บทที่ บทที่ 38 · Chapter XXXVIII

The novelty of travelling, and the happiness of being with William,

soon produced their natural effect on Fanny’s spirits, when Mansfield

Park was fairly left behind; and by the time their first stage was

ended, and they were to quit Sir Thomas’s carriage, she was able to

take leave of the old coachman, and send back proper messages, with

cheerful looks.

Of pleasant talk between the brother and sister there was no end.

Everything supplied an amusement to the high glee of William’s mind,

and he was full of frolic and joke in the intervals of their

higher-toned subjects, all of which ended, if they did not begin, in

praise of the Thrush, conjectures how she would be employed, schemes

for an action with some superior force, which (supposing the first

lieutenant out of the way, and William was not very merciful to the

first lieutenant) was to give himself the next step as soon as

possible, or speculations upon prize-money, which was to be generously

distributed at home, with only the reservation of enough to make the

little cottage comfortable, in which he and Fanny were to pass all

their middle and later life together.

Fanny’s immediate concerns, as far as they involved Mr. Crawford, made

no part of their conversation. William knew what had passed, and from

his heart lamented that his sister’s feelings should be so cold towards

a man whom he must consider as the first of human characters; but he

was of an age to be all for love, and therefore unable to blame; and

knowing her wish on the subject, he would not distress her by the

slightest allusion.

She had reason to suppose herself not yet forgotten by Mr. Crawford.

She had heard repeatedly from his sister within the three weeks which

had passed since their leaving Mansfield, and in each letter there had

been a few lines from himself, warm and determined like his speeches.

It was a correspondence which Fanny found quite as unpleasant as she

had feared. Miss Crawford’s style of writing, lively and affectionate,

was itself an evil, independent of what she was thus forced into

reading from the brother’s pen, for Edmund would never rest till she

had read the chief of the letter to him; and then she had to listen to

his admiration of her language, and the warmth of her attachments.

There had, in fact, been so much of message, of allusion, of

recollection, so much of Mansfield in every letter, that Fanny could

not but suppose it meant for him to hear; and to find herself forced

into a purpose of that kind, compelled into a correspondence which was

bringing her the addresses of the man she did not love, and obliging

her to administer to the adverse passion of the man she did, was

cruelly mortifying. Here, too, her present removal promised advantage.

When no longer under the same roof with Edmund, she trusted that Miss

Crawford would have no motive for writing strong enough to overcome the

trouble, and that at Portsmouth their correspondence would dwindle into

nothing.

With such thoughts as these, among ten hundred others, Fanny proceeded

in her journey safely and cheerfully, and as expeditiously as could

rationally be hoped in the dirty month of February. They entered

Oxford, but she could take only a hasty glimpse of Edmund’s college as

they passed along, and made no stop anywhere till they reached Newbury,

where a comfortable meal, uniting dinner and supper, wound up the

enjoyments and fatigues of the day.

The next morning saw them off again at an early hour; and with no

events, and no delays, they regularly advanced, and were in the

environs of Portsmouth while there was yet daylight for Fanny to look

around her, and wonder at the new buildings. They passed the

drawbridge, and entered the town; and the light was only beginning to

fail as, guided by William’s powerful voice, they were rattled into a

narrow street, leading from the High Street, and drawn up before the

door of a small house now inhabited by Mr. Price.

Fanny was all agitation and flutter; all hope and apprehension. The

moment they stopped, a trollopy-looking maidservant, seemingly in

waiting for them at the door, stepped forward, and more intent on

telling the news than giving them any help, immediately began with,

“The Thrush is gone out of harbour, please sir, and one of the officers

has been here to—” She was interrupted by a fine tall boy of eleven

years old, who, rushing out of the house, pushed the maid aside, and

while William was opening the chaise-door himself, called out, “You are

just in time. We have been looking for you this half-hour. The Thrush

went out of harbour this morning. I saw her. It was a beautiful sight.

And they think she will have her orders in a day or two. And Mr.

Campbell was here at four o’clock to ask for you: he has got one of the

Thrush’s boats, and is going off to her at six, and hoped you would be

here in time to go with him.”

A stare or two at Fanny, as William helped her out of the carriage, was

all the voluntary notice which this brother bestowed; but he made no

objection to her kissing him, though still entirely engaged in

detailing farther particulars of the Thrush’s going out of harbour, in

which he had a strong right of interest, being to commence his career

of seamanship in her at this very time.

Another moment and Fanny was in the narrow entrance-passage of the

house, and in her mother’s arms, who met her there with looks of true

kindness, and with features which Fanny loved the more, because they

brought her aunt Bertram’s before her, and there were her two sisters:

Susan, a well-grown fine girl of fourteen, and Betsey, the youngest of

the family, about five—both glad to see her in their way, though with

no advantage of manner in receiving her. But manner Fanny did not want.

Would they but love her, she should be satisfied.

She was then taken into a parlour, so small that her first conviction

was of its being only a passage-room to something better, and she stood

for a moment expecting to be invited on; but when she saw there was no

other door, and that there were signs of habitation before her, she

called back her thoughts, reproved herself, and grieved lest they

should have been suspected. Her mother, however, could not stay long

enough to suspect anything. She was gone again to the street-door, to

welcome William. “Oh! my dear William, how glad I am to see you. But

have you heard about the Thrush? She is gone out of harbour already;

three days before we had any thought of it; and I do not know what I am

to do about Sam’s things, they will never be ready in time; for she may

have her orders to-morrow, perhaps. It takes me quite unawares. And now

you must be off for Spithead too. Campbell has been here, quite in a

worry about you; and now what shall we do? I thought to have had such a

comfortable evening with you, and here everything comes upon me at

once.”

Her son answered cheerfully, telling her that everything was always for

the best; and making light of his own inconvenience in being obliged to

hurry away so soon.

“To be sure, I had much rather she had stayed in harbour, that I might

have sat a few hours with you in comfort; but as there is a boat

ashore, I had better go off at once, and there is no help for it.

Whereabouts does the Thrush lay at Spithead? Near the Canopus? But no

matter; here’s Fanny in the parlour, and why should we stay in the

passage? Come, mother, you have hardly looked at your own dear Fanny

yet.”

In they both came, and Mrs. Price having kindly kissed her daughter

again, and commented a little on her growth, began with very natural

solicitude to feel for their fatigues and wants as travellers.

“Poor dears! how tired you must both be! and now, what will you have? I

began to think you would never come. Betsey and I have been watching

for you this half-hour. And when did you get anything to eat? And what

would you like to have now? I could not tell whether you would be for

some meat, or only a dish of tea, after your journey, or else I would

have got something ready. And now I am afraid Campbell will be here

before there is time to dress a steak, and we have no butcher at hand.

It is very inconvenient to have no butcher in the street. We were

better off in our last house. Perhaps you would like some tea as soon

as it can be got.”

They both declared they should prefer it to anything. “Then, Betsey, my

dear, run into the kitchen and see if Rebecca has put the water on; and

tell her to bring in the tea-things as soon as she can. I wish we could

get the bell mended; but Betsey is a very handy little messenger.”

Betsey went with alacrity, proud to shew her abilities before her fine

new sister.

“Dear me!” continued the anxious mother, “what a sad fire we have got,

and I dare say you are both starved with cold. Draw your chair nearer,

my dear. I cannot think what Rebecca has been about. I am sure I told

her to bring some coals half an hour ago. Susan, you should have taken

care of the fire.”

“I was upstairs, mama, moving my things,” said Susan, in a fearless,

self-defending tone, which startled Fanny. “You know you had but just

settled that my sister Fanny and I should have the other room; and I

could not get Rebecca to give me any help.”

Farther discussion was prevented by various bustles: first, the driver

came to be paid; then there was a squabble between Sam and Rebecca

about the manner of carrying up his sister’s trunk, which he would

manage all his own way; and lastly, in walked Mr. Price himself, his

own loud voice preceding him, as with something of the oath kind he

kicked away his son’s portmanteau and his daughter’s bandbox in the

passage, and called out for a candle; no candle was brought, however,

and he walked into the room.

Fanny with doubting feelings had risen to meet him, but sank down again

on finding herself undistinguished in the dusk, and unthought of. With

a friendly shake of his son’s hand, and an eager voice, he instantly

began—“Ha! welcome back, my boy. Glad to see you. Have you heard the

news? The Thrush went out of harbour this morning. Sharp is the word,

you see! By G—, you are just in time! The doctor has been here

inquiring for you: he has got one of the boats, and is to be off for

Spithead by six, so you had better go with him. I have been to Turner’s

about your mess; it is all in a way to be done. I should not wonder if

you had your orders to-morrow: but you cannot sail with this wind, if

you are to cruise to the westward; and Captain Walsh thinks you will

certainly have a cruise to the westward, with the Elephant. By G—, I

wish you may! But old Scholey was saying, just now, that he thought you

would be sent first to the Texel. Well, well, we are ready, whatever

happens. But by G—, you lost a fine sight by not being here in the

morning to see the Thrush go out of harbour! I would not have been out

of the way for a thousand pounds. Old Scholey ran in at breakfast-time,

to say she had slipped her moorings and was coming out, I jumped up,

and made but two steps to the platform. If ever there was a perfect

beauty afloat, she is one; and there she lays at Spithead, and anybody

in England would take her for an eight-and-twenty. I was upon the

platform two hours this afternoon looking at her. She lays close to the

Endymion, between her and the Cleopatra, just to the eastward of the

sheer hulk.”

“Ha!” cried William, “_that’s_ just where I should have put her myself.

It’s the best berth at Spithead. But here is my sister, sir; here is

Fanny,” turning and leading her forward; “it is so dark you do not see

her.”

With an acknowledgment that he had quite forgot her, Mr. Price now

received his daughter; and having given her a cordial hug, and observed

that she was grown into a woman, and he supposed would be wanting a

husband soon, seemed very much inclined to forget her again. Fanny

shrunk back to her seat, with feelings sadly pained by his language and

his smell of spirits; and he talked on only to his son, and only of the

Thrush, though William, warmly interested as he was in that subject,

more than once tried to make his father think of Fanny, and her long

absence and long journey.

After sitting some time longer, a candle was obtained; but as there was

still no appearance of tea, nor, from Betsey’s reports from the

kitchen, much hope of any under a considerable period, William

determined to go and change his dress, and make the necessary

preparations for his removal on board directly, that he might have his

tea in comfort afterwards.

As he left the room, two rosy-faced boys, ragged and dirty, about eight

and nine years old, rushed into it just released from school, and

coming eagerly to see their sister, and tell that the Thrush was gone

out of harbour; Tom and Charles. Charles had been born since Fanny’s

going away, but Tom she had often helped to nurse, and now felt a

particular pleasure in seeing again. Both were kissed very tenderly,

but Tom she wanted to keep by her, to try to trace the features of the

baby she had loved, and talked to, of his infant preference of herself.

Tom, however, had no mind for such treatment: he came home not to stand

and be talked to, but to run about and make a noise; and both boys had

soon burst from her, and slammed the parlour-door till her temples

ached.

She had now seen all that were at home; there remained only two

brothers between herself and Susan, one of whom was a clerk in a public

office in London, and the other midshipman on board an Indiaman. But

though she had _seen_ all the members of the family, she had not yet

_heard_ all the noise they could make. Another quarter of an hour

brought her a great deal more. William was soon calling out from the

landing-place of the second story for his mother and for Rebecca. He

was in distress for something that he had left there, and did not find

again. A key was mislaid, Betsey accused of having got at his new hat,

and some slight, but essential alteration of his uniform waistcoat,

which he had been promised to have done for him, entirely neglected.

Mrs. Price, Rebecca, and Betsey all went up to defend themselves, all

talking together, but Rebecca loudest, and the job was to be done as

well as it could in a great hurry; William trying in vain to send

Betsey down again, or keep her from being troublesome where she was;

the whole of which, as almost every door in the house was open, could

be plainly distinguished in the parlour, except when drowned at

intervals by the superior noise of Sam, Tom, and Charles chasing each

other up and down stairs, and tumbling about and hallooing.

Fanny was almost stunned. The smallness of the house and thinness of

the walls brought everything so close to her, that, added to the

fatigue of her journey, and all her recent agitation, she hardly knew

how to bear it. _Within_ the room all was tranquil enough, for Susan

having disappeared with the others, there were soon only her father and

herself remaining; and he, taking out a newspaper, the accustomary loan

of a neighbour, applied himself to studying it, without seeming to

recollect her existence. The solitary candle was held between himself

and the paper, without any reference to her possible convenience; but

she had nothing to do, and was glad to have the light screened from her

aching head, as she sat in bewildered, broken, sorrowful contemplation.

She was at home. But, alas! it was not such a home, she had not such a

welcome, as—she checked herself; she was unreasonable. What right had

she to be of importance to her family? She could have none, so long

lost sight of! William’s concerns must be dearest, they always had

been, and he had every right. Yet to have so little said or asked about

herself, to have scarcely an inquiry made after Mansfield! It did pain

her to have Mansfield forgotten; the friends who had done so much—the

dear, dear friends! But here, one subject swallowed up all the rest.

Perhaps it must be so. The destination of the Thrush must be now

preeminently interesting. A day or two might shew the difference. _She_

only was to blame. Yet she thought it would not have been so at

Mansfield. No, in her uncle’s house there would have been a

consideration of times and seasons, a regulation of subject, a

propriety, an attention towards everybody which there was not here.

The only interruption which thoughts like these received for nearly

half an hour was from a sudden burst of her father’s, not at all

calculated to compose them. At a more than ordinary pitch of thumping

and hallooing in the passage, he exclaimed, “Devil take those young

dogs! How they are singing out! Ay, Sam’s voice louder than all the

rest! That boy is fit for a boatswain. Holla, you there! Sam, stop your

confounded pipe, or I shall be after you.”

This threat was so palpably disregarded, that though within five

minutes afterwards the three boys all burst into the room together and

sat down, Fanny could not consider it as a proof of anything more than

their being for the time thoroughly fagged, which their hot faces and

panting breaths seemed to prove, especially as they were still kicking

each other’s shins, and hallooing out at sudden starts immediately

under their father’s eye.

The next opening of the door brought something more welcome: it was for

the tea-things, which she had begun almost to despair of seeing that

evening. Susan and an attendant girl, whose inferior appearance

informed Fanny, to her great surprise, that she had previously seen the

upper servant, brought in everything necessary for the meal; Susan

looking, as she put the kettle on the fire and glanced at her sister,

as if divided between the agreeable triumph of shewing her activity and

usefulness, and the dread of being thought to demean herself by such an

office. “She had been into the kitchen,” she said, “to hurry Sally and

help make the toast, and spread the bread and butter, or she did not

know when they should have got tea, and she was sure her sister must

want something after her journey.”

Fanny was very thankful. She could not but own that she should be very

glad of a little tea, and Susan immediately set about making it, as if

pleased to have the employment all to herself; and with only a little

unnecessary bustle, and some few injudicious attempts at keeping her

brothers in better order than she could, acquitted herself very well.

Fanny’s spirit was as much refreshed as her body; her head and heart

were soon the better for such well-timed kindness. Susan had an open,

sensible countenance; she was like William, and Fanny hoped to find her

like him in disposition and goodwill towards herself.

In this more placid state of things William reentered, followed not far

behind by his mother and Betsey. He, complete in his lieutenant’s

uniform, looking and moving all the taller, firmer, and more graceful

for it, and with the happiest smile over his face, walked up directly

to Fanny, who, rising from her seat, looked at him for a moment in

speechless admiration, and then threw her arms round his neck to sob

out her various emotions of pain and pleasure.

Anxious not to appear unhappy, she soon recovered herself; and wiping

away her tears, was able to notice and admire all the striking parts of

his dress; listening with reviving spirits to his cheerful hopes of

being on shore some part of every day before they sailed, and even of

getting her to Spithead to see the sloop.

The next bustle brought in Mr. Campbell, the surgeon of the Thrush, a

very well-behaved young man, who came to call for his friend, and for

whom there was with some contrivance found a chair, and with some hasty

washing of the young tea-maker’s, a cup and saucer; and after another

quarter of an hour of earnest talk between the gentlemen, noise rising

upon noise, and bustle upon bustle, men and boys at last all in motion

together, the moment came for setting off; everything was ready,

William took leave, and all of them were gone; for the three boys, in

spite of their mother’s entreaty, determined to see their brother and

Mr. Campbell to the sally-port; and Mr. Price walked off at the same

time to carry back his neighbour’s newspaper.

Something like tranquillity might now be hoped for; and accordingly,

when Rebecca had been prevailed on to carry away the tea-things, and

Mrs. Price had walked about the room some time looking for a

shirt-sleeve, which Betsey at last hunted out from a drawer in the

kitchen, the small party of females were pretty well composed, and the

mother having lamented again over the impossibility of getting Sam

ready in time, was at leisure to think of her eldest daughter and the

friends she had come from.

A few inquiries began: but one of the earliest—“How did sister Bertram

manage about her servants?” “Was she as much plagued as herself to get

tolerable servants?”—soon led her mind away from Northamptonshire, and

fixed it on her own domestic grievances, and the shocking character of

all the Portsmouth servants, of whom she believed her own two were the

very worst, engrossed her completely. The Bertrams were all forgotten

in detailing the faults of Rebecca, against whom Susan had also much to

depose, and little Betsey a great deal more, and who did seem so

thoroughly without a single recommendation, that Fanny could not help

modestly presuming that her mother meant to part with her when her year

was up.

“Her year!” cried Mrs. Price; “I am sure I hope I shall be rid of her

before she has staid a year, for that will not be up till November.

Servants are come to such a pass, my dear, in Portsmouth, that it is

quite a miracle if one keeps them more than half a year. I have no hope

of ever being settled; and if I was to part with Rebecca, I should only

get something worse. And yet I do not think I am a very difficult

mistress to please; and I am sure the place is easy enough, for there

is always a girl under her, and I often do half the work myself.”

Fanny was silent; but not from being convinced that there might not be

a remedy found for some of these evils. As she now sat looking at

Betsey, she could not but think particularly of another sister, a very

pretty little girl, whom she had left there not much younger when she

went into Northamptonshire, who had died a few years afterwards. There

had been something remarkably amiable about her. Fanny in those early

days had preferred her to Susan; and when the news of her death had at

last reached Mansfield, had for a short time been quite afflicted. The

sight of Betsey brought the image of little Mary back again, but she

would not have pained her mother by alluding to her for the world.

While considering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a small distance,

was holding out something to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it at

the same time from Susan’s.

“What have you got there, my love?” said Fanny; “come and shew it to

me.”

It was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claiming it as her own, and

trying to get it away; but the child ran to her mother’s protection,

and Susan could only reproach, which she did very warmly, and evidently

hoping to interest Fanny on her side. “It was very hard that she was

not to have her _own_ knife; it was her own knife; little sister Mary

had left it to her upon her deathbed, and she ought to have had it to

keep herself long ago. But mama kept it from her, and was always

letting Betsey get hold of it; and the end of it would be that Betsey

would spoil it, and get it for her own, though mama had _promised_ her

that Betsey should not have it in her own hands.”

Fanny was quite shocked. Every feeling of duty, honour, and tenderness

was wounded by her sister’s speech and her mother’s reply.

“Now, Susan,” cried Mrs. Price, in a complaining voice, “now, how can

you be so cross? You are always quarrelling about that knife. I wish

you would not be so quarrelsome. Poor little Betsey; how cross Susan is

to you! But you should not have taken it out, my dear, when I sent you

to the drawer. You know I told you not to touch it, because Susan is so

cross about it. I must hide it another time, Betsey. Poor Mary little

thought it would be such a bone of contention when she gave it me to

keep, only two hours before she died. Poor little soul! she could but

just speak to be heard, and she said so prettily, ‘Let sister Susan

have my knife, mama, when I am dead and buried.’ Poor little dear! she

was so fond of it, Fanny, that she would have it lay by her in bed, all

through her illness. It was the gift of her good godmother, old Mrs.

Admiral Maxwell, only six weeks before she was taken for death. Poor

little sweet creature! Well, she was taken away from evil to come. My

own Betsey” (fondling her), “_you_ have not the luck of such a good

godmother. Aunt Norris lives too far off to think of such little people

as you.”

Fanny had indeed nothing to convey from aunt Norris, but a message to

say she hoped that her god-daughter was a good girl, and learnt her

book. There had been at one moment a slight murmur in the drawing-room

at Mansfield Park about sending her a prayer-book; but no second sound

had been heard of such a purpose. Mrs. Norris, however, had gone home

and taken down two old prayer-books of her husband with that idea; but,

upon examination, the ardour of generosity went off. One was found to

have too small a print for a child’s eyes, and the other to be too

cumbersome for her to carry about.

Fanny, fatigued and fatigued again, was thankful to accept the first

invitation of going to bed; and before Betsey had finished her cry at

being allowed to sit up only one hour extraordinary in honour of

sister, she was off, leaving all below in confusion and noise again;

the boys begging for toasted cheese, her father calling out for his rum

and water, and Rebecca never where she ought to be.

There was nothing to raise her spirits in the confined and scantily

furnished chamber that she was to share with Susan. The smallness of

the rooms above and below, indeed, and the narrowness of the passage

and staircase, struck her beyond her imagination. She soon learned to

think with respect of her own little attic at Mansfield Park, in _that_

house reckoned too small for anybody’s comfort.