الفصل الفصل 37 · Chapter XXXVII

Mr. Crawford gone, Sir Thomas’s next object was that he should be

missed; and he entertained great hope that his niece would find a blank

in the loss of those attentions which at the time she had felt, or

fancied, an evil. She had tasted of consequence in its most flattering

form; and he did hope that the loss of it, the sinking again into

nothing, would awaken very wholesome regrets in her mind. He watched

her with this idea; but he could hardly tell with what success. He

hardly knew whether there were any difference in her spirits or not.

She was always so gentle and retiring that her emotions were beyond his

discrimination. He did not understand her: he felt that he did not; and

therefore applied to Edmund to tell him how she stood affected on the

present occasion, and whether she were more or less happy than she had

been.

Edmund did not discern any symptoms of regret, and thought his father a

little unreasonable in supposing the first three or four days could

produce any.

What chiefly surprised Edmund was, that Crawford’s sister, the friend

and companion who had been so much to her, should not be more visibly

regretted. He wondered that Fanny spoke so seldom of _her_, and had so

little voluntarily to say of her concern at this separation.

Alas! it was this sister, this friend and companion, who was now the

chief bane of Fanny’s comfort. If she could have believed Mary’s future

fate as unconnected with Mansfield as she was determined the brother’s

should be, if she could have hoped her return thither to be as distant

as she was much inclined to think his, she would have been light of

heart indeed; but the more she recollected and observed, the more

deeply was she convinced that everything was now in a fairer train for

Miss Crawford’s marrying Edmund than it had ever been before. On his

side the inclination was stronger, on hers less equivocal. His

objections, the scruples of his integrity, seemed all done away, nobody

could tell how; and the doubts and hesitations of her ambition were

equally got over—and equally without apparent reason. It could only be

imputed to increasing attachment. His good and her bad feelings yielded

to love, and such love must unite them. He was to go to town as soon as

some business relative to Thornton Lacey were completed—perhaps within

a fortnight; he talked of going, he loved to talk of it; and when once

with her again, Fanny could not doubt the rest. Her acceptance must be

as certain as his offer; and yet there were bad feelings still

remaining which made the prospect of it most sorrowful to her,

independently, she believed, independently of self.

In their very last conversation, Miss Crawford, in spite of some

amiable sensations, and much personal kindness, had still been Miss

Crawford; still shewn a mind led astray and bewildered, and without any

suspicion of being so; darkened, yet fancying itself light. She might

love, but she did not deserve Edmund by any other sentiment. Fanny

believed there was scarcely a second feeling in common between them;

and she may be forgiven by older sages for looking on the chance of

Miss Crawford’s future improvement as nearly desperate, for thinking

that if Edmund’s influence in this season of love had already done so

little in clearing her judgment, and regulating her notions, his worth

would be finally wasted on her even in years of matrimony.

Experience might have hoped more for any young people so circumstanced,

and impartiality would not have denied to Miss Crawford’s nature that

participation of the general nature of women which would lead her to

adopt the opinions of the man she loved and respected as her own. But

as such were Fanny’s persuasions, she suffered very much from them, and

could never speak of Miss Crawford without pain.

Sir Thomas, meanwhile, went on with his own hopes and his own

observations, still feeling a right, by all his knowledge of human

nature, to expect to see the effect of the loss of power and

consequence on his niece’s spirits, and the past attentions of the

lover producing a craving for their return; and he was soon afterwards

able to account for his not yet completely and indubitably seeing all

this, by the prospect of another visitor, whose approach he could allow

to be quite enough to support the spirits he was watching. William had

obtained a ten days’ leave of absence, to be given to Northamptonshire,

and was coming, the happiest of lieutenants, because the latest made,

to shew his happiness and describe his uniform.

He came; and he would have been delighted to shew his uniform there

too, had not cruel custom prohibited its appearance except on duty. So

the uniform remained at Portsmouth, and Edmund conjectured that before

Fanny had any chance of seeing it, all its own freshness and all the

freshness of its wearer’s feelings must be worn away. It would be sunk

into a badge of disgrace; for what can be more unbecoming, or more

worthless, than the uniform of a lieutenant, who has been a lieutenant

a year or two, and sees others made commanders before him? So reasoned

Edmund, till his father made him the confidant of a scheme which placed

Fanny’s chance of seeing the second lieutenant of H.M.S. Thrush in all

his glory in another light.

This scheme was that she should accompany her brother back to

Portsmouth, and spend a little time with her own family. It had

occurred to Sir Thomas, in one of his dignified musings, as a right and

desirable measure; but before he absolutely made up his mind, he

consulted his son. Edmund considered it every way, and saw nothing but

what was right. The thing was good in itself, and could not be done at

a better time; and he had no doubt of it being highly agreeable to

Fanny. This was enough to determine Sir Thomas; and a decisive “then so

it shall be” closed that stage of the business; Sir Thomas retiring

from it with some feelings of satisfaction, and views of good over and

above what he had communicated to his son; for his prime motive in

sending her away had very little to do with the propriety of her seeing

her parents again, and nothing at all with any idea of making her

happy. He certainly wished her to go willingly, but he as certainly

wished her to be heartily sick of home before her visit ended; and that

a little abstinence from the elegancies and luxuries of Mansfield Park

would bring her mind into a sober state, and incline her to a juster

estimate of the value of that home of greater permanence, and equal

comfort, of which she had the offer.

It was a medicinal project upon his niece’s understanding, which he

must consider as at present diseased. A residence of eight or nine

years in the abode of wealth and plenty had a little disordered her

powers of comparing and judging. Her father’s house would, in all

probability, teach her the value of a good income; and he trusted that

she would be the wiser and happier woman, all her life, for the

experiment he had devised.

Had Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she must have had a strong

attack of them when she first understood what was intended, when her

uncle first made her the offer of visiting the parents, and brothers,

and sisters, from whom she had been divided almost half her life; of

returning for a couple of months to the scenes of her infancy, with

William for the protector and companion of her journey, and the

certainty of continuing to see William to the last hour of his

remaining on land. Had she ever given way to bursts of delight, it must

have been then, for she was delighted, but her happiness was of a

quiet, deep, heart-swelling sort; and though never a great talker, she

was always more inclined to silence when feeling most strongly. At the

moment she could only thank and accept. Afterwards, when familiarised

with the visions of enjoyment so suddenly opened, she could speak more

largely to William and Edmund of what she felt; but still there were

emotions of tenderness that could not be clothed in words. The

remembrance of all her earliest pleasures, and of what she had suffered

in being torn from them, came over her with renewed strength, and it

seemed as if to be at home again would heal every pain that had since

grown out of the separation. To be in the centre of such a circle,

loved by so many, and more loved by all than she had ever been before;

to feel affection without fear or restraint; to feel herself the equal

of those who surrounded her; to be at peace from all mention of the

Crawfords, safe from every look which could be fancied a reproach on

their account. This was a prospect to be dwelt on with a fondness that

could be but half acknowledged.

Edmund, too—to be two months from _him_ (and perhaps she might be

allowed to make her absence three) must do her good. At a distance,

unassailed by his looks or his kindness, and safe from the perpetual

irritation of knowing his heart, and striving to avoid his confidence,

she should be able to reason herself into a properer state; she should

be able to think of him as in London, and arranging everything there,

without wretchedness. What might have been hard to bear at Mansfield

was to become a slight evil at Portsmouth.

The only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram’s being comfortable

without her. She was of use to no one else; but _there_ she might be

missed to a degree that she did not like to think of; and that part of

the arrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish,

and what only _he_ could have accomplished at all.

But he was master at Mansfield Park. When he had really resolved on any

measure, he could always carry it through; and now by dint of long

talking on the subject, explaining and dwelling on the duty of Fanny’s

sometimes seeing her family, he did induce his wife to let her go;

obtaining it rather from submission, however, than conviction, for Lady

Bertram was convinced of very little more than that Sir Thomas thought

Fanny ought to go, and therefore that she must. In the calmness of her

own dressing-room, in the impartial flow of her own meditations,

unbiased by his bewildering statements, she could not acknowledge any

necessity for Fanny’s ever going near a father and mother who had done

without her so long, while she was so useful to herself. And as to the

not missing her, which under Mrs. Norris’s discussion was the point

attempted to be proved, she set herself very steadily against admitting

any such thing.

Sir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscience, and dignity. He

called it a sacrifice, and demanded it of her goodness and self-command

as such. But Mrs. Norris wanted to persuade her that Fanny could be

very well spared—_she_ being ready to give up all her own time to her

as requested—and, in short, could not really be wanted or missed.

“That may be, sister,” was all Lady Bertram’s reply. “I dare say you

are very right; but I am sure I shall miss her very much.”

The next step was to communicate with Portsmouth. Fanny wrote to offer

herself; and her mother’s answer, though short, was so kind—a few

simple lines expressed so natural and motherly a joy in the prospect of

seeing her child again, as to confirm all the daughter’s views of

happiness in being with her—convincing her that she should now find a

warm and affectionate friend in the “mama” who had certainly shewn no

remarkable fondness for her formerly; but this she could easily suppose

to have been her own fault or her own fancy. She had probably alienated

love by the helplessness and fretfulness of a fearful temper, or been

unreasonable in wanting a larger share than any one among so many could

deserve. Now, when she knew better how to be useful, and how to

forbear, and when her mother could be no longer occupied by the

incessant demands of a house full of little children, there would be

leisure and inclination for every comfort, and they should soon be what

mother and daughter ought to be to each other.

William was almost as happy in the plan as his sister. It would be the

greatest pleasure to him to have her there to the last moment before he

sailed, and perhaps find her there still when he came in from his first

cruise. And besides, he wanted her so very much to see the Thrush

before she went out of harbour—the Thrush was certainly the finest

sloop in the service—and there were several improvements in the

dockyard, too, which he quite longed to shew her.

He did not scruple to add that her being at home for a while would be a

great advantage to everybody.

“I do not know how it is,” said he; “but we seem to want some of your

nice ways and orderliness at my father’s. The house is always in

confusion. You will set things going in a better way, I am sure. You

will tell my mother how it all ought to be, and you will be so useful

to Susan, and you will teach Betsey, and make the boys love and mind

you. How right and comfortable it will all be!”

By the time Mrs. Price’s answer arrived, there remained but a very few

days more to be spent at Mansfield; and for part of one of those days

the young travellers were in a good deal of alarm on the subject of

their journey, for when the mode of it came to be talked of, and Mrs.

Norris found that all her anxiety to save her brother-in-law’s money

was vain, and that in spite of her wishes and hints for a less

expensive conveyance of Fanny, they were to travel post; when she saw

Sir Thomas actually give William notes for the purpose, she was struck

with the idea of there being room for a third in the carriage, and

suddenly seized with a strong inclination to go with them, to go and

see her poor dear sister Price. She proclaimed her thoughts. She must

say that she had more than half a mind to go with the young people; it

would be such an indulgence to her; she had not seen her poor dear

sister Price for more than twenty years; and it would be a help to the

young people in their journey to have her older head to manage for

them; and she could not help thinking her poor dear sister Price would

feel it very unkind of her not to come by such an opportunity.

William and Fanny were horror-struck at the idea.

All the comfort of their comfortable journey would be destroyed at

once. With woeful countenances they looked at each other. Their

suspense lasted an hour or two. No one interfered to encourage or

dissuade. Mrs. Norris was left to settle the matter by herself; and it

ended, to the infinite joy of her nephew and niece, in the recollection

that she could not possibly be spared from Mansfield Park at present;

that she was a great deal too necessary to Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram

for her to be able to answer it to herself to leave them even for a

week, and therefore must certainly sacrifice every other pleasure to

that of being useful to them.

It had, in fact, occurred to her, that though taken to Portsmouth for

nothing, it would be hardly possible for her to avoid paying her own

expenses back again. So her poor dear sister Price was left to all the

disappointment of her missing such an opportunity, and another twenty

years’ absence, perhaps, begun.

Edmund’s plans were affected by this Portsmouth journey, this absence

of Fanny’s. He too had a sacrifice to make to Mansfield Park as well as

his aunt. He had intended, about this time, to be going to London; but

he could not leave his father and mother just when everybody else of

most importance to their comfort was leaving them; and with an effort,

felt but not boasted of, he delayed for a week or two longer a journey

which he was looking forward to with the hope of its fixing his

happiness for ever.

He told Fanny of it. She knew so much already, that she must know

everything. It made the substance of one other confidential discourse

about Miss Crawford; and Fanny was the more affected from feeling it to

be the last time in which Miss Crawford’s name would ever be mentioned

between them with any remains of liberty. Once afterwards she was

alluded to by him. Lady Bertram had been telling her niece in the

evening to write to her soon and often, and promising to be a good

correspondent herself; and Edmund, at a convenient moment, then added

in a whisper, “And _I_ shall write to you, Fanny, when I have anything

worth writing about, anything to say that I think you will like to

hear, and that you will not hear so soon from any other quarter.” Had

she doubted his meaning while she listened, the glow in his face, when

she looked up at him, would have been decisive.

For this letter she must try to arm herself. That a letter from Edmund

should be a subject of terror! She began to feel that she had not yet

gone through all the changes of opinion and sentiment which the

progress of time and variation of circumstances occasion in this world

of changes. The vicissitudes of the human mind had not yet been

exhausted by her.

Poor Fanny! though going as she did willingly and eagerly, the last

evening at Mansfield Park must still be wretchedness. Her heart was

completely sad at parting. She had tears for every room in the house,

much more for every beloved inhabitant. She clung to her aunt, because

she would miss her; she kissed the hand of her uncle with struggling

sobs, because she had displeased him; and as for Edmund, she could

neither speak, nor look, nor think, when the last moment came with

_him_; and it was not till it was over that she knew he was giving her

the affectionate farewell of a brother.

All this passed overnight, for the journey was to begin very early in

the morning; and when the small, diminished party met at breakfast,

William and Fanny were talked of as already advanced one stage.