Mansfield Park
much time, or many words, but she felt her, as Fanny’s sister, to have
a claim at Mansfield, and was ready to kiss and like her; and Susan was
more than satisfied, for she came perfectly aware that nothing but
ill-humour was to be expected from aunt Norris; and was so provided
with happiness, so strong in that best of blessings, an escape from
many certain evils, that she could have stood against a great deal more
indifference than she met with from the others.
She was now left a good deal to herself, to get acquainted with the
house and grounds as she could, and spent her days very happily in so
doing, while those who might otherwise have attended to her were shut
up, or wholly occupied each with the person quite dependent on them, at
this time, for everything like comfort; Edmund trying to bury his own
feelings in exertions for the relief of his brother’s, and Fanny
devoted to her aunt Bertram, returning to every former office with more
than former zeal, and thinking she could never do enough for one who
seemed so much to want her.
To talk over the dreadful business with Fanny, talk and lament, was all
Lady Bertram’s consolation. To be listened to and borne with, and hear
the voice of kindness and sympathy in return, was everything that could
be done for her. To be otherwise comforted was out of the question. The
case admitted of no comfort. Lady Bertram did not think deeply, but,
guided by Sir Thomas, she thought justly on all important points; and
she saw, therefore, in all its enormity, what had happened, and neither
endeavoured herself, nor required Fanny to advise her, to think little
of guilt and infamy.
Her affections were not acute, nor was her mind tenacious. After a
time, Fanny found it not impossible to direct her thoughts to other
subjects, and revive some interest in the usual occupations; but
whenever Lady Bertram _was_ fixed on the event, she could see it only
in one light, as comprehending the loss of a daughter, and a disgrace
never to be wiped off.
Fanny learnt from her all the particulars which had yet transpired. Her
aunt was no very methodical narrator, but with the help of some letters
to and from Sir Thomas, and what she already knew herself, and could
reasonably combine, she was soon able to understand quite as much as
she wished of the circumstances attending the story.
Mrs. Rushworth had gone, for the Easter holidays, to Twickenham, with a
family whom she had just grown intimate with: a family of lively,
agreeable manners, and probably of morals and discretion to suit, for
to _their_ house Mr. Crawford had constant access at all times. His
having been in the same neighbourhood Fanny already knew. Mr. Rushworth
had been gone at this time to Bath, to pass a few days with his mother,
and bring her back to town, and Maria was with these friends without
any restraint, without even Julia; for Julia had removed from Wimpole
Street two or three weeks before, on a visit to some relations of Sir
Thomas; a removal which her father and mother were now disposed to
attribute to some view of convenience on Mr. Yates’s account. Very soon
after the Rushworths’ return to Wimpole Street, Sir Thomas had received
a letter from an old and most particular friend in London, who hearing
and witnessing a good deal to alarm him in that quarter, wrote to
recommend Sir Thomas’s coming to London himself, and using his
influence with his daughter to put an end to the intimacy which was
already exposing her to unpleasant remarks, and evidently making Mr.
Rushworth uneasy.
Sir Thomas was preparing to act upon this letter, without communicating
its contents to any creature at Mansfield, when it was followed by
another, sent express from the same friend, to break to him the almost
desperate situation in which affairs then stood with the young people.
Mrs. Rushworth had left her husband’s house: Mr. Rushworth had been in
great anger and distress to _him_ (Mr. Harding) for his advice; Mr.
Harding feared there had been _at_ _least_ very flagrant indiscretion.
The maidservant of Mrs. Rushworth, senior, threatened alarmingly. He
was doing all in his power to quiet everything, with the hope of Mrs.
Rushworth’s return, but was so much counteracted in Wimpole Street by
the influence of Mr. Rushworth’s mother, that the worst consequences
might be apprehended.
This dreadful communication could not be kept from the rest of the
family. Sir Thomas set off, Edmund would go with him, and the others
had been left in a state of wretchedness, inferior only to what
followed the receipt of the next letters from London. Everything was by
that time public beyond a hope. The servant of Mrs. Rushworth, the
mother, had exposure in her power, and supported by her mistress, was
not to be silenced. The two ladies, even in the short time they had
been together, had disagreed; and the bitterness of the elder against
her daughter-in-law might perhaps arise almost as much from the
personal disrespect with which she had herself been treated as from
sensibility for her son.
However that might be, she was unmanageable. But had she been less
obstinate, or of less weight with her son, who was always guided by the
last speaker, by the person who could get hold of and shut him up, the
case would still have been hopeless, for Mrs. Rushworth did not appear
again, and there was every reason to conclude her to be concealed
somewhere with Mr. Crawford, who had quitted his uncle’s house, as for
a journey, on the very day of her absenting herself.
Sir Thomas, however, remained yet a little longer in town, in the hope
of discovering and snatching her from farther vice, though all was lost
on the side of character.
_His_ present state Fanny could hardly bear to think of. There was but
one of his children who was not at this time a source of misery to him.
Tom’s complaints had been greatly heightened by the shock of his
sister’s conduct, and his recovery so much thrown back by it, that even
Lady Bertram had been struck by the difference, and all her alarms were
regularly sent off to her husband; and Julia’s elopement, the
additional blow which had met him on his arrival in London, though its
force had been deadened at the moment, must, she knew, be sorely felt.
She saw that it was. His letters expressed how much he deplored it.
Under any circumstances it would have been an unwelcome alliance; but
to have it so clandestinely formed, and such a period chosen for its
completion, placed Julia’s feelings in a most unfavourable light, and
severely aggravated the folly of her choice. He called it a bad thing,
done in the worst manner, and at the worst time; and though Julia was
yet as more pardonable than Maria as folly than vice, he could not but
regard the step she had taken as opening the worst probabilities of a
conclusion hereafter like her sister’s. Such was his opinion of the set
into which she had thrown herself.
Fanny felt for him most acutely. He could have no comfort but in
Edmund. Every other child must be racking his heart. His displeasure
against herself she trusted, reasoning differently from Mrs. Norris,
would now be done away. _She_ should be justified. Mr. Crawford would
have fully acquitted her conduct in refusing him; but this, though most
material to herself, would be poor consolation to Sir Thomas. Her
uncle’s displeasure was terrible to her; but what could her
justification or her gratitude and attachment do for him? His stay must
be on Edmund alone.
She was mistaken, however, in supposing that Edmund gave his father no
present pain. It was of a much less poignant nature than what the
others excited; but Sir Thomas was considering his happiness as very
deeply involved in the offence of his sister and friend; cut off by it,
as he must be, from the woman whom he had been pursuing with undoubted
attachment and strong probability of success; and who, in everything
but this despicable brother, would have been so eligible a connexion.
He was aware of what Edmund must be suffering on his own behalf, in
addition to all the rest, when they were in town: he had seen or
conjectured his feelings; and, having reason to think that one
interview with Miss Crawford had taken place, from which Edmund derived
only increased distress, had been as anxious on that account as on
others to get him out of town, and had engaged him in taking Fanny home
to her aunt, with a view to his relief and benefit, no less than
theirs. Fanny was not in the secret of her uncle’s feelings, Sir Thomas
not in the secret of Miss Crawford’s character. Had he been privy to
her conversation with his son, he would not have wished her to belong
to him, though her twenty thousand pounds had been forty.
That Edmund must be for ever divided from Miss Crawford did not admit
of a doubt with Fanny; and yet, till she knew that he felt the same,
her own conviction was insufficient. She thought he did, but she wanted
to be assured of it. If he would now speak to her with the unreserve
which had sometimes been too much for her before, it would be most
consoling; but _that_ she found was not to be. She seldom saw him:
never alone. He probably avoided being alone with her. What was to be
inferred? That his judgment submitted to all his own peculiar and
bitter share of this family affliction, but that it was too keenly felt
to be a subject of the slightest communication. This must be his state.
He yielded, but it was with agonies which did not admit of speech.
Long, long would it be ere Miss Crawford’s name passed his lips again,
or she could hope for a renewal of such confidential intercourse as had
been.
It _was_ long. They reached Mansfield on Thursday, and it was not till
Sunday evening that Edmund began to talk to her on the subject. Sitting
with her on Sunday evening—a wet Sunday evening—the very time of all
others when, if a friend is at hand, the heart must be opened, and
everything told; no one else in the room, except his mother, who, after
hearing an affecting sermon, had cried herself to sleep, it was
impossible not to speak; and so, with the usual beginnings, hardly to
be traced as to what came first, and the usual declaration that if she
would listen to him for a few minutes, he should be very brief, and
certainly never tax her kindness in the same way again; she need not
fear a repetition; it would be a subject prohibited entirely: he
entered upon the luxury of relating circumstances and sensations of the
first interest to himself, to one of whose affectionate sympathy he was
quite convinced.
How Fanny listened, with what curiosity and concern, what pain and what
delight, how the agitation of his voice was watched, and how carefully
her own eyes were fixed on any object but himself, may be imagined. The
opening was alarming. He had seen Miss Crawford. He had been invited to
see her. He had received a note from Lady Stornaway to beg him to call;
and regarding it as what was meant to be the last, last interview of
friendship, and investing her with all the feelings of shame and
wretchedness which Crawford’s sister ought to have known, he had gone
to her in such a state of mind, so softened, so devoted, as made it for
a few moments impossible to Fanny’s fears that it should be the last.
But as he proceeded in his story, these fears were over. She had met
him, he said, with a serious—certainly a serious—even an agitated air;
but before he had been able to speak one intelligible sentence, she had
introduced the subject in a manner which he owned had shocked him. “‘I
heard you were in town,’ said she; ‘I wanted to see you. Let us talk
over this sad business. What can equal the folly of our two relations?’
I could not answer, but I believe my looks spoke. She felt reproved.
Sometimes how quick to feel! With a graver look and voice she then