Mansfield Park
“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.
CHAPTER X
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 me.”
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, 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.”
“Handsome! Nobody can call such an undersized man handsome. He is not
five foot nine. I should not wonder if he is not more than five foot
eight. I think he is an ill-looking fellow. In my opinion, these
Crawfords are no addition at all. We did very well without them.”
A small sigh escaped Fanny here, and she did not know how to contradict
him.