once set going, even the sandwich tray,
and Dr. Grant doing the honours of it, were worth looking at.
Without studying the business, however, or knowing
what he was about, Edmund was beginning, at the end
of a week of such intercourse, to be a good deal in love;
and to the credit of the lady it may be added that,
without his being a man of the world or an elder brother,
without any of the arts of flattery or the gaieties of
small talk, he began to be agreeable to her. She felt it
to be so, though she had not foreseen, and could hardly
understand it; for he was not pleasant by any common rule:
he talked no nonsense; he paid no compliments; his opinions
were unbending, his attentions tranquil and simple.
There was a charm, perhaps, in his sincerity, his steadiness,
his integrity, which Miss Crawford might be equal
to feel, though not equal to discuss with herself.
She did not think very much about it, however: he pleased
her for the present; she liked to have him near her;
it was enough.

Fanny could not wonder that Edmund was at the Parsonage
every morning; she would gladly have been there too,
might she have gone in uninvited and unnoticed, to hear
the harp; neither could she wonder that, when the evening
stroll was over, and the two families parted again,
he should think it right to attend Mrs. Grant and her
sister to their home, while Mr. Crawford was devoted
to the ladies of the Park; but she thought it a very
bad exchange; and if Edmund were not there to mix the wine
and water for her, would rather go without it than not.
She was a little surprised that he could spend so many
hours with Miss Crawford, and not see more of the sort
of fault which he had already observed, and of which _she_
was almost always reminded by a something of the same
nature whenever she was in her company; but so it was.
Edmund was fond of speaking to her of Miss Crawford,
but he seemed to think it enough that the Admiral had
since been spared; and she scrupled to point out her own
remarks to him, lest it should appear like ill-nature.
The first actual pain which Miss Crawford occasioned her
was the consequence of an inclination to learn to ride,
which the former caught, soon after her being settled
at Mansfield, from the example of the young ladies at the Park,
and which, when Edmund's acquaintance with her increased,
led to his encouraging the wish, and the offer of his own
quiet mare for the purpose of her first attempts, as the best
fitted for a beginner that either stable could furnish.
No pain, no injury, however, was designed by him to his
cousin in this offer: _she_ was not to lose a day's exercise
by it. The mare was only to be taken down to the Parsonage
half an hour before her ride were to begin; and Fanny,
on its being first proposed, so far from feeling slighted,
was almost over-powered with gratitude that he should be
asking her leave for it.

Miss Crawford made her first essay with great credit
to herself, and no inconvenience to Fanny. Edmund,
who had taken down the mare and presided at the whole,
returned with it in excellent time, before either Fanny
or the steady old coachman, who always attended her when
she rode without her cousins, were ready to set forward.
The second day's trial was not so guiltless. Miss Crawford's
enjoyment of riding was such that she did not know how to
leave off. Active and fearless, and though rather small,
strongly made, she seemed formed for a horsewoman; and to
the pure genuine pleasure of the exercise, something was
probably added in Edmund's attendance and instructions,
and something more in the conviction of very much surpassing
her sex in general by her early progress, to make her
unwilling to dismount. Fanny was ready and waiting,
and Mrs. Norris was beginning to scold her for not being gone,
and still no horse was announced, no Edmund appeared.
To avoid her aunt, and look for him, she went out.

The houses, though scarcely half a mile apart, were not
within sight of each other; but, by walking fifty yards
from the hall door, she could look down the park,
and command a view of the Parsonage and all its demesnes,
gently rising beyond the village road; and in Dr. Grant's
meadow she immediately saw the group--Edmund and Miss
Crawford both on horse-back, riding side by side, Dr. and
Mrs. Grant, and Mr. Crawford, with two or three grooms,
standing about and looking on. A happy party it appeared
to her, all interested in one object: cheerful beyond
a doubt, for the sound of merriment ascended even to her.
It was a sound which did not make _her_ cheerful;
she wondered that Edmund should forget her, and felt
a pang. She could not turn her eyes from the meadow;
she could not help watching all that passed. At first Miss
Crawford and her companion made the circuit of the field,
which was not small, at a foot's pace; then, at _her_
apparent suggestion, they rose into a canter; and to Fanny's
timid nature it was most astonishing to see how well
she sat. After a few minutes they stopped entirely.
Edmund was close to her; he was speaking to her;
he was evidently directing her management of the bridle;
he had hold of her hand; she saw it, or the imagination
supplied what the eye could not reach. She must not
wonder at all this; what could be more natural than that
Edmund should be making himself useful, and proving his
good-nature by any one? She could not but think, indeed,
that Mr. Crawford might as well have saved him the trouble;
that it would have been particularly proper and becoming
in a brother to have done it himself; but Mr. Crawford,
with all his boasted good-nature, and all his coachmanship,
probably knew nothing of the matter, and had no active
kindness in comparison of Edmund. She began to think it
rather hard upon the mare to have such double duty;
if she were forgotten, the poor mare should be remembered.

Her feelings for one and the other were soon a little
tranquillised by seeing the party in the meadow disperse,
and Miss Crawford still on horseback, but attended by Edmund
on foot, pass through a gate into the lane, and so into
the park, and make towards the spot where she stood.
She began then to be afraid of appearing rude and impatient;
and walked to meet them with a great anxiety to avoid
the suspicion.

"My dear Miss Price," said Miss Crawford, as soon as she
was at all within hearing, "I am come to make my own
apologies for keeping you waiting; but I have nothing
in the world to say for myself--I knew it was very late,
and that I was behaving extremely ill; and therefore,
if you please, you must forgive me. Selfishness must
always be forgiven, you know, because there is no hope
of a cure."

Fanny's answer was extremely civil, and Edmund added
his conviction that she could be in no hurry. "For there
is more than time enough for my cousin to ride twice
as far as she ever goes," said he, "and you have been
promoting her comfort by preventing her from setting off
half an hour sooner: clouds are now coming up, and she
will not suffer from the heat as she would have done then.
I wish _you_ may not be fatigued by so much exercise.
I wish you had saved yourself this walk home."

"No part of it fatigues me but getting off this horse,
I assure you," said she, as she sprang down with his help;
"I am very strong. Nothing ever fatigues me but doing
what I do not like. Miss Price, I give way to you with
a very bad grace; but I sincerely hope you will have
a pleasant ride, and that I may have nothing but good
to hear of this dear, delightful, beautiful animal."

The old coachman, who had been waiting about with his
own horse, now joining them, Fanny was lifted on hers,
and they set off across another part of the park;
her feelings of discomfort not lightened by seeing,
as she looked back, that the others were walking down
the hill together to the village; nor did her attendant
do her much good by his comments on Miss Crawford's great
cleverness as a horse-woman, which he had been watching
with an interest almost equal to her own.

"It is a pleasure to see a lady with such a good heart
for riding!" said he. "I never see one sit a horse better.
She did not seem to have a thought of fear. Very different
from you, miss, when you first began, six years ago come
next Easter. Lord bless you! how you did tremble when Sir
Thomas first had you put on!"

In the drawing-room Miss Crawford was also celebrated.
Her merit in being gifted by Nature with strength
and courage was fully appreciated by the Miss Bertrams;
her delight in riding was like their own; her early
excellence in it was like their own, and they had great
pleasure in praising it.

"I was sure she would ride well," said Julia; "she has
the make for it. Her figure is as neat as her brother's."

"Yes," added Maria, "and her spirits are as good, and she
has the same energy of character. I cannot but think
that good horsemanship has a great deal to do with the mind."

When they parted at night Edmund asked Fanny whether she
meant to ride the next day.

"No, I do not know--not if you want the mare," was her answer.

"I do not want her at all for myself," said he;
"but whenever you are next inclined to stay at home,
I think Miss Crawford would be glad to have her a longer time--
for a whole morning, in short. She has a great desire to get
as far as Mansfield Common: Mrs. Grant has been telling
her of its fine views, and I have no doubt of her being
perfectly equal to it. But any morning will do for this.
She would be extremely sorry to interfere with you.
It would be very wrong if she did. _She_ rides only
for pleasure; _you_ for health."

"I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly," said Fanny;
"I have been out very often lately, and would rather
stay at home. You know I am strong enough now to walk
very well."

Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort,
and the ride to Mansfield Common took place the next morning:
the party included all the young people but herself,
and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed
again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme
of this sort generally brings on another; and the having
been to Mansfield Common disposed them all for going
somewhere else the day after. There were many other
views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot,
there were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go.
A young party is always provided with a shady lane.
Four fine mornings successively were spent in this manner,
in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing the
honours of its finest spots. Everything answered;
it was all gaiety and good-humour, the heat only supplying
inconvenience enough to be talked of with pleasure--
till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of the party
was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one.
Edmund and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage,
and _she_ was excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant,
with perfect good-humour, on Mr. Rushworth's account,
who was partly expected at the Park that day; but it was felt
as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were severely
taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home.
As Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come, the injury was increased,
and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over him;
she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin,
and throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner
and dessert.

Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the
drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful,
the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies
sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes
from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep; and even
Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour,
and having asked one or two questions about the dinner,
which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost
determined to say no more. For a few minutes the brother
and sister were too eager in their praise of the night
and their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves;
but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around,
said, "But where is Fanny? Is she gone to bed?"

"No, not that I know of," replied Mrs. Norris; "she was
here a moment ago."

Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end
of the room, which was a very long one, told them
that she was on the sofa. Mrs. Norris began scolding.

"That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all
the evening upon a sofa. Why cannot you come and sit here,
and employ yourself as _we_ do? If you have no work
of your own, I can supply you from the poor basket.
There is all the new calico, that was bought last week,
not touched yet. I am sure I almost broke my back
by cutting it out. You should learn to think of
other people; and, take my word for it, it is a shocking
trick for a young person to be always lolling upon a sofa."

Before half this was said, Fanny was returned to her
seat at the table, and had taken up her work again;
and Julia, who was in high good-humour, from the pleasures
of the day, did her the justice of exclaiming, "I must say,
ma'am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa as anybody
in the house."

"Fanny," said Edmund, after looking at her attentively,
"I am sure you have the headache."

She could not deny it, but said it was not very bad.

"I can hardly believe you," he replied; "I know your looks
too well. How long have you had it?"

"Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat."

"Did you go out in the heat?"

"Go out! to be sure she did," said Mrs. Norris:
"would you have her stay within such a fine day as this?
Were not we _all_ out? Even your mother was out to-day
for above an hour."

"Yes, indeed, Edmund," added her ladyship, who had been
thoroughly awakened by Mrs. Norris's sharp reprimand
to Fanny; "I was out above an hour. I sat three-quarters
of an hour in the flower-garden, while Fanny cut the roses;
and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very hot.
It was shady enough in the alcove, but I declare I quite
dreaded the coming home again."

"Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?"

"Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year.
Poor thing! _She_ found it hot enough; but they were so
full-blown that one could not wait."

"There was no help for it, certainly," rejoined Mrs. Norris,
in a rather softened voice; "but I question whether her
headache might not be caught _then_, sister. There is
nothing so likely to give it as standing and stooping
in a hot sun; but I dare say it will be well to-morrow.
Suppose you let her have your aromatic vinegar; I always
forget to have mine filled."

"She has got it," said Lady Bertram; "she has had it ever
since she came back from your house the second time."

"What!" cried Edmund; "has she been walking as well as
cutting roses; walking across the hot park to your house,
and doing it twice, ma'am? No wonder her head aches."

Mrs. Norris was talking to Julia, and did not hear.

"I was afraid it would be too much for her," said Lady Bertram;
"but when the roses were gathered, your aunt wished
to have them, and then you know they must be taken home."

"But were there roses enough to oblige her to go twice?"

"No; but they were to be put into the spare room to dry;
and, unluckily, Fanny forgot to lock the door of the room
and bring away the key, so she was obliged to go again."

Edmund got up and walked about the room, saying, "And could
nobody be employed on such an errand but Fanny? Upon my word,
ma'am, it has been a very ill-managed business."

"I am sure I do not know how it was to have been done better,"
cried Mrs. Norris, unable to be longer deaf; "unless I had
gone myself, indeed; but I cannot be in two places at once;
and I was talking to Mr. Green at that very time about
your mother's dairymaid, by _her_ desire, and had promised
John Groom to write to Mrs. Jefferies about his son,
and the poor fellow was waiting for me half an hour.
I think nobody can justly accuse me of sparing myself upon
any occasion, but really I cannot do everything at once.
And as for Fanny's just stepping down to my house for me--
it is not much above a quarter of a mile--I cannot think I
was unreasonable to ask it. How often do I pace it three
times a day, early and late, ay, and in all weathers too,
and say nothing about it?"

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

"If Fanny would be more regular in her exercise, she would
not be knocked up so soon. She has not been out on
horseback now this long while, and I am persuaded that,
when she does not ride, she ought to walk. If she had
been riding before, I should not have asked it of her.
But I thought it would rather do her good after being
stooping among the roses; for there is nothing so
refreshing as a walk after a fatigue of that kind;
and though the sun was strong, it was not so very hot.
Between ourselves, Edmund," nodding significantly at
his mother, "it was cutting the roses, and dawdling
about in the flower-garden, that did the mischief."

"I am afraid it was, indeed," said the more candid
Lady Bertram, who had overheard her; "I am very much afraid
she caught the headache there, for the heat was enough
to kill anybody. It was as much as I could bear myself.
Sitting and calling to Pug, and trying to keep him from
the flower-beds, was almost too much for me."

Edmund said no more to either lady; but going quietly
to another table, on which the supper-tray yet remained,
brought a glass of Madeira to Fanny, and obliged her to drink
the greater part. She wished to be able to decline it;
but the tears, which a variety of feelings created,
made it easier to swallow than to speak.

Vexed as Edmund was with his mother and aunt, he was still
more angry with himself. His own forgetfulness of her was
worse than anything which they had done. Nothing of this
would have happened had she been properly considered;
but she had been left four days together without any choice
of companions or exercise, and without any excuse for
avoiding whatever her unreasonable aunts might require.
He was ashamed to think that for four days together she had
not had the power of riding, and very seriously resolved,
however unwilling he must be to check a pleasure of Miss
Crawford's, that it should never happen again.

Fanny went to bed with her heart as full as on the first
evening of her arrival at the Park. The state of her
spirits had probably had its share in her indisposition;
for she had been feeling neglected, and been struggling
against discontent and envy for some days past.
As she leant on the sofa, to which she had retreated
that she might not be seen, the pain of her mind
had been much beyond that in her head; and the sudden
change which Edmund's kindness had then occasioned,
made her hardly know how to support herself.


Fanny's rides recommenced the very next day; and as it
was a pleasant fresh-feeling morning, less hot than the
weather had lately been, Edmund trusted that her losses,
both of health and pleasure, would be soon made good.
While she was gone Mr. Rushworth arrived, escorting his mother,
who came to be civil and to shew her civility especially,
in urging the execution of the plan for visiting Sotherton,
which had been started a fortnight before, and which,
in consequence of her subsequent absence from home,
had since lain dormant. Mrs. Norris and her nieces were all
well pleased with its revival, and an early day was named
and agreed to, provided Mr. Crawford should be disengaged:
the young ladies did not forget that stipulation, and though
Mrs. Norris would willingly have answered for his being so,
they would neither authorise the liberty nor run the risk;
and at last, on a hint from Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth
discovered that the properest thing to be done was for
him to walk down to the Parsonage directly, and call on
Mr. Crawford, and inquire whether Wednesday would suit him
or not.

Before his return Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford came in.
Having been out some time, and taken a different route
to the house, they had not met him. Comfortable hopes,
however, were given that he would find Mr. Crawford
at home. The Sotherton scheme was mentioned of course.
It was hardly possible, indeed, that anything else should
be talked of, for Mrs. Norris was in high spirits about it;
and Mrs. Rushworth, a well-meaning, civil, prosing,
pompous woman, who thought nothing of consequence, but as it
related to her own and her son's concerns, had not yet
given over pressing Lady Bertram to be of the party.
Lady Bertram constantly declined it; but her placid manner
of refusal made Mrs. Rushworth still think she wished
to come, till Mrs. Norris's more numerous words and louder
tone convinced her of the truth.

"The fatigue would be too much for my sister, a great
deal too much, I assure you, my dear Mrs. Rushworth.
Ten miles there, and ten back, you know. You must
excuse my sister on this occasion, and accept of our
two dear girls and myself without her. Sotherton is
the only place that could give her a _wish_ to go so far,
but it cannot be, indeed. She will have a companion
in Fanny Price, you know, so it will all do very well;
and as for Edmund, as he is not here to speak for himself,
I will answer for his being most happy to join the party.
He can go on horseback, you know."

Mrs. Rushworth being obliged to yield to Lady Bertram's
staying at home, could only be sorry. "The loss of her
ladyship's company would be a great drawback, and she
should have been extremely happy to have seen the young
lady too, Miss Price, who had never been at Sotherton yet,
and it was a pity she should not see the place."

"You are very kind, you are all kindness, my dear madam,"
cried Mrs. Norris; "but as to Fanny, she will have
opportunities in plenty of seeing Sotherton. She has
time enough before her; and her going now is quite out
of the question. Lady Bertram could not possibly spare her."

"Oh no! I cannot do without Fanny."

Mrs. Rushworth proceeded next, under the conviction that
everybody must be wanting to see Sotherton, to include
Miss Crawford in the invitation; and though Mrs. Grant,
who had not been at the trouble of visiting Mrs. Rushworth,
on her coming into the neighbourhood, civilly declined it
on her own account, she was glad to secure any pleasure
for her sister; and Mary, properly pressed and persuaded,
was not long in accepting her share of the civility.
Mr. Rushworth came back from the Parsonage successful;
and Edmund made his appearance just in time to learn what
had been settled for Wednesday, to attend Mrs. Rushworth
to her carriage, and walk half-way down the park with the two
other ladies.

On his return to the breakfast-room, he found Mrs. Norris
trying to make up her mind as to whether Miss Crawford's
being of the party were desirable or not, or whether
her brother's barouche would not be full without her.
The Miss Bertrams laughed at the idea, assuring her
that the barouche would hold four perfectly well,
independent of the box, on which _one_ might go with him.

"But why is it necessary," said Edmund, "that Crawford's carriage,
or his _only_, should be employed? Why is no use to be
made of my mother's chaise? I could not, when the scheme
was first mentioned the other day, understand why a visit
from the family were not to be made in the carriage of the family."

"What!" cried Julia: "go boxed up three in a postchaise
in this weather, when we may have seats in a barouche!
No, my dear Edmund, that will not quite do."

"Besides," said Maria, "I know that Mr. Crawford depends
upon taking us. After what passed at first, he would
claim it as a promise."

"And, my dear Edmund," added Mrs. Norris, "taking out _two_
carriages when _one_ will do, would be trouble for nothing;
and, between ourselves, coachman is not very fond of the
roads between this and Sotherton: he always complains
bitterly of the narrow lanes scratching his carriage,
and you know one should not like to have dear Sir Thomas,
when he comes home, find all the varnish scratched off."

"That would not be a very handsome reason for using
Mr. Crawford's," said Maria; "but the truth is, that Wilcox
is a stupid old fellow, and does not know how to drive.
I will answer for it that we shall find no inconvenience
from narrow roads on Wednesday."

"There is no hardship, I suppose, nothing unpleasant,"
said Edmund, "in going on the barouche box."

"Unpleasant!" cried Maria: "oh dear! I believe it would
be generally thought the favourite seat. There can
be no comparison as to one's view of the country.
Probably Miss Crawford will choose the barouche-box herself."

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

"Fanny!" repeated Mrs. Norris; "my dear Edmund, there is
no idea of her going with us. She stays with her aunt.
I told Mrs. Rushworth so. She is not expected."

"You can have no reason, I imagine, madam," said he,
addressing his mother, "for wishing Fanny _not_
to be of the party, but as it relates to yourself,
to your own comfort. If you could do without her,
you would not wish to keep her at home?"

"To be sure not, but I _cannot_ do without her."

"You can, if I stay at home with you, as I mean to do."

There was a general cry out at this. "Yes," he continued,
"there is no necessity for my going, and I mean to stay
at home. Fanny has a great desire to see Sotherton.
I know she wishes it very much. She has not often a
gratification of the kind, and I am sure, ma'am, you would
be glad to give her the pleasure now?"

"Oh yes! very glad, if your aunt sees no objection."

Mrs. Norris was very ready with the only objection which
could remain--their having positively assured Mrs. Rushworth
that Fanny could not go, and the very strange appearance
there would consequently be in taking her, which seemed
to her a difficulty quite impossible to be got over.
It must have the strangest appearance! It would be
something so very unceremonious, so bordering on disrespect
for Mrs. Rushworth, whose own manners were such a pattern
of good-breeding and attention, that she really did not
feel equal to it. Mrs. Norris had no affection for Fanny,
and no wish of procuring her pleasure at any time;
but her opposition to Edmund _now_, arose more from
partiality for her own scheme, because it _was_ her own,
than from anything else. She felt that she had arranged
everything extremely well, and that any alteration must be
for the worse. When Edmund, therefore, told her in reply,
as he did when she would give him the hearing, that she
need not distress herself on Mrs. Rushworth's account,
because he had taken the opportunity, as he walked with
her through the hall, of mentioning Miss Price as one
who would probably be of the party, and had directly
received a very sufficient invitation for his cousin,
Mrs. Norris was too much vexed to submit with a very
good grace, and would only say, "Very well, very well,
just as you chuse, settle it your own way, I am sure I
do not care about it."

"It seems very odd," said Maria, "that you should be
staying at home instead of Fanny."

"I am sure she ought to be very much obliged to you,"
added Julia, hastily leaving the room as she spoke,
from a consciousness that she ought to offer to stay at
home herself.

"Fanny will feel quite as grateful as the occasion requires,"
was Edmund's only reply, and the subject dropt.

Fanny's gratitude, when she heard the plan, was, in fact,
much greater than her pleasure. She felt Edmund's kindness
with all, and more than all, the sensibility which he,
unsuspicious of her fond attachment, could be aware of;
but that he should forego any enjoyment on her account gave
her pain, and her own satisfaction in seeing Sotherton would
be nothing without him.

The next meeting of the two Mansfield families produced
another alteration in the plan, and one that was admitted
with general approbation. Mrs. Grant offered herself as
companion for the day to Lady Bertram in lieu of her son,
and Dr. Grant was to join them at dinner. Lady Bertram
was very well pleased to have it so, and the young ladies
were in spirits again. Even Edmund was very thankful for an
arrangement which restored him to his share of the party;
and Mrs. Norris thought it an excellent plan, and had it
at her tongue's end, and was on the point of proposing it,
when Mrs. Grant spoke.

Wednesday was fine, and soon after breakfast the barouche
arrived, Mr. Crawford driving his sisters; and as everybody
was ready, there was nothing to be done but for Mrs. Grant
to alight and the others to take their places. The place
of all places, the envied seat, the post of honour,
was unappropriated. To whose happy lot was it to fall?
While each of the Miss Bertrams were meditating how best,
and with the most appearance of obliging the others,
to secure it, the matter was settled by Mrs. Grant's saying,
as she stepped from the carriage, "As there are five
of you, it will be better that one should sit with Henry;
and as you were saying lately that you wished you
could drive, Julia, I think this will be a good opportunity
for you to take a lesson."

Happy Julia! Unhappy Maria! The former was on the
barouche-box in a moment, the latter took her seat within,
in gloom and mortification; and the carriage drove
off amid the good wishes of the two remaining ladies,
and the barking of Pug in his mistress's arms.

Their road was through a pleasant country; and Fanny,
whose rides had never been extensive, was soon beyond
her knowledge, and was very happy in observing all that
was new, and admiring all that was pretty. She was not
often invited to join in the conversation of the others,
nor did she desire it. Her own thoughts and reflections
were habitually her best companions; and, in observing
the appearance of the country, the bearings of the roads,
the difference of soil, the state of the harvest, the cottages,
the cattle, the children, she found entertainment
that could only have been heightened by having Edmund
to speak to of what she felt. That was the only point
of resemblance between her and the lady who sat by her:
in everything but a value for Edmund, Miss Crawford was
very unlike her. She had none of Fanny's delicacy of taste,
of mind, of feeling; she saw Nature, inanimate Nature,
with little observation; her attention was all for men
and women, her talents for the light and lively.
In looking back after Edmund, however, when there was
any stretch of road behind them, or when he gained on
them in ascending a considerable hill, they were united,
and a "there he is" broke at the same moment from them both,
more than once.

For the first seven miles Miss Bertram had very little
real comfort: her prospect always ended in Mr. Crawford
and her sister sitting side by side, full of conversation
and merriment; and to see only his expressive profile
as he turned with a smile to Julia, or to catch the laugh
of the other, was a perpetual source of irritation,
which her own sense of propriety could but just smooth over.
When Julia looked back, it was with a countenance of delight,
and whenever she spoke to them, it was in the highest spirits:
"her view of the country was charming, she wished they
could all see it," etc.; but her only offer of exchange
was addressed to Miss Crawford, as they gained the summit
of a long hill, and was not more inviting than this:
"Here is a fine burst of country. I wish you had my seat,
but I dare say you will not take it, let me press you ever
so much;" and Miss Crawford could hardly answer before they
were moving again at a good pace.

When they came within the influence of Sotherton associations,
it was better for Miss Bertram, who might be said to have
two strings to her bow. She had Rushworth feelings,
and Crawford feelings, and in the vicinity of Sotherton
the former had considerable effect. Mr. Rushworth's
consequence was hers. She could not tell Miss Crawford
that "those woods belonged to Sotherton," she could not
carelessly observe that "she believed that it was now
all Mr. Rushworth's property on each side of the road,"
without elation of heart; and it was a pleasure to increase
with their approach to the capital freehold mansion,
and ancient manorial residence of the family, with all
its rights of court-leet and court-baron.

"Now we shall have no more rough road, Miss Crawford;
our difficulties are over. The rest of the way is such
as it ought to be. Mr. Rushworth has made it since he
succeeded to the estate. Here begins the village.
Those cottages are really a disgrace. The church spire
is reckoned remarkably handsome. I am glad the church
is not so close to the great house as often happens in
old places. The annoyance of the bells must be terrible.
There is the parsonage: a tidy-looking house, and I
understand the clergyman and his wife are very decent people.
Those are almshouses, built by some of the family.
To the right is the steward's house; he is a very
respectable man. Now we are coming to the lodge-gates;
but we have nearly a mile through the park still.
It is not ugly, you see, at this end; there is some
fine timber, but the situation of the house is dreadful.
We go down hill to it for half a mile, and it is a pity,
for it would not be an ill-looking place if it had a
better approach."

Miss Crawford was not slow to admire; she pretty well guessed
Miss Bertram's feelings, and made it a point of honour
to promote her enjoyment to the utmost. Mrs. Norris was
all delight and volubility; and even Fanny had something
to say in admiration, and might be heard with complacency.
Her eye was eagerly taking in everything within her reach;
and after being at some pains to get a view of the house,
and observing that "it was a sort of building which she
could not look at but with respect," she added, "Now, where
is the avenue? The house fronts the east, I perceive.
The avenue, therefore, must be at the back of it.
Mr. Rushworth talked of the west front."

"Yes, it is exactly behind the house; begins at a little
distance, and ascends for half a mile to the extremity
of the grounds. You may see something of it here--
something of the more distant trees. It is oak entirely."

Miss Bertram could now speak with decided information
of what she had known nothing about when Mr. Rushworth
had asked her opinion; and her spirits were in as happy
a flutter as vanity and pride could furnish, when they drove
up to the spacious stone steps before the principal entrance.


Mr. Rushworth was at the door to receive his fair lady;
and the whole party were welcomed by him with due attention.
In the drawing-room they were met with equal cordiality
by the mother, and Miss Bertram had all the distinction
with each that she could wish. After the business
of arriving was over, it was first necessary to eat,
and the doors were thrown open to admit them through one
or two intermediate rooms into the appointed dining-parlour,
where a collation was prepared with abundance and elegance.
Much was said, and much was ate, and all went well.
The particular object of the day was then considered.
How would Mr. Crawford like, in what manner would he chuse,
to take a survey of the grounds? Mr. Rushworth mentioned
his curricle. Mr. Crawford suggested the greater desirableness
of some carriage which might convey more than two.
"To be depriving themselves of the advantage of other eyes
and other judgments, might be an evil even beyond the loss
of present pleasure."

Mrs. Rushworth proposed that the chaise should be taken also;
but this was scarcely received as an amendment: the young
ladies neither smiled nor spoke. Her next proposition,
of shewing the house to such of them as had not been
there before, was more acceptable, for Miss Bertram was
pleased to have its size displayed, and all were glad
to be doing something.

The whole party rose accordingly, and under Mrs. Rushworth's
guidance were shewn through a number of rooms, all lofty,
and many large, and amply furnished in the taste of fifty
years back, with shining floors, solid mahogany, rich damask,
marble, gilding, and carving, each handsome in its way.
Of pictures there were abundance, and some few good,
but the larger part were family portraits, no longer
anything to anybody but Mrs. Rushworth, who had been at
great pains to learn all that the housekeeper could teach,
and was now almost equally well qualified to shew the house.
On the present occasion she addressed herself chiefly
to Miss Crawford and Fanny, but there was no comparison
in the willingness of their attention; for Miss Crawford,
who had seen scores of great houses, and cared for none
of them, had only the appearance of civilly listening,
while Fanny, to whom everything was almost as interesting
as it was new, attended with unaffected earnestness to all
that Mrs. Rushworth could relate of the family in former times,
its rise and grandeur, regal visits and loyal efforts,
delighted to connect anything with history already known,
or warm her imagination with scenes of the past.

The situation of the house excluded the possibility
of much prospect from any of the rooms; and while Fanny
and some of the others were attending Mrs. Rushworth,
Henry Crawford was looking grave and shaking his head
at the windows. Every room on the west front looked
across a lawn to the beginning of the avenue immediately
beyond tall iron palisades and gates.

Having visited many more rooms than could be supposed to be
of any other use than to contribute to the window-tax, and
find employment for housemaids, "Now," said Mrs. Rushworth,
"we are coming to the chapel, which properly we ought
to enter from above, and look down upon; but as we
are quite among friends, I will take you in this way,
if you will excuse me."

They entered. Fanny's imagination had prepared her
for something grander than a mere spacious, oblong room,
fitted up for the purpose of devotion: with nothing more
striking or more solemn than the profusion of mahogany,
and the crimson velvet cushions appearing over the ledge
of the family gallery above. "I am disappointed,"
said she, in a low voice, to Edmund. "This is not
my idea of a chapel. There is nothing awful here,
nothing melancholy, nothing grand. Here are no aisles,
no arches, no inscriptions, no banners. No banners,
cousin, to be 'blown by the night wind of heaven.'
No signs that a 'Scottish monarch sleeps below.'"

"You forget, Fanny, how lately all this has been built,
and for how confined a purpose, compared with the old
chapels of castles and monasteries. It was only for
the private use of the family. They have been buried,
I suppose, in the parish church. _There_ you must look
for the banners and the achievements."

"It was foolish of me not to think of all that; but I
am disappointed."

Mrs. Rushworth began her relation. "This chapel was fitted up
as you see it, in James the Second's time. Before that period,
as I understand, the pews were only wainscot; and there
is some reason to think that the linings and cushions
of the pulpit and family seat were only purple cloth;
but this is not quite certain. It is a handsome chapel,
and was formerly in constant use both morning and evening.
Prayers were always read in it by the domestic chaplain,
within the memory of many; but the late Mr. Rushworth left
it off."

"Every generation has its improvements," said Miss Crawford,
with a smile, to Edmund.

Mrs. Rushworth was gone to repeat her lesson to Mr. Crawford;
and Edmund, Fanny, and Miss Crawford remained in a cluster

"It is a pity," cried Fanny, "that the custom should have
been discontinued. It was a valuable part of former times.
There is something in a chapel and chaplain so much
in character with a great house, with one's ideas of what
such a household should be! A whole family assembling
regularly for the purpose of prayer is fine!"

"Very fine indeed," said Miss Crawford, laughing. "It must
do the heads of the family a great deal of good to force
all the poor housemaids and footmen to leave business
and pleasure, and say their prayers here twice a day,
while they are inventing excuses themselves for staying

"_That_ is hardly Fanny's idea of a family assembling,"
said Edmund. "If the master and mistress do _not_
attend themselves, there must be more harm than good
in the custom."

"At any rate, it is safer to leave people to their own
devices on such subjects. Everybody likes to go their
own way--to chuse their own time and manner of devotion.
The obligation of attendance, the formality, the restraint,
the length of time--altogether it is a formidable thing,
and what nobody likes; and if the good people who used
to kneel and gape in that gallery could have foreseen
that the time would ever come when men and women might lie
another ten minutes in bed, when they woke with a headache,
without danger of reprobation, because chapel was missed,
they would have jumped with joy and envy. Cannot you
imagine with what unwilling feelings the former belles
of the house of Rushworth did many a time repair to
this chapel? The young Mrs. Eleanors and Mrs. Bridgets--
starched up into seeming piety, but with heads full
of something very different--especially if the poor
chaplain were not worth looking at--and, in those days,
I fancy parsons were very inferior even to what they
are now."

For a few moments she was unanswered. Fanny coloured
and looked at Edmund, but felt too angry for speech;
and he needed a little recollection before he could say,
"Your lively mind can hardly be serious even on serious subjects.
You have given us an amusing sketch, and human nature
cannot say it was not so. We must all feel _at_ _times_
the difficulty of fixing our thoughts as we could wish;
but if you are supposing it a frequent thing, that is to say,
a weakness grown into a habit from neglect, what could
be expected from the _private_ devotions of such persons?
Do you think the minds which are suffered, which are
indulged in wanderings in a chapel, would be more collected
in a closet?"

"Yes, very likely. They would have two chances at least
in their favour. There would be less to distract the
attention from without, and it would not be tried so long."

"The mind which does not struggle against itself under
_one_ circumstance, would find objects to distract it
in the _other_, I believe; and the influence of the place
and of example may often rouse better feelings than are
begun with. The greater length of the service, however,
I admit to be sometimes too hard a stretch upon the mind.
One wishes it were not so; but I have not yet left
Oxford long enough to forget what chapel prayers are."

While this was passing, the rest of the party being scattered
about the chapel, Julia called Mr. Crawford's attention to
her sister, by saying, "Do look at Mr. Rushworth and Maria,
standing side by side, exactly as if the ceremony were
going to be performed. Have not they completely the air of it?"

Mr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and stepping forward
to Maria, said, in a voice which she only could hear,
"I do not like to see Miss Bertram so near the altar."

Starting, the lady instinctively moved a step or two,
but recovering herself in a moment, affected to laugh,
and asked him, in a tone not much louder, "If he would give
her away?"

"I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly," was his reply,
with a look of meaning.

Julia, joining them at the moment, carried on the joke.

"Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not
take place directly, if we had but a proper licence,
for here we are altogether, and nothing in the world
could be more snug and pleasant." And she talked and
laughed about it with so little caution as to catch the
comprehension of Mr. Rushworth and his mother, and expose
her sister to the whispered gallantries of her lover,
while Mrs. Rushworth spoke with proper smiles and dignity
of its being a most happy event to her whenever it took place.

"If Edmund were but in orders!" cried Julia, and running
to where he stood with Miss Crawford and Fanny:
"My dear Edmund, if you were but in orders now, you might
perform the ceremony directly. How unlucky that you
are not ordained; Mr. Rushworth and Maria are quite ready."

Miss Crawford's countenance, as Julia spoke, might have
amused a disinterested observer. She looked almost aghast
under the new idea she was receiving. Fanny pitied her.
"How distressed she will be at what she said just now,"
passed across her mind.

"Ordained!" said Miss Crawford; "what, are you to be
a clergyman?"

"Yes; I shall take orders soon after my father's return--
probably at Christmas."

Miss Crawford, rallying her spirits, and recovering
her complexion, replied only, "If I had known this before,
I would have spoken of the cloth with more respect,"
and turned the subject.

The chapel was soon afterwards left to the silence and stillness
which reigned in it, with few interruptions, throughout the year.
Miss Bertram, displeased with her sister, led the way,
and all seemed to feel that they had been there long enough.

The lower part of the house had been now entirely shewn,
and Mrs. Rushworth, never weary in the cause, would have
proceeded towards the principal staircase, and taken
them through all the rooms above, if her son had not
interposed with a doubt of there being time enough.
"For if," said he, with the sort of self-evident proposition
which many a clearer head does not always avoid, "we are
_too_ long going over the house, we shall not have time
for what is to be done out of doors. It is past two,
and we are to dine at five."

Mrs. Rushworth submitted; and the question of surveying
the grounds, with the who and the how, was likely to be more
fully agitated, and Mrs. Norris was beginning to arrange
by what junction of carriages and horses most could be done,
when the young people, meeting with an outward door,
temptingly open on a flight of steps which led immediately
to turf and shrubs, and all the sweets of pleasure-grounds,
as by one impulse, one wish for air and liberty, all walked out.

"Suppose we turn down here for the present," said Mrs. Rushworth,
civilly taking the hint and following them. "Here are the
greatest number of our plants, and here are the curious pheasants."

"Query," said Mr. Crawford, looking round him,
"whether we may not find something to employ us here
before we go farther? I see walls of great promise.
Mr. Rushworth, shall we summon a council on this lawn?"

"James," said Mrs. Rushworth to her son, "I believe
the wilderness will be new to all the party. The Miss
Bertrams have never seen the wilderness yet."

No objection was made, but for some time there seemed
no inclination to move in any plan, or to any distance.
All were attracted at first by the plants or the pheasants,
and all dispersed about in happy independence.
Mr. Crawford was the first to move forward to examine
the capabilities of that end of the house. The lawn,
bounded on each side by a high wall, contained beyond
the first planted area a bowling-green, and beyond
the bowling-green a long terrace walk, backed by iron
palisades, and commanding a view over them into the tops
of the trees of the wilderness immediately adjoining.
It was a good spot for fault-finding. Mr. Crawford was soon
followed by Miss Bertram and Mr. Rushworth; and when,
after a little time, the others began to form into parties,
these three were found in busy consultation on the terrace
by Edmund, Miss Crawford, and Fanny, who seemed as naturally
to unite, and who, after a short participation of their
regrets and difficulties, left them and walked on.
The remaining three, Mrs. Rushworth, Mrs. Norris,
and Julia, were still far behind; for Julia, whose happy
star no longer prevailed, was obliged to keep by the side
of Mrs. Rushworth, and restrain her impatient feet to that
lady's slow pace, while her aunt, having fallen in with
the housekeeper, who was come out to feed the pheasants,
was lingering behind in gossip with her. Poor Julia,
the only one out of the nine not tolerably satisfied
with their lot, was now in a state of complete penance,
and as different from the Julia of the barouche-box
as could well be imagined. The politeness which she had
been brought up to practise as a duty made it impossible
for her to escape; while the want of that higher species
of self-command, that just consideration of others,
that knowledge of her own heart, that principle of right,
which had not formed any essential part of her education,
made her miserable under it.

"This is insufferably hot," said Miss Crawford, when they
had taken one turn on the terrace, and were drawing
a second time to the door in the middle which opened to
the wilderness. "Shall any of us object to being comfortable?
Here is a nice little wood, if one can but get into it.
What happiness if the door should not be locked! but of
course it is; for in these great places the gardeners
are the only people who can go where they like."

The door, however, proved not to be locked, and they were
all agreed in turning joyfully through it, and leaving
the unmitigated glare of day behind. A considerable
flight of steps landed them in the wilderness, which was
a planted wood of about two acres, and though chiefly
of larch and laurel, and beech cut down, and though laid
out with too much regularity, was darkness and shade,
and natural beauty, compared with the bowling-green
and the terrace. They all felt the refreshment of it,
and for some time could only walk and admire. At length,
after a short pause, Miss Crawford began with, "So you
are to be a clergyman, Mr. Bertram. This is rather
a surprise to me."

"Why should it surprise you? You must suppose me designed
for some profession, and might perceive that I am neither
a lawyer, nor a soldier, nor a sailor."

"Very true; but, in short, it had not occurred to me.
And you know there is generally an uncle or a grandfather
to leave a fortune to the second son."

"A very praiseworthy practice," said Edmund,
"but not quite universal. I am one of the exceptions,
and _being_ one, must do something for myself."

"But why are you to be a clergyman? I thought _that_
was always the lot of the youngest, where there were
many to chuse before him."

"Do you think the church itself never chosen, then?"

"_Never_ is a black word. But yes, in the _never_
of conversation, which means _not_ _very_ _often_,
I do think it. For what is to be done in the church?
Men love to distinguish themselves, and in either of the other
lines distinction may be gained, but not in the church.
A clergyman is nothing."

"The _nothing_ of conversation has its gradations, I hope,
as well as the _never_. A clergyman cannot be high in
state or fashion. He must not head mobs, or set the ton
in dress. But I cannot call that situation nothing which
has the charge of all that is of the first importance
to mankind, individually or collectively considered,
temporally and eternally, which has the guardianship
of religion and morals, and consequently of the manners
which result from their influence. No one here can call
the _office_ nothing. If the man who holds it is so,
it is by the neglect of his duty, by foregoing its
just importance, and stepping out of his place to appear
what he ought not to appear."

"_You_ assign greater consequence to the clergyman than one
has been used to hear given, or than I can quite comprehend.
One does not see much of this influence and importance
in society, and how can it be acquired where they are
so seldom seen themselves? How can two sermons a week,
even supposing them worth hearing, supposing the preacher
to have the sense to prefer Blair's to his own, do all
that you speak of? govern the conduct and fashion the
manners of a large congregation for the rest of the week?
One scarcely sees a clergyman out of his pulpit."

"_You_ are speaking of London, _I_ am speaking of the
nation at large."

"The metropolis, I imagine, is a pretty fair sample
of the rest."

"Not, I should hope, of the proportion of virtue to vice
throughout the kingdom. We do not look in great cities
for our best morality. It is not there that respectable
people of any denomination can do most good; and it
certainly is not there that the influence of the clergy can
be most felt. A fine preacher is followed and admired;
but it is not in fine preaching only that a good clergyman
will be useful in his parish and his neighbourhood,
where the parish and neighbourhood are of a size capable
of knowing his private character, and observing his
general conduct, which in London can rarely be the case.
The clergy are lost there in the crowds of their parishioners.
They are known to the largest part only as preachers.
And with regard to their influencing public manners,
Miss Crawford must not misunderstand me, or suppose I mean
to call them the arbiters of good-breeding, the regulators
of refinement and courtesy, the masters of the ceremonies
of life. The _manners_ I speak of might rather be
called _conduct_, perhaps, the result of good principles;
the effect, in short, of those doctrines which it
is their duty to teach and recommend; and it will,
I believe, be everywhere found, that as the clergy are,
or are not what they ought to be, so are the rest of
the nation."

"Certainly," said Fanny, with gentle earnestness.

"There," cried Miss Crawford, "you have quite convinced
Miss Price already."

"I wish I could convince Miss Crawford too."

"I do not think you ever will," said she, with an arch smile;
"I am just as much surprised now as I was at first
that you should intend to take orders. You really are
fit for something better. Come, do change your mind.
It is not too late. Go into the law."

"Go into the law! With as much ease as I was told to go
into this wilderness."

"Now you are going to say something about law being
the worst wilderness of the two, but I forestall you;
remember, I have forestalled you."

"You need not hurry when the object is only to prevent
my saying a _bon_ _mot_, for there is not the least wit in
my nature. I am a very matter-of-fact, plain-spoken being,
and may blunder on the borders of a repartee for half
an hour together without striking it out."

A general silence succeeded. Each was thoughtful.
Fanny made the first interruption by saying, "I wonder
that I should be tired with only walking in this sweet wood;
but the next time we come to a seat, if it is not disagreeable
to you, I should be glad to sit down for a little while."

"My dear Fanny," cried Edmund, immediately drawing her arm
within his, "how thoughtless I have been! I hope you
are not very tired. Perhaps," turning to Miss Crawford,
"my other companion may do me the honour of taking an arm."

"Thank you, but I am not at all tired." She took it,
however, as she spoke, and the gratification of having
her do so, of feeling such a connexion for the first time,
made him a little forgetful of Fanny. "You scarcely
touch me," said he. "You do not make me of any use.
What a difference in the weight of a woman's arm from
that of a man! At Oxford I have been a good deal used
to have a man lean on me for the length of a street,
and you are only a fly in the comparison."

"I am really not tired, which I almost wonder at;
for we must have walked at least a mile in this wood.
Do not you think we have?"

"Not half a mile," was his sturdy answer; for he was not yet
so much in love as to measure distance, or reckon time,
with feminine lawlessness.

"Oh! you do not consider how much we have wound about.
We have taken such a very serpentine course, and the wood
itself must be half a mile long in a straight line,
for we have never seen the end of it yet since we left
the first great path."

"But if you remember, before we left that first great path,
we saw directly to the end of it. We looked down the
whole vista, and saw it closed by iron gates, and it
could not have been more than a furlong in length."

"Oh! I know nothing of your furlongs, but I am sure
it is a very long wood, and that we have been winding
in and out ever since we came into it; and therefore,
when I say that we have walked a mile in it, I must speak
within compass."

"We have been exactly a quarter of an hour here,"
said Edmund, taking out his watch. "Do you think we
are walking four miles an hour?"

"Oh! do not attack me with your watch. A watch is always
too fast or too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch."

A few steps farther brought them out at the bottom of the
very walk they had been talking of; and standing back,
well shaded and sheltered, and looking over a ha-ha into
the park, was a comfortable-sized bench, on which they
all sat down.

"I am afraid you are very tired, Fanny," said Edmund,
observing her; "why would not you speak sooner? This will be
a bad day's amusement for you if you are to be knocked up.
Every sort of exercise fatigues her so soon, Miss Crawford,
except riding."

"How abominable in you, then, to let me engross her horse
as I did all last week! I am ashamed of you and of myself,
but it shall never happen again."

"_Your_ attentiveness and consideration makes me more
sensible of my own neglect. Fanny's interest seems
in safer hands with you than with me."

"That she should be tired now, however, gives me no surprise;
for there is nothing in the course of one's duties
so fatiguing as what we have been doing this morning:
seeing a great house, dawdling from one room to another,
straining one's eyes and one's attention, hearing what one
does not understand, admiring what one does not care for.
It is generally allowed to be the greatest bore in the world,
and Miss Price has found it so, though she did not
know it."

"I shall soon be rested," said Fanny; "to sit
in the shade on a fine day, and look upon verdure,
is the most perfect refreshment."

After sitting a little while Miss Crawford was up again.
"I must move," said she; "resting fatigues me.
I have looked across the ha-ha till I am weary. I must
go and look through that iron gate at the same view,
without being able to see it so well."

Edmund left the seat likewise. "Now, Miss Crawford,
if you will look up the walk, you will convince yourself
that it cannot be half a mile long, or half half a mile."

"It is an immense distance," said she; "I see _that_
with a glance."

He still reasoned with her, but in vain. She would
not calculate, she would not compare. She would only
smile and assert. The greatest degree of rational
consistency could not have been more engaging, and they
talked with mutual satisfaction. At last it was agreed
that they should endeavour to determine the dimensions
of the wood by walking a little more about it. They would
go to one end of it, in the line they were then in--
for there was a straight green walk along the bottom
by the side of the ha-ha--and perhaps turn a little way
in some other direction, if it seemed likely to assist them,
and be back in a few minutes. Fanny said she was rested,
and would have moved too, but this was not suffered.
Edmund urged her remaining where she was with an
earnestness which she could not resist, and she was left
on the bench to think with pleasure of her cousin's care,
but with great regret that she was not stronger.
She watched them till they had turned the corner,
and listened till all sound of them had ceased.


A quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, passed away,
and Fanny was still thinking of Edmund, Miss Crawford,
and herself, without interruption from any one. She began
to be surprised at being left so long, and to listen
with an anxious desire of hearing their steps and their
voices again. She listened, and at length she heard;
she heard voices and feet approaching; but she had just
satisfied herself that it was not those she wanted,
when Miss Bertram, Mr. Rushworth, and Mr. Crawford issued
from the same path which she had trod herself, and were
before her.

"Miss Price all alone" and "My dear Fanny, how comes this?"
were the first salutations. She told her story.
"Poor dear Fanny," cried her cousin, "how ill you have been
used by them! You had better have staid with us."

Then seating herself with a gentleman on each side,
she resumed the conversation which had engaged them before,
and discussed the possibility of improvements with
much animation. Nothing was fixed on; but Henry Crawford
was full of ideas and projects, and, generally speaking,
whatever he proposed was immediately approved, first by her,
and then by Mr. Rushworth, whose principal business
seemed to be to hear the others, and who scarcely risked
an original thought of his own beyond a wish that they
had seen his friend Smith's place.

After some minutes spent in this way, Miss Bertram,
observing the iron gate, expressed a wish of passing
through it into the park, that their views and their
plans might be more comprehensive. It was the very thing
of all others to be wished, it was the best, it was
the only way of proceeding with any advantage, in Henry
Crawford's opinion; and he directly saw a knoll not half
a mile off, which would give them exactly the requisite
command of the house. Go therefore they must to that knoll,
and through that gate; but the gate was locked.
Mr. Rushworth wished he had brought the key; he had been
very near thinking whether he should not bring the key;
he was determined he would never come without the key again;
but still this did not remove the present evil. They could
not get through; and as Miss Bertram's inclination for so
doing did by no means lessen, it ended in Mr. Rushworth's
declaring outright that he would go and fetch the key.
He set off accordingly.

"It is undoubtedly the best thing we can do now, as we
are so far from the house already," said Mr. Crawford,
when he was gone.

"Yes, there is nothing else to be done. But now, sincerely,
do not you find the place altogether worse than you expected?"

"No, indeed, far otherwise. I find it better, grander, more
complete in its style, though that style may not be the best.
And to tell you the truth," speaking rather lower, "I do not
think that _I_ shall ever see Sotherton again with so much
pleasure as I do now. Another summer will hardly improve it to

After a moment's embarrassment the lady replied, "You are
too much a man of the world not to see with the eyes
of the world. If other people think Sotherton improved,
I have no doubt that you will."

"I am afraid I am not quite so much the man of the world
as might be good for me in some points. My feelings
are not quite so evanescent, nor my memory of the past
under such easy dominion as one finds to be the case
with men of the world."

This was followed by a short silence. Miss Bertram
began again. "You seemed to enjoy your drive here very much
this morning. I was glad to see you so well entertained.
You and Julia were laughing the whole way."

"Were we? Yes, I believe we were; but I have not
the least recollection at what. Oh! I believe
I was relating to her some ridiculous stories
of an old Irish groom of my uncle's. Your sister loves to laugh."

"You think her more light-hearted than I am?"

"More easily amused," he replied; "consequently, you know,"
smiling, "better company. I could not have hoped
to entertain you with Irish anecdotes during a ten miles' drive."

"Naturally, I believe, I am as lively as Julia, but I
have more to think of now."

"You have, undoubtedly; and there are situations in
which very high spirits would denote insensibility.
Your prospects, however, are too fair to justify want
of spirits. You have a very smiling scene before you."

"Do you mean literally or figuratively? Literally,
I conclude. Yes, certainly, the sun shines, and the park
looks very cheerful. But unluckily that iron gate,
that ha-ha, give me a feeling of restraint and hardship.
'I cannot get out,' as the starling said." As she spoke,
and it was with expression, she walked to the gate:
he followed her. "Mr. Rushworth is so long fetching
this key!"

"And for the world you would not get out without the key
and without Mr. Rushworth's authority and protection,
or I think you might with little difficulty pass round
the edge of the gate, here, with my assistance; I think it
might be done, if you really wished to be more at large,
and could allow yourself to think it not prohibited."

"Prohibited! nonsense! I certainly can get out that way,
and I will. Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment,
you know; we shall not be out of sight."

"Or if we are, Miss Price will be so good as to tell him
that he will find us near that knoll: the grove of oak
on the knoll."

Fanny, feeling all this to be wrong, could not help
making an effort to prevent it. "You will hurt yourself,
Miss Bertram," she cried; "you will certainly hurt
yourself against those spikes; you will tear your gown;
you will be in danger of slipping into the ha-ha. You had
better not go."

Her cousin was safe on the other side while these words
were spoken, and, smiling with all the good-humour
of success, she said, "Thank you, my dear Fanny,
but I and my gown are alive and well, and so good-bye."

Fanny was again left to her solitude, and with no increase
of pleasant feelings, for she was sorry for almost all
that she had seen and heard, astonished at Miss Bertram,
and angry with Mr. Crawford. By taking a circuitous
route, and, as it appeared to her, very unreasonable
direction to the knoll, they were soon beyond her eye;
and for some minutes longer she remained without sight
or sound of any companion. She seemed to have the little
wood all to herself. She could almost have thought
that Edmund and Miss Crawford had left it, but that
it was impossible for Edmund to forget her so entirely.

She was again roused from disagreeable musings by sudden footsteps:
somebody was coming at a quick pace down the principal walk.
She expected Mr. Rushworth, but it was Julia, who,
hot and out of breath, and with a look of disappointment,
cried out on seeing her, "Heyday! Where are the others?
I thought Maria and Mr. Crawford were with you."

Fanny explained.

"A pretty trick, upon my word! I cannot see them anywhere,"
looking eagerly into the park. "But they cannot be very
far off, and I think I am equal to as much as Maria,
even without help."

"But, Julia, Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment
with the key. Do wait for Mr. Rushworth."

"Not I, indeed. I have had enough of the family for
one morning. Why, child, I have but this moment escaped from
his horrible mother. Such a penance as I have been enduring,
while you were sitting here so composed and so happy!
It might have been as well, perhaps, if you had been in
my place, but you always contrive to keep out of these scrapes."

This was a most unjust reflection, but Fanny could allow
for it, and let it pass: Julia was vexed, and her
temper was hasty; but she felt that it would not last,
and therefore, taking no notice, only asked her if she
had not seen Mr. Rushworth.

"Yes, yes, we saw him. He was posting away as if upon
life and death, and could but just spare time to tell us
his errand, and where you all were."

"It is a pity he should have so much trouble for nothing."

"_That_ is Miss Maria's concern. I am not obliged
to punish myself for _her_ sins. The mother I could
not avoid, as long as my tiresome aunt was dancing about
with the housekeeper, but the son I _can_ get away from."

And she immediately scrambled across the fence,
and walked away, not attending to Fanny's last question of
whether she had seen anything of Miss Crawford and Edmund.
The sort of dread in which Fanny now sat of seeing
Mr. Rushworth prevented her thinking so much of their
continued absence, however, as she might have done.
She felt that he had been very ill-used, and was quite
unhappy in having to communicate what had passed.
He joined her within five minutes after Julia's exit;
and though she made the best of the story, he was evidently
mortified and displeased in no common degree. At first
he scarcely said anything; his looks only expressed his
extreme surprise and vexation, and he walked to the gate
and stood there, without seeming to know what to do.

"They desired me to stay--my cousin Maria charged me to say
that you would find them at that knoll, or thereabouts."

"I do not believe I shall go any farther," said he sullenly;
"I see nothing of them. By the time I get to the knoll they
may be gone somewhere else. I have had walking enough."

And he sat down with a most gloomy countenance by Fanny.

"I am very sorry," said she; "it is very unlucky." And she
longed to be able to say something more to the purpose.

After an interval of silence, "I think they might as well
have staid for me," said he.

"Miss Bertram thought you would follow her."

"I should not have had to follow her if she had staid."

This could not be denied, and Fanny was silenced.
After another pause, he went on--"Pray, Miss Price,
are you such a great admirer of this Mr. Crawford as some
people are? For my part, I can see nothing in him."

"I do not think him at all handsome."

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