Mansfield Park
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.