Mansfield Park
and she was on the point of giving him an approving look, when it was
all frightened off by his adding a something too pointed of his hoping
soon to have an assistant, a friend, a guide in every plan of utility
or charity for Everingham: a somebody that would make Everingham and
all about it a dearer object than it had ever been yet.
She turned away, and wished he would not say such things. She was
willing to allow he might have more good qualities than she had been
wont to suppose. She began to feel the possibility of his turning out
well at last; but he was and must ever be completely unsuited to her,
and ought not to think of her.
He perceived that enough had been said of Everingham, and that it would
be as well to talk of something else, and turned to Mansfield. He could
not have chosen better; that was a topic to bring back her attention
and her looks almost instantly. It was a real indulgence to her to hear
or to speak of Mansfield. Now so long divided from everybody who knew
the place, she felt it quite the voice of a friend when he mentioned
it, and led the way to her fond exclamations in praise of its beauties
and comforts, and by his honourable tribute to its inhabitants allowed
her to gratify her own heart in the warmest eulogium, in speaking of
her uncle as all that was clever and good, and her aunt as having the
sweetest of all sweet tempers.
He had a great attachment to Mansfield himself; he said so; he looked
forward with the hope of spending much, very much, of his time there;
always there, or in the neighbourhood. He particularly built upon a
very happy summer and autumn there this year; he felt that it would be
so: he depended upon it; a summer and autumn infinitely superior to the
last. As animated, as diversified, as social, but with circumstances of
superiority undescribable.
“Mansfield, Sotherton, Thornton Lacey,” he continued; “what a society
will be comprised in those houses! And at Michaelmas, perhaps, a fourth
may be added: some small hunting-box in the vicinity of everything so
dear; for as to any partnership in Thornton Lacey, as Edmund Bertram
once good-humouredly proposed, I hope I foresee two objections: two
fair, excellent, irresistible objections to that plan.”
Fanny was doubly silenced here; though when the moment was passed,
could regret that she had not forced herself into the acknowledged
comprehension of one half of his meaning, and encouraged him to say
something more of his sister and Edmund. It was a subject which she
must learn to speak of, and the weakness that shrunk from it would soon
be quite unpardonable.
When Mr. Price and his friend had seen all that they wished, or had
time for, the others were ready to return; and in the course of their
walk back, Mr. Crawford contrived a minute’s privacy for telling Fanny
that his only business in Portsmouth was to see her; that he was come
down for a couple of days on her account, and hers only, and because he
could not endure a longer total separation. She was sorry, really
sorry; and yet in spite of this and the two or three other things which
she wished he had not said, she thought him altogether improved since
she had seen him; he was much more gentle, obliging, and attentive to
other people’s feelings than he had ever been at Mansfield; she had
never seen him so agreeable—so _near_ being agreeable; his behaviour to
her father could not offend, and there was something particularly kind
and proper in the notice he took of Susan. He was decidedly improved.
She wished the next day over, she wished he had come only for one day;
but it was not so very bad as she would have expected: the pleasure of
talking of Mansfield was so very great!
Before they parted, she had to thank him for another pleasure, and one
of no trivial kind. Her father asked him to do them the honour of
taking his mutton with them, and Fanny had time for only one thrill of
horror, before he declared himself prevented by a prior engagement. He
was engaged to dinner already both for that day and the next; he had
met with some acquaintance at the Crown who would not be denied; he
should have the honour, however, of waiting on them again on the
morrow, etc., and so they parted—Fanny in a state of actual felicity
from escaping so horrible an evil!
To have had him join their family dinner-party, and see all their
deficiencies, would have been dreadful! Rebecca’s cookery and Rebecca’s
waiting, and Betsey’s eating at table without restraint, and pulling
everything about as she chose, were what Fanny herself was not yet
enough inured to for her often to make a tolerable meal. _She_ was nice
only from natural delicacy, but _he_ had been brought up in a school of
luxury and epicurism.
CHAPTER XLII
The Prices were just setting off for church the next day when Mr.
Crawford appeared again. He came, not to stop, but to join them; he was
asked to go with them to the Garrison chapel, which was exactly what he
had intended, and they all walked thither together.
The family were now seen to advantage. Nature had given them no
inconsiderable share of beauty, and every Sunday dressed them in their
cleanest skins and best attire. Sunday always brought this comfort to
Fanny, and on this Sunday she felt it more than ever. Her poor mother
now did not look so very unworthy of being Lady Bertram’s sister as she
was but too apt to look. It often grieved her to the heart to think of
the contrast between them; to think that where nature had made so
little difference, circumstances should have made so much, and that her
mother, as handsome as Lady Bertram, and some years her junior, should
have an appearance so much more worn and faded, so comfortless, so
slatternly, so shabby. But Sunday made her a very creditable and
tolerably cheerful-looking Mrs. Price, coming abroad with a fine family
of children, feeling a little respite of her weekly cares, and only
discomposed if she saw her boys run into danger, or Rebecca pass by
with a flower in her hat.
In chapel they were obliged to divide, but Mr. Crawford took care not
to be divided from the female branch; and after chapel he still
continued with them, and made one in the family party on the ramparts.
Mrs. Price took her weekly walk on the ramparts every fine Sunday
throughout the year, always going directly after morning service and
staying till dinner-time. It was her public place: there she met her
acquaintance, heard a little news, talked over the badness of the
Portsmouth servants, and wound up her spirits for the six days ensuing.
Thither they now went; Mr. Crawford most happy to consider the Miss
Prices as his peculiar charge; and before they had been there long,
somehow or other, there was no saying how, Fanny could not have
believed it, but he was walking between them with an arm of each under
his, and she did not know how to prevent or put an end to it. It made
her uncomfortable for a time, but yet there were enjoyments in the day
and in the view which would be felt.
The day was uncommonly lovely. It was really March; but it was April in
its mild air, brisk soft wind, and bright sun, occasionally clouded for
a minute; and everything looked so beautiful under the influence of
such a sky, the effects of the shadows pursuing each other on the ships
at Spithead and the island beyond, with the ever-varying hues of the
sea, now at high water, dancing in its glee and dashing against the
ramparts with so fine a sound, produced altogether such a combination
of charms for Fanny, as made her gradually almost careless of the
circumstances under which she felt them. Nay, had she been without his
arm, she would soon have known that she needed it, for she wanted
strength for a two hours’ saunter of this kind, coming, as it generally
did, upon a week’s previous inactivity. Fanny was beginning to feel the
effect of being debarred from her usual regular exercise; she had lost
ground as to health since her being in Portsmouth; and but for Mr.
Crawford and the beauty of the weather would soon have been knocked up
now.
The loveliness of the day, and of the view, he felt like herself. They
often stopt with the same sentiment and taste, leaning against the
wall, some minutes, to look and admire; and considering he was not
Edmund, Fanny could not but allow that he was sufficiently open to the
charms of nature, and very well able to express his admiration. She had
a few tender reveries now and then, which he could sometimes take
advantage of to look in her face without detection; and the result of
these looks was, that though as bewitching as ever, her face was less
blooming than it ought to be. She _said_ she was very well, and did not
like to be supposed otherwise; but take it all in all, he was convinced
that her present residence could not be comfortable, and therefore
could not be salutary for her, and he was growing anxious for her being
again at Mansfield, where her own happiness, and his in seeing her,
must be so much greater.
“You have been here a month, I think?” said he.
“No; not quite a month. It is only four weeks to-morrow since I left
Mansfield.”
“You are a most accurate and honest reckoner. I should call that a
month.”
“I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening.”
“And it is to be a two months’ visit, is not?”
“Yes. My uncle talked of two months. I suppose it will not be less.”
“And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for you?”
“I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps
I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched
exactly at the two months’ end.”
After a moment’s reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, “I know Mansfield, I
know its way, I know its faults towards _you_. I know the danger of
your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the
imaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am aware
that you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle
everything for coming himself, or sending your aunt’s maid for you,
without involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he
may have laid down for the next quarter of a year. This will not do.
Two months is an ample allowance; I should think six weeks quite
enough. I am considering your sister’s health,” said he, addressing
himself to Susan, “which I think the confinement of Portsmouth
unfavourable to. She requires constant air and exercise. When you know
her as well as I do, I am sure you will agree that she does, and that
she ought never to be long banished from the free air and liberty of
the country. If, therefore” (turning again to Fanny), “you find
yourself growing unwell, and any difficulties arise about your
returning to Mansfield, without waiting for the two months to be ended,
_that_ must not be regarded as of any consequence, if you feel yourself
at all less strong or comfortable than usual, and will only let my
sister know it, give her only the slightest hint, she and I will
immediately come down, and take you back to Mansfield. You know the
ease and the pleasure with which this would be done. You know all that
would be felt on the occasion.”
Fanny thanked him, but tried to laugh it off.
“I am perfectly serious,” he replied, “as you perfectly know. And I
hope you will not be cruelly concealing any tendency to indisposition.
Indeed, you shall _not_; it shall not be in your power; for so long
only as you positively say, in every letter to Mary, ‘I am well,’ and I
know you cannot speak or write a falsehood, so long only shall you be
considered as well.”
Fanny thanked him again, but was affected and distressed to a degree
that made it impossible for her to say much, or even to be certain of
what she ought to say. This was towards the close of their walk. He