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Jane Austen "Mansfield
Park"
Chapter 7
“Well, Fanny, and how do you like Miss Crawford now?” said Edmund the
next day, after thinking some time on the subject himself. “How did you
like her yesterday?”
“Very well—very much. I like to hear her talk. She entertains me; and
she is so extremely pretty, that I have great pleasure in looking at her.”
“It is her countenance that is so attractive. She has a wonderful play
of feature! But was there nothing in her conversation that struck you,
Fanny, as not quite right?”
“Oh yes! she ought not to have spoken of her uncle as she did. I was
quite astonished. An uncle with whom she has been living so many years,
and who, whatever his faults may be, is so very fond of her brother,
treating him, they say, quite like a son. I could not have believed it!”
“I thought you would be struck. It was very wrong; very indecorous.”
“And very ungrateful, I think.”
“Ungrateful is a strong word. I do not know that her uncle has any claim
to her gratitude; his wife certainly had; and it is the warmth of her
respect for her aunt’s memory which misleads her here. She is awkwardly
circumstanced. With such warm feelings and lively spirits it must be
difficult to do justice to her affection for Mrs. Crawford, without
throwing a shade on the Admiral. I do not pretend to know which was most
to blame in their disagreements, though the Admiral’s present conduct
might incline one to the side of his wife; but it is natural and amiable
that Miss Crawford should acquit her aunt entirely. I do not censure her
opinions; but there certainly _is_ impropriety in making them public.”
“Do not you think,” said Fanny, after a little consideration, “that this
impropriety is a reflection itself upon Mrs. Crawford, as her niece has
been entirely brought up by her? She cannot have given her right notions
of what was due to the Admiral.”
“That is a fair remark. Yes, we must suppose the faults of the niece to
have been those of the aunt; and it makes one more sensible of the
disadvantages she has been under. But I think her present home must do
her good. Mrs. Grant’s manners are just what they ought to be. She
speaks of her brother with a very pleasing affection.”
“Yes, except as to his writing her such short letters. She made me
almost laugh; but I cannot rate so very highly the love or good-nature
of a brother who will not give himself the trouble of writing anything
worth reading to his sisters, when they are separated. I am sure William
would never have used me so, under any circumstances. And what right had
she to suppose that you would not write long letters when you were
absent?”
“The right of a lively mind, Fanny, seizing whatever may contribute to
its own amusement or that of others; perfectly allowable, when
untinctured by ill-humour or roughness; and there is not a shadow of
either in the countenance or manner of Miss Crawford: nothing sharp, or
loud, or coarse. She is perfectly feminine, except m the instances we
have been speaking of. There she cannot be justified. I am glad you saw
it all as I did.”
Having formed her mind and gained her affections, he had a good chance
of her thinking like him; though at this period, and on this subject,
there began now to be some danger of dissimilarity, for he was in a line
of admiration of Miss Crawford, which might lead him where Fanny could
not follow. Miss Crawford’s attractions did not lessen. The harp arrived,
and rather added to her beauty, wit, and good-humour; for she played
with the greatest obligingness, with an expression and taste which were
peculiarly becoming, and there was something clever to be said at the
close of every air. Edmund was at the Parsonage every day, to be
indulged with his favourite instrument: one morning secured an
invitation for the next; for the lady could not be unwilling to have a
listener, and every thing was soon in a fair train.
A young woman, pretty, lively, with a harp as elegant as herself, and
both placed near a window, cut down to the ground, and opening on a
little lawn, surrounded by shrubs in the rich foliage of summer, was
enough to catch any man’s heart. The season, the scene, the air, were
all favourable to tenderness and sentiment. Mrs. Grant and her tambour
frame were not without their use: it was all in harmony; and as
everything will turn to account when love is once set going, even the
sandwich tray, and Dr. Grant doing the honours of it, were worth looking
at. Without studying the business, however, or knowing what he was about,
Edmund was beginning, at the end of a week of such intercourse, to be a
good deal in love; and to the credit of the lady it may be added that,
without his being a man of the world or an elder brother, without any of
the arts of flattery or the gaieties of small talk, he began to be
agreeable to her. She felt it to be so, though she had not foreseen, and
could hardly understand it; for he was not pleasant by any common rule:
he talked no nonsense; he paid no compliments; his opinions were
unbending, his attentions tranquil and simple. There was a charm,
perhaps, in his sincerity, his steadiness, his integrity, which Miss
Crawford might be equal to feel, though not equal to discuss with
herself. She did not think very much about it, however: he pleased her
for the present; she liked to have him near her; it was enough.
Fanny could not wonder that Edmund was at the Parsonage every morning;
she would gladly have been there too, might she have gone in uninvited
and unnoticed, to hear the harp; neither could she wonder that, when the
evening stroll was over, and the two families parted again, he should
think it right to attend Mrs. Grant and her sister to their home, while
Mr. Crawford was devoted to the ladies of the Park; but she thought it a
very bad exchange; and if Edmund were not there to mix the wine and
water for her, would rather go without it than not. She was a little
surprised that he could spend so many hours with Miss Crawford, and not
see more of the sort of fault which he had already observed, and of
which she was almost always reminded by a something of the same nature
whenever she was in her company; but so it was. Edmund was fond of
speaking to her of Miss Crawford, but he seemed to think it enough that
the Admiral had since been spared; and she scrupled to point out her own
remarks to him, lest it should appear like ill-nature. The first actual
pain which Miss Crawford occasioned her was the consequence of an
inclination to learn to ride, which the former caught, soon after her
being settled at Mansfield, from the example of the young ladies at the
Park, and which, when Edmund’s acquaintance with her increased, led to
his encouraging the wish, and the offer of his own quiet mare for the
purpose of her first attempts, as the best fitted for a beginner that
either stable could furnish. No pain, no injury, however, was designed
by him to his cousin in this offer: she was not to lose a day’s exercise
by it. The mare was only to be taken down to the Parsonage half an hour
before her ride were to begin; and Fanny, on its being first proposed,
so far from feeling slighted, was almost over-powered with gratitude
that he should be asking her leave for it.
Miss Crawford made her first essay with great credit to herself, and no
inconvenience to Fanny. Edmund, who had taken down the mare and presided
at the whole, returned with it in excellent time, before either Fanny or
the steady old coachman, who always attended her when she rode without
her cousins, were ready to set forward. The second day’s trial was not
so guiltless. Miss Crawford’s enjoyment of riding was such that she did
not know how to leave off. Active and fearless, and though rather small,
strongly made, she seemed formed for a horsewoman; and to the pure
genuine pleasure of the exercise, something was probably added in
Edmund’s attendance and instructions, and something more in the
conviction of very much surpassing her sex in general by her early
progress, to make her unwilling to dismount. Fanny was ready and waiting,
and Mrs. Norris was beginning to scold her for not being gone, and still
no horse was announced, no Edmund appeared. To avoid her aunt, and look
for him, she went out.
The houses, though scarcely half a mile apart, were not within sight of
each other; but, by walking fifty yards from the hall door, she could
look down the park, and command a view of the Parsonage and all its
demesnes, gently rising beyond the village road; and in Dr. Grant’s
meadow she immediately saw the group—Edmund and Miss Crawford both on
horse-back, riding side by side, Dr. and Mrs. Grant, and Mr. Crawford,
with two or three grooms, standing about and looking on. A happy party
it appeared to her, all interested in one object: cheerful beyond a
doubt, for the sound of merriment ascended even to her. It was a sound
which did not make her cheerful; she wondered that Edmund should forget
her, and felt a pang. She could not turn her eyes from the meadow; she
could not help watching all that passed.
At first Miss Crawford and her companion made the circuit of the field,
which was not small, at a foot’s pace; then, at her apparent suggestion,
they rose into a canter; and to Fanny’s timid nature it was most
astonishing to see how well she sat. After a few minutes they stopped
entirely. Edmund was close to her; he was speaking to her; he was
evidently directing her management of the bridle; he had hold of her
hand; she saw it, or the imagination supplied what the eye could not
reach. She
must not wonder at all this; what could be more natural than that Edmund
should be making himself useful, and proving his good-nature by any one?
She could not but think, indeed, that Mr. Crawford might as well have
saved him the trouble; that it would have been particularly proper and
becoming in a brother to have done it himself; but Mr. Crawford, with
all his boasted good-nature, and all his coachmanship, probably knew
nothing of the matter, and had no active kindness in comparison of
Edmund. She began to think it rather hard upon the mare to have such
double duty; if she were forgotten, the poor mare should be remembered.
Her feelings for one and the other were soon a little tranquillised by
seeing the party in the meadow disperse, and Miss Crawford still on
horseback, but attended by Edmund on foot, pass through a gate into the
lane, and so into the park, and make towards the spot where she stood.
She began then to be afraid of appearing rude and impatient; and walked
to meet them with a great anxiety to avoid the suspicion.
“My dear Miss Price,” said Miss Crawford, as soon as she was at all
within hearing, “I am come to make my own apologies for keeping you
waiting; but I have nothing in the world to say for myself—I knew it was
very late, and that I was behaving extremely ill; and therefore, if you
please, you must forgive me. Selfishness must always be forgiven, you
know, because there is no hope of a cure.”
Fanny’s answer was extremely civil, and Edmund added his conviction that
she could be in no hurry. “For there is more than time enough for my
cousin to ride twice as far as she ever goes,” said he, “and you have
been promoting her comfort by preventing her from setting off half an
hour sooner: clouds are now coming up, and she will not suffer from the
heat as she would have done then. I wish you may not be fatigued by so
much exercise. I wish you had saved yourself this walk home.”
“No part of it fatigues me but getting off this horse, I assure you,”
said she, as she sprang down with his help; “I am very strong. Nothing
ever fatigues me but doing what I do not like. Miss Price, I give way to
you with a very bad grace; but I sincerely hope you will have a pleasant
ride, and that I may have nothing but good to hear of this dear,
delightful, beautiful animal.”
The old coachman, who had been waiting about with his own horse, now
joining them, Fanny was lifted on hers, and they set off across another
part of the park; her feelings of discomfort not lightened by seeing, as
she looked back, that the others were walking down the hill together to
the village; nor did her attendant do her much good by his comments on
Miss Crawford’s great cleverness as a horse-woman, which he had been
watching with an interest almost equal to her own.
“It is a pleasure to see a lady with such a good heart for riding!” said
he. “I never see one sit a horse better. She did not seem to have a
thought of fear. Very different from you, miss, when you first began,
six years ago come next Easter. Lord bless you! how you did tremble when
Sir Thomas first had you put on!”
In the drawing-room Miss Crawford was also celebrated. Her merit in
being gifted by Nature with strength and courage was fully appreciated
by the Miss Bertrams; her delight in riding was like their own; her
early excellence in it was like their own, and they had great pleasure
in praising it.
“I was sure she would ride well,” said Julia; “she has the make for it.
Her figure is as neat as her brother’s.”
“Yes,” added Maria, “and her spirits are as good, and she has the same
energy of character. I cannot but think that good horsemanship has a
great deal to do with the mind.”
When they parted at night Edmund asked Fanny whether she meant to ride
the next day.
“No, I do not know—not if you want the mare,” was her answer.
“I do not want her at all for myself,” said he; “’but whenever you are
next inclined to stay at home, I think Miss Crawford would be glad to
have her a longer time— for a whole morning, in short. She has a great
desire to get as far as Mansfield Common: Mrs. Grant has been telling
her of its fine views, and I have no doubt of her being perfectly equal
to it. But any morning will do for this. She would be extremely sorry to
interfere with you. It would be very wrong if she did. She rides only
for pleasure; you for health.”
“I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly,” said Fanny; “I have been out
very often lately, and would rather stay at home. You know I am strong
enough now to walk very well.”
Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny’s comfort, and the ride to
Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all the
young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly
enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this
sort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield
Common disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There
were many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot, there
were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is always
provided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were spent
in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing the
honours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety and
good-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be talked
of with pleasure— till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of the
party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and
Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and she was excluded. It
was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good-humour, on Mr.
Rushworth’s account, who was partly expected at the Park that day; but
it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were
severely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home.
As Mr. Rushworth did not come, the injury was increased, and she had not
even the relief of shewing her power over him; she could only be sullen
to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as possible
over their dinner and dessert.
Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room,
fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of
what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would
scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep;
and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece’s ill-humour, and having
asked one or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately
attended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes
the brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and
their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when the
first pause came, Edmund, looking around, said, “But where is Fanny? Is
she gone to bed?”
“No, not that I know of,” replied Mrs. Norris; “she was here a moment
ago.”
Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room, which was
a very long one, told them that she was on the sofa. Mrs. Norris began
scolding.
“That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all the evening
upon a sofa. Why cannot you come and sit here, and employ yourself as we
do? If you have no work of your own, I can supply you from the poor
basket. There is all the new calico, that was bought last week, not
touched yet. I am sure I almost broke my back by cutting it out. You
should learn to think of other people; and, take my word for it, it is a
shocking trick for a young person to be always lolling upon a sofa.”
Before half this was said, Fanny was returned to her seat at the table,
and had taken up her work again; and Julia, who was in high good-humour,
from the pleasures of the day, did her the justice of exclaiming, “I
must say, ma’am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa as anybody in the
house.”
“Fanny,” said Edmund, after looking at her attentively, “I am sure you
have the headache.”
She could not deny it, but said it was not very bad.
“I can hardly believe you,” he replied; “I know your looks too well. How
long have you had it?”
“Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat.”
“Did you go out in the heat?”
“Go out! to be sure she did,” said Mrs. Norris: “would you have her stay
within such a fine day as this? Were not we all out? Even your mother
was out to-day for above an hour.”
“Yes, indeed, Edmund,” added her ladyship, who had been thoroughly
awakened by Mrs. Norris’s sharp reprimand to Fanny; “I was out above an
hour. I sat three-quarters of an hour in the flower-garden, while Fanny
cut the roses; and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very hot. It
was shady enough in the alcove, but I declare I quite dreaded the coming
home again.”
“Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?”
“Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year. Poor thing! She
found it hot enough; but they were so full-blown that one could not
wait.”
“There was no help for it, certainly,” rejoined Mrs. Norris, in a rather
softened voice; “but I question whether her headache might not be caught
then, sister. There is nothing so likely to give it as standing and
stooping in a hot sun; but I dare say it will be well to-morrow. Suppose
you let her have your aromatic vinegar; I always forget to have mine
filled.”
“She has got it,” said Lady Bertram; “she has had it ever since she came
back from your house the second time.”
“What!” cried Edmund; “has she been walking as well as cutting roses;
walking across the hot park to your house, and doing it twice, ma’am? No
wonder her head aches.”
Mrs. Norris was talking to Julia, and did not hear.
“I was afraid it would be too much for her,” said Lady Bertram; “but
when the roses were gathered, your aunt wished to have them, and then
you know they must be taken home.”
“But were there roses enough to oblige her to go twice?”
“No; but they were to be put into the spare room to dry; and, unluckily,
Fanny forgot to lock the door of the room and bring away the key, so she
was obliged to go again.”
Edmund got up and walked about the room, saying, “And could nobody be
employed on such an errand but Fanny? Upon my word, ma’am, it has been a
very ill-managed business.”
“I am sure I do not know how it was to have been done better,” cried
Mrs. Norris, unable to be longer deaf; “unless I had gone myself,
indeed; but I cannot be in two places at once; and I was talking to Mr.
Green at that very time about your mother’s dairymaid, by her desire,
and had promised John Groom to write to Mrs. Jefferies about his son,
and the poor fellow was waiting for me half an hour. I think nobody can
justly accuse me of sparing myself upon any occasion, but really I
cannot do everything at once. And as for Fanny’s just stepping down to
my house for me— it is not much above a quarter of a mile—I cannot think
I was unreasonable to ask it. How often do I pace it three times a day,
early and late, ay, and in all weathers too, and say nothing about it?”
“I wish Fanny had half your strength, ma’am.”
“If Fanny would be more regular in her exercise, she would not be
knocked up so soon. She has not been out on horseback now this long
while, and I am persuaded that, when she does not ride, she ought to
walk. If she had been riding before, I should not have asked it of her.
But I thought it would rather do her good after being stooping among the
roses; for there is nothing so refreshing as a walk after a fatigue of
that kind; and though the sun was strong, it was not so very hot.
Between ourselves, Edmund,” nodding significantly at his mother, “it was
cutting the roses, and dawdling about in the flower-garden, that did the
mischief.”
“I am afraid it was, indeed,” said the more candid Lady Bertram, who had
overheard her; “I am very much afraid she caught the headache there, for
the heat was enough to kill anybody. It was as much as I could bear
myself. Sitting and calling to Pug, and trying to keep him from the
flower-beds, was almost too much for me.”
Edmund said no more to either lady; but going quietly to another table,
on which the supper-tray yet remained, brought a glass of Madeira to
Fanny, and obliged her to drink the greater part. She wished to be able
to decline it; but the tears, which a variety of feelings created, made
it easier to swallow than to speak.
Vexed as Edmund was with his mother and aunt, he was still more angry
with himself. His own forgetfulness of her was worse than anything which
they had done. Nothing of this would have happened had she been properly
considered; but she had been left four days together without any choice
of companions or exercise, and without any excuse for avoiding whatever
her unreasonable aunts might require. He was ashamed to think that for
four days together she had not had the power of riding, and very
seriously resolved, however unwilling he must be to check a pleasure of
Miss Crawford’s, that it should never happen again.
Fanny went to bed with her heart as full as on the first evening of her
arrival at the Park. The state of her spirits had probably had its share
in her indisposition; for she had been feeling neglected, and been
struggling against discontent and envy for some days past. As she leant
on the sofa, to which she had retreated that she might not be seen, the
pain of her mind had been much beyond that in her head; and the sudden
change which Edmund’s kindness had then occasioned, made her hardly know
how to support herself.
