บทที่ บทที่ 22 · Chapter XXII

Fanny’s consequence increased on the departure of her cousins.

Becoming, as she then did, the only young woman in the drawing-room,

the only occupier of that interesting division of a family in which she

had hitherto held so humble a third, it was impossible for her not to

be more looked at, more thought of and attended to, than she had ever

been before; and “Where is Fanny?” became no uncommon question, even

without her being wanted for any one’s convenience.

Not only at home did her value increase, but at the Parsonage too. In

that house, which she had hardly entered twice a year since Mr.

Norris’s death, she became a welcome, an invited guest, and in the

gloom and dirt of a November day, most acceptable to Mary Crawford. Her

visits there, beginning by chance, were continued by solicitation. Mrs.

Grant, really eager to get any change for her sister, could, by the

easiest self-deceit, persuade herself that she was doing the kindest

thing by Fanny, and giving her the most important opportunities of

improvement in pressing her frequent calls.

Fanny, having been sent into the village on some errand by her aunt

Norris, was overtaken by a heavy shower close to the Parsonage; and

being descried from one of the windows endeavouring to find shelter

under the branches and lingering leaves of an oak just beyond their

premises, was forced, though not without some modest reluctance on her

part, to come in. A civil servant she had withstood; but when Dr. Grant

himself went out with an umbrella, there was nothing to be done but to

be very much ashamed, and to get into the house as fast as possible;

and to poor Miss Crawford, who had just been contemplating the dismal

rain in a very desponding state of mind, sighing over the ruin of all

her plan of exercise for that morning, and of every chance of seeing a

single creature beyond themselves for the next twenty-four hours, the

sound of a little bustle at the front door, and the sight of Miss Price

dripping with wet in the vestibule, was delightful. The value of an

event on a wet day in the country was most forcibly brought before her.

She was all alive again directly, and among the most active in being

useful to Fanny, in detecting her to be wetter than she would at first

allow, and providing her with dry clothes; and Fanny, after being

obliged to submit to all this attention, and to being assisted and

waited on by mistresses and maids, being also obliged, on returning

downstairs, to be fixed in their drawing-room for an hour while the

rain continued, the blessing of something fresh to see and think of was

thus extended to Miss Crawford, and might carry on her spirits to the

period of dressing and dinner.

The two sisters were so kind to her, and so pleasant, that Fanny might

have enjoyed her visit could she have believed herself not in the way,

and could she have foreseen that the weather would certainly clear at

the end of the hour, and save her from the shame of having Dr. Grant’s

carriage and horses out to take her home, with which she was

threatened. As to anxiety for any alarm that her absence in such

weather might occasion at home, she had nothing to suffer on that

score; for as her being out was known only to her two aunts, she was

perfectly aware that none would be felt, and that in whatever cottage

aunt Norris might chuse to establish her during the rain, her being in

such cottage would be indubitable to aunt Bertram.

It was beginning to look brighter, when Fanny, observing a harp in the

room, asked some questions about it, which soon led to an

acknowledgment of her wishing very much to hear it, and a confession,

which could hardly be believed, of her having never yet heard it since

its being in Mansfield. To Fanny herself it appeared a very simple and

natural circumstance. She had scarcely ever been at the Parsonage since

the instrument’s arrival, there had been no reason that she should; but

Miss Crawford, calling to mind an early expressed wish on the subject,

was concerned at her own neglect; and “Shall I play to you now?” and

“What will you have?” were questions immediately following with the

readiest good-humour.

She played accordingly; happy to have a new listener, and a listener

who seemed so much obliged, so full of wonder at the performance, and

who shewed herself not wanting in taste. She played till Fanny’s eyes,

straying to the window on the weather’s being evidently fair, spoke

what she felt must be done.

“Another quarter of an hour,” said Miss Crawford, “and we shall see how

it will be. Do not run away the first moment of its holding up. Those

clouds look alarming.”

“But they are passed over,” said Fanny. “I have been watching them.

This weather is all from the south.”

“South or north, I know a black cloud when I see it; and you must not

set forward while it is so threatening. And besides, I want to play

something more to you—a very pretty piece—and your cousin Edmund’s

prime favourite. You must stay and hear your cousin’s favourite.”

Fanny felt that she must; and though she had not waited for that

sentence to be thinking of Edmund, such a memento made her particularly

awake to his idea, and she fancied him sitting in that room again and

again, perhaps in the very spot where she sat now, listening with

constant delight to the favourite air, played, as it appeared to her,

with superior tone and expression; and though pleased with it herself,

and glad to like whatever was liked by him, she was more sincerely

impatient to go away at the conclusion of it than she had been before;

and on this being evident, she was so kindly asked to call again, to

take them in her walk whenever she could, to come and hear more of the

harp, that she felt it necessary to be done, if no objection arose at

home.

Such was the origin of the sort of intimacy which took place between

them within the first fortnight after the Miss Bertrams’ going away—an

intimacy resulting principally from Miss Crawford’s desire of something

new, and which had little reality in Fanny’s feelings. Fanny went to

her every two or three days: it seemed a kind of fascination: she could

not be easy without going, and yet it was without loving her, without

ever thinking like her, without any sense of obligation for being

sought after now when nobody else was to be had; and deriving no higher

pleasure from her conversation than occasional amusement, and _that_

often at the expense of her judgment, when it was raised by pleasantry

on people or subjects which she wished to be respected. She went,

however, and they sauntered about together many an half-hour in Mrs.

Grant’s shrubbery, the weather being unusually mild for the time of

year, and venturing sometimes even to sit down on one of the benches

now comparatively unsheltered, remaining there perhaps till, in the

midst of some tender ejaculation of Fanny’s on the sweets of so

protracted an autumn, they were forced, by the sudden swell of a cold

gust shaking down the last few yellow leaves about them, to jump up and

walk for warmth.

“This is pretty, very pretty,” said Fanny, looking around her as they

were thus sitting together one day; “every time I come into this

shrubbery I am more struck with its growth and beauty. Three years ago,

this was nothing but a rough hedgerow along the upper side of the

field, never thought of as anything, or capable of becoming anything;

and now it is converted into a walk, and it would be difficult to say

whether most valuable as a convenience or an ornament; and perhaps, in

another three years, we may be forgetting—almost forgetting what it was

before. How wonderful, how very wonderful the operations of time, and

the changes of the human mind!” And following the latter train of

thought, she soon afterwards added: “If any one faculty of our nature

may be called _more_ wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory.

There seems something more speakingly incomprehensible in the powers,

the failures, the inequalities of memory, than in any other of our

intelligences. The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, so

obedient; at others, so bewildered and so weak; and at others again, so

tyrannic, so beyond control! We are, to be sure, a miracle every way;

but our powers of recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly

past finding out.”

Miss Crawford, untouched and inattentive, had nothing to say; and

Fanny, perceiving it, brought back her own mind to what she thought

must interest.

“It may seem impertinent in _me_ to praise, but I must admire the taste

Mrs. Grant has shewn in all this. There is such a quiet simplicity in

the plan of the walk! Not too much attempted!”

“Yes,” replied Miss Crawford carelessly, “it does very well for a place

of this sort. One does not think of extent _here_; and between

ourselves, till I came to Mansfield, I had not imagined a country

parson ever aspired to a shrubbery, or anything of the kind.”

“I am so glad to see the evergreens thrive!” said Fanny, in reply. “My

uncle’s gardener always says the soil here is better than his own, and

so it appears from the growth of the laurels and evergreens in general.

The evergreen! How beautiful, how welcome, how wonderful the evergreen!

When one thinks of it, how astonishing a variety of nature! In some

countries we know the tree that sheds its leaf is the variety, but that

does not make it less amazing that the same soil and the same sun

should nurture plants differing in the first rule and law of their

existence. You will think me rhapsodising; but when I am out of doors,

especially when I am sitting out of doors, I am very apt to get into

this sort of wondering strain. One cannot fix one’s eyes on the

commonest natural production without finding food for a rambling

fancy.”

“To say the truth,” replied Miss Crawford, “I am something like the

famous Doge at the court of Lewis XIV.; and may declare that I see no

wonder in this shrubbery equal to seeing myself in it. If anybody had

told me a year ago that this place would be my home, that I should be

spending month after month here, as I have done, I certainly should not

have believed them. I have now been here nearly five months; and,

moreover, the quietest five months I ever passed.”

“_Too_ quiet for you, I believe.”

“I should have thought so _theoretically_ myself, but,” and her eyes

brightened as she spoke, “take it all and all, I never spent so happy a

summer. But then,” with a more thoughtful air and lowered voice, “there

is no saying what it may lead to.”

Fanny’s heart beat quick, and she felt quite unequal to surmising or

soliciting anything more. Miss Crawford, however, with renewed

animation, soon went on—

“I am conscious of being far better reconciled to a country residence

than I had ever expected to be. I can even suppose it pleasant to spend

_half_ the year in the country, under certain circumstances, very

pleasant. An elegant, moderate-sized house in the centre of family

connexions; continual engagements among them; commanding the first

society in the neighbourhood; looked up to, perhaps, as leading it even

more than those of larger fortune, and turning from the cheerful round

of such amusements to nothing worse than a _tête-à-tête_ with the

person one feels most agreeable in the world. There is nothing

frightful in such a picture, is there, Miss Price? One need not envy

the new Mrs. Rushworth with such a home as _that_.”

“Envy Mrs. Rushworth!” was all that Fanny attempted to say. “Come,

come, it would be very un-handsome in us to be severe on Mrs.

Rushworth, for I look forward to our owing her a great many gay,

brilliant, happy hours. I expect we shall be all very much at Sotherton

another year. Such a match as Miss Bertram has made is a public

blessing; for the first pleasures of Mr. Rushworth’s wife must be to

fill her house, and give the best balls in the country.”

Fanny was silent, and Miss Crawford relapsed into thoughtfulness, till

suddenly looking up at the end of a few minutes, she exclaimed, “Ah!

here he is.” It was not Mr. Rushworth, however, but Edmund, who then

appeared walking towards them with Mrs. Grant. “My sister and Mr.

Bertram. I am so glad your eldest cousin is gone, that he may be Mr.

Bertram again. There is something in the sound of Mr. _Edmund_ Bertram

so formal, so pitiful, so younger-brother-like, that I detest it.”

“How differently we feel!” cried Fanny. “To me, the sound of _Mr._

Bertram is so cold and nothing-meaning, so entirely without warmth or

character! It just stands for a gentleman, and that’s all. But there is

nobleness in the name of Edmund. It is a name of heroism and renown; of

kings, princes, and knights; and seems to breathe the spirit of

chivalry and warm affections.”

“I grant you the name is good in itself, and _Lord_ Edmund or _Sir_

Edmund sound delightfully; but sink it under the chill, the

annihilation of a Mr., and Mr. Edmund is no more than Mr. John or Mr.

Thomas. Well, shall we join and disappoint them of half their lecture

upon sitting down out of doors at this time of year, by being up before

they can begin?”

Edmund met them with particular pleasure. It was the first time of his

seeing them together since the beginning of that better acquaintance

which he had been hearing of with great satisfaction. A friendship

between two so very dear to him was exactly what he could have wished:

and to the credit of the lover’s understanding, be it stated, that he

did not by any means consider Fanny as the only, or even as the greater

gainer by such a friendship.

“Well,” said Miss Crawford, “and do you not scold us for our

imprudence? What do you think we have been sitting down for but to be

talked to about it, and entreated and supplicated never to do so

again?”

“Perhaps I might have scolded,” said Edmund, “if either of you had been

sitting down alone; but while you do wrong together, I can overlook a

great deal.”

“They cannot have been sitting long,” cried Mrs. Grant, “for when I

went up for my shawl I saw them from the staircase window, and then

they were walking.”

“And really,” added Edmund, “the day is so mild, that your sitting down

for a few minutes can be hardly thought imprudent. Our weather must not

always be judged by the calendar. We may sometimes take greater

liberties in November than in May.”

“Upon my word,” cried Miss Crawford, “you are two of the most

disappointing and unfeeling kind friends I ever met with! There is no

giving you a moment’s uneasiness. You do not know how much we have been

suffering, nor what chills we have felt! But I have long thought Mr.

Bertram one of the worst subjects to work on, in any little manoeuvre

against common sense, that a woman could be plagued with. I had very

little hope of _him_ from the first; but you, Mrs. Grant, my sister, my

own sister, I think I had a right to alarm you a little.”

“Do not flatter yourself, my dearest Mary. You have not the smallest

chance of moving me. I have my alarms, but they are quite in a

different quarter; and if I could have altered the weather, you would

have had a good sharp east wind blowing on you the whole time—for here

are some of my plants which Robert _will_ leave out because the nights

are so mild, and I know the end of it will be, that we shall have a

sudden change of weather, a hard frost setting in all at once, taking

everybody (at least Robert) by surprise, and I shall lose every one;

and what is worse, cook has just been telling me that the turkey, which

I particularly wished not to be dressed till Sunday, because I know how

much more Dr. Grant would enjoy it on Sunday after the fatigues of the

day, will not keep beyond to-morrow. These are something like

grievances, and make me think the weather most unseasonably close.”

“The sweets of housekeeping in a country village!” said Miss Crawford

archly. “Commend me to the nurseryman and the poulterer.”

“My dear child, commend Dr. Grant to the deanery of Westminster or St.

Paul’s, and I should be as glad of your nurseryman and poulterer as you

could be. But we have no such people in Mansfield. What would you have

me do?”

“Oh! you can do nothing but what you do already: be plagued very often,

and never lose your temper.”

“Thank you; but there is no escaping these little vexations, Mary, live

where we may; and when you are settled in town and I come to see you, I

dare say I shall find you with yours, in spite of the nurseryman and

the poulterer, perhaps on their very account. Their remoteness and

unpunctuality, or their exorbitant charges and frauds, will be drawing

forth bitter lamentations.”

“I mean to be too rich to lament or to feel anything of the sort. A

large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of. It

certainly may secure all the myrtle and turkey part of it.”

“You intend to be very rich?” said Edmund, with a look which, to

Fanny’s eye, had a great deal of serious meaning.

“To be sure. Do not you? Do not we all?”

“I cannot intend anything which it must be so completely beyond my

power to command. Miss Crawford may chuse her degree of wealth. She has

only to fix on her number of thousands a year, and there can be no

doubt of their coming. My intentions are only not to be poor.”

“By moderation and economy, and bringing down your wants to your

income, and all that. I understand you—and a very proper plan it is for

a person at your time of life, with such limited means and indifferent

connexions. What can _you_ want but a decent maintenance? You have not

much time before you; and your relations are in no situation to do

anything for you, or to mortify you by the contrast of their own wealth

and consequence. Be honest and poor, by all means—but I shall not envy

you; I do not much think I shall even respect you. I have a much

greater respect for those that are honest and rich.”

“Your degree of respect for honesty, rich or poor, is precisely what I

have no manner of concern with. I do not mean to be poor. Poverty is

exactly what I have determined against. Honesty, in the something

between, in the middle state of worldly circumstances, is all that I am

anxious for your not looking down on.”

“But I do look down upon it, if it might have been higher. I must look

down upon anything contented with obscurity when it might rise to

distinction.”

“But how may it rise? How may my honesty at least rise to any

distinction?”

This was not so very easy a question to answer, and occasioned an “Oh!”

of some length from the fair lady before she could add, “You ought to

be in parliament, or you should have gone into the army ten years ago.”

“_That_ is not much to the purpose now; and as to my being in

parliament, I believe I must wait till there is an especial assembly

for the representation of younger sons who have little to live on. No,

Miss Crawford,” he added, in a more serious tone, “there _are_

distinctions which I should be miserable if I thought myself without

any chance—absolutely without chance or possibility of obtaining—but

they are of a different character.”

A look of consciousness as he spoke, and what seemed a consciousness of

manner on Miss Crawford’s side as she made some laughing answer, was

sorrowfull food for Fanny’s observation; and finding herself quite

unable to attend as she ought to Mrs. Grant, by whose side she was now

following the others, she had nearly resolved on going home

immediately, and only waited for courage to say so, when the sound of

the great clock at Mansfield Park, striking three, made her feel that

she had really been much longer absent than usual, and brought the

previous self-inquiry of whether she should take leave or not just

then, and how, to a very speedy issue. With undoubting decision she

directly began her adieus; and Edmund began at the same time to

recollect that his mother had been inquiring for her, and that he had

walked down to the Parsonage on purpose to bring her back.

Fanny’s hurry increased; and without in the least expecting Edmund’s

attendance, she would have hastened away alone; but the general pace

was quickened, and they all accompanied her into the house, through

which it was necessary to pass. Dr. Grant was in the vestibule, and as

they stopt to speak to him she found, from Edmund’s manner, that he

_did_ mean to go with her. He too was taking leave. She could not but

be thankful. In the moment of parting, Edmund was invited by Dr. Grant

to eat his mutton with him the next day; and Fanny had barely time for

an unpleasant feeling on the occasion, when Mrs. Grant, with sudden

recollection, turned to her and asked for the pleasure of her company

too. This was so new an attention, so perfectly new a circumstance in

the events of Fanny’s life, that she was all surprise and

embarrassment; and while stammering out her great obligation, and her

“but she did not suppose it would be in her power,” was looking at

Edmund for his opinion and help. But Edmund, delighted with her having

such an happiness offered, and ascertaining with half a look, and half

a sentence, that she had no objection but on her aunt’s account, could

not imagine that his mother would make any difficulty of sparing her,

and therefore gave his decided open advice that the invitation should

be accepted; and though Fanny would not venture, even on his

encouragement, to such a flight of audacious independence, it was soon

settled, that if nothing were heard to the contrary, Mrs. Grant might

expect her.

“And you know what your dinner will be,” said Mrs. Grant, smiling—“the

turkey, and I assure you a very fine one; for, my dear,” turning to her

husband, “cook insists upon the turkey’s being dressed to-morrow.”

“Very well, very well,” cried Dr. Grant, “all the better; I am glad to

hear you have anything so good in the house. But Miss Price and Mr.

Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their chance. We none of us want

to hear the bill of fare. A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner, is

all we have in view. A turkey, or a goose, or a leg of mutton, or

whatever you and your cook chuse to give us.”

The two cousins walked home together; and, except in the immediate

discussion of this engagement, which Edmund spoke of with the warmest

satisfaction, as so particularly desirable for her in the intimacy

which he saw with so much pleasure established, it was a silent walk;

for having finished that subject, he grew thoughtful and indisposed for

any other.