Chapter IX

by Jane Austen

　　Mr. Rushworth was at the door to receive his fair lady;and the whole party were welcomed by him with due attention.In the drawing-room they were met with equal cordialityby the mother, and Miss Bertram had all the distinctionwith each that she could wish. After the businessof arriving was over, it was first necessary to eat,and the doors were thrown open to admit them through oneor two intermediate rooms into the appointed dining-parlour,where a collation was prepared with abundance and elegance.Much was said, and much was ate, and all went well.The particular object of the day was then considered.How would Mr. Crawford like, in what manner would he chuse,to take a survey of the grounds? Mr. Rushworth mentionedhis curricle. Mr. Crawford suggested the greater desirablenessof some carriage which might convey more than two."To be depriving themselves of the advantage of other eyesand other judgments, might be an evil even beyond the lossof present pleasure."Mrs. Rushworth proposed that the chaise should be taken also;but this was scarcely received as an amendment: the youngladies neither smiled nor spoke. Her next proposition,of shewing the house to such of them as had not beenthere before, was more acceptable, for Miss Bertram waspleased to have its size displayed, and all were gladto be doing something.The whole party rose accordingly, and under Mrs. Rushworth'sguidance were shewn through a number of rooms, all lofty,and many large, and amply furnished in the taste of fiftyyears back, with shining floors, solid mahogany, rich damask,marble, gilding, and carving, each handsome in its way.Of pictures there were abundance, and some few good,but the larger part were family portraits, no longeranything to anybody but Mrs. Rushworth, who had been atgreat pains to learn all that the housekeeper could teach,and was now almost equally well qualified to shew the house.On the present occasion she addressed herself chieflyto Miss Crawford and Fanny, but there was no comparisonin the willingness of their attention; for Miss Crawford,who had seen scores of great houses, and cared for noneof them, had only the appearance of civilly listening,while Fanny, to whom everything was almost as interestingas it was new, attended with unaffected earnestness to allthat Mrs. Rushworth could relate of the family in former times,its rise and grandeur, regal visits and loyal efforts,delighted to connect anything with history already known,or warm her imagination with scenes of the past.The situation of the house excluded the possibilityof much prospect from any of the rooms; and while Fannyand some of the others were attending Mrs. Rushworth,Henry Crawford was looking grave and shaking his headat the windows. Every room on the west front lookedacross a lawn to the beginning of the avenue immediatelybeyond tall iron palisades and gates.Having visited many more rooms than could be supposed to beof any other use than to contribute to the window-tax, andfind employment for housemaids, "Now," said Mrs. Rushworth,"we are coming to the chapel, which properly we oughtto enter from above, and look down upon; but as weare quite among friends, I will take you in this way,if you will excuse me."They entered. Fanny's imagination had prepared herfor something grander than a mere spacious, oblong room,fitted up for the purpose of devotion: with nothing morestriking or more solemn than the profusion of mahogany,and the crimson velvet cushions appearing over the ledgeof the family gallery above. "I am disappointed,"said she, in a low voice, to Edmund. "This is notmy idea of a chapel. There is nothing awful here,nothing melancholy, nothing grand. Here are no aisles,no arches, no inscriptions, no banners. No banners,cousin, to be 'blown by the night wind of heaven.'No signs that a 'Scottish monarch sleeps below.'""You forget, Fanny, how lately all this has been built,and for how confined a purpose, compared with the oldchapels of castles and monasteries. It was only forthe private use of the family. They have been buried,I suppose, in the parish church. _There_ you must lookfor the banners and the achievements.""It was foolish of me not to think of all that; but Iam disappointed."Mrs. Rushworth began her relation. "This chapel was fitted upas you see it, in James the Second's time. Before that period,as I understand, the pews were only wainscot; and thereis some reason to think that the linings and cushionsof the pulpit and family seat were only purple cloth;but this is not quite certain. It is a handsome chapel,and was formerly in constant use both morning and evening.Prayers were always read in it by the domestic chaplain,within the memory of many; but the late Mr. Rushworth leftit off.""Every generation has its improvements," said Miss Crawford,with a smile, to Edmund.Mrs. Rushworth was gone to repeat her lesson to Mr. Crawford;and Edmund, Fanny, and Miss Crawford remained in a clustertogether."It is a pity," cried Fanny, "that the custom should havebeen discontinued. It was a valuable part of former times.There is something in a chapel and chaplain so muchin character with a great house, with one's ideas of whatsuch a household should be! A whole family assemblingregularly for the purpose of prayer is fine!""Very fine indeed," said Miss Crawford, laughing. "It mustdo the heads of the family a great deal of good to forceall the poor housemaids and footmen to leave businessand pleasure, and say their prayers here twice a day,while they are inventing excuses themselves for stayingaway.""_That_ is hardly Fanny's idea of a family assembling,"said Edmund. "If the master and mistress do _not_attend themselves, there must be more harm than goodin the custom.""At any rate, it is safer to leave people to their owndevices on such subjects. Everybody likes to go theirown way--to chuse their own time and manner of devotion.The obligation of attendance, the formality, the restraint,the length of time--altogether it is a formidable thing,and what nobody likes; and if the good people who usedto kneel and gape in that gallery could have foreseenthat the time would ever come when men and women might lieanother ten minutes in bed, when they woke with a headache,without danger of reprobation, because chapel was missed,they would have jumped with joy and envy. Cannot youimagine with what unwilling feelings the former bellesof the house of Rushworth did many a time repair tothis chapel? The young Mrs. Eleanors and Mrs. Bridgets--starched up into seeming piety, but with heads fullof something very different--especially if the poorchaplain were not worth looking at--and, in those days,I fancy parsons were very inferior even to what theyare now."For a few moments she was unanswered. Fanny colouredand looked at Edmund, but felt too angry for speech;and he needed a little recollection before he could say,"Your lively mind can hardly be serious even on serious subjects.You have given us an amusing sketch, and human naturecannot say it was not so. We must all feel _at_ _times_the difficulty of fixing our thoughts as we could wish;but if you are supposing it a frequent thing, that is to say,a weakness grown into a habit from neglect, what couldbe expected from the _private_ devotions of such persons?Do you think the minds which are suffered, which areindulged in wanderings in a chapel, would be more collectedin a closet?""Yes, very likely. They would have two chances at leastin their favour. There would be less to distract theattention from without, and it would not be tried so long.""The mind which does not struggle against itself under_one_ circumstance, would find objects to distract itin the _other_, I believe; and the influence of the placeand of example may often rouse better feelings than arebegun with. The greater length of the service, however,I admit to be sometimes too hard a stretch upon the mind.One wishes it were not so; but I have not yet leftOxford long enough to forget what chapel prayers are."While this was passing, the rest of the party being scatteredabout the chapel, Julia called Mr. Crawford's attention toher sister, by saying, "Do look at Mr. Rushworth and Maria,standing side by side, exactly as if the ceremony weregoing to be performed. Have not they completely the air of it?"Mr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and stepping forwardto Maria, said, in a voice which she only could hear,"I do not like to see Miss Bertram so near the altar."Starting, the lady instinctively moved a step or two,but recovering herself in a moment, affected to laugh,and asked him, in a tone not much louder, "If he would giveher away?""I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly," was his reply,with a look of meaning.Julia, joining them at the moment, carried on the joke."Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should nottake place directly, if we had but a proper licence,for here we are altogether, and nothing in the worldcould be more snug and pleasant." And she talked andlaughed about it with so little caution as to catch thecomprehension of Mr. Rushworth and his mother, and exposeher sister to the whispered gallantries of her lover,while Mrs. Rushworth spoke with proper smiles and dignityof its being a most happy event to her whenever it took place."If Edmund were but in orders!" cried Julia, and runningto where he stood with Miss Crawford and Fanny:"My dear Edmund, if you were but in orders now, you mightperform the ceremony directly. How unlucky that youare not ordained; Mr. Rushworth and Maria are quite ready."Miss Crawford's countenance, as Julia spoke, might haveamused a disinterested observer. She looked almost aghastunder the new idea she was receiving. Fanny pitied her."How distressed she will be at what she said just now,"passed across her mind."Ordained!" said Miss Crawford; "what, are you to bea clergyman?""Yes; I shall take orders soon after my father's return--probably at Christmas."Miss Crawford, rallying her spirits, and recoveringher complexion, replied only, "If I had known this before,I would have spoken of the cloth with more respect,"and turned the subject.The chapel was soon afterwards left to the silence and stillnesswhich reigned in it, with few interruptions, throughout the year.Miss Bertram, displeased with her sister, led the way,and all seemed to feel that they had been there long enough.The lower part of the house had been now entirely shewn,and Mrs. Rushworth, never weary in the cause, would haveproceeded towards the principal staircase, and takenthem through all the rooms above, if her son had notinterposed with a doubt of there being time enough."For if," said he, with the sort of self-evident propositionwhich many a clearer head does not always avoid, "we are_too_ long going over the house, we shall not have timefor what is to be done out of doors. It is past two,and we are to dine at five."Mrs. Rushworth submitted; and the question of surveyingthe grounds, with the who and the how, was likely to be morefully agitated, and Mrs. Norris was beginning to arrangeby what junction of carriages and horses most could be done,when the young people, meeting with an outward door,temptingly open on a flight of steps which led immediatelyto turf and shrubs, and all the sweets of pleasure-grounds,as by one impulse, one wish for air and liberty, all walked out."Suppose we turn down here for the present," said Mrs. Rushworth,civilly taking the hint and following them. "Here are thegreatest number of our plants, and here are the curious pheasants.""Query," said Mr. Crawford, looking round him,"whether we may not find something to employ us herebefore we go farther? I see walls of great promise.Mr. Rushworth, shall we summon a council on this lawn?""James," said Mrs. Rushworth to her son, "I believethe wilderness will be new to all the party. The MissBertrams have never seen the wilderness yet."No objection was made, but for some time there seemedno inclination to move in any plan, or to any distance.All were attracted at first by the plants or the pheasants,and all dispersed about in happy independence.Mr. Crawford was the first to move forward to examinethe capabilities of that end of the house. The lawn,bounded on each side by a high wall, contained beyondthe first planted area a bowling-green, and beyondthe bowling-green a long terrace walk, backed by ironpalisades, and commanding a view over them into the topsof the trees of the wilderness immediately adjoining.It was a good spot for fault-finding. Mr. Crawford was soonfollowed by Miss Bertram and Mr. Rushworth; and when,after a little time, the others began to form into parties,these three were found in busy consultation on the terraceby Edmund, Miss Crawford, and Fanny, who seemed as naturallyto unite, and who, after a short participation of theirregrets and difficulties, left them and walked on.The remaining three, Mrs. Rushworth, Mrs. Norris,and Julia, were still far behind; for Julia, whose happystar no longer prevailed, was obliged to keep by the sideof Mrs. Rushworth, and restrain her impatient feet to thatlady's slow pace, while her aunt, having fallen in withthe housekeeper, who was come out to feed the pheasants,was lingering behind in gossip with her. Poor Julia,the only one out of the nine not tolerably satisfiedwith their lot, was now in a state of complete penance,and as different from the Julia of the barouche-boxas could well be imagined. The politeness which she hadbeen brought up to practise as a duty made it impossiblefor her to escape; while the want of that higher speciesof self-command, that just consideration of others,that knowledge of her own heart, that principle of right,which had not formed any essential part of her education,made her miserable under it."This is insufferably hot," said Miss Crawford, when theyhad taken one turn on the terrace, and were drawinga second time to the door in the middle which opened tothe wilderness. "Shall any of us object to being comfortable?Here is a nice little wood, if one can but get into it.What happiness if the door should not be locked! but ofcourse it is; for in these great places the gardenersare the only people who can go where they like."The door, however, proved not to be locked, and they wereall agreed in turning joyfully through it, and leavingthe unmitigated glare of day behind. A considerableflight of steps landed them in the wilderness, which wasa planted wood of about two acres, and though chieflyof larch and laurel, and beech cut down, and though laidout with too much regularity, was darkness and shade,and natural beauty, compared with the bowling-greenand the terrace. They all felt the refreshment of it,and for some time could only walk and admire. At length,after a short pause, Miss Crawford began with, "So youare to be a clergyman, Mr. Bertram. This is rathera surprise to me.""Why should it surprise you? You must suppose me designedfor some profession, and might perceive that I am neithera lawyer, nor a soldier, nor a sailor.""Very true; but, in short, it had not occurred to me.And you know there is generally an uncle or a grandfatherto leave a fortune to the second son.""A very praiseworthy practice," said Edmund,"but not quite universal. I am one of the exceptions,and _being_ one, must do something for myself.""'But why are you to be a clergyman? I thought _that_was always the lot of the youngest, where there weremany to chuse before him.""Do you think the church itself never chosen, then?""_Never_ is a black word. But yes, in the _never_of conversation, which means _not_ _very_ _often_,I do think it. For what is to be done in the church?Men love to distinguish themselves, and in either of the otherlines distinction may be gained, but not in the church.A clergyman is nothing.""The _nothing_ of conversation has its gradations, I hope,as well as the _never_. A clergyman cannot be high instate or fashion. He must not head mobs, or set the tonin dress. But I cannot call that situation nothing whichhas the charge of all that is of the first importanceto mankind, individually or collectively considered,temporally and eternally, which has the guardianshipof religion and morals, and consequently of the mannerswhich result from their influence. No one here can callthe _office_ nothing. If the man who holds it is so,it is by the neglect of his duty, by foregoing itsjust importance, and stepping out of his place to appearwhat he ought not to appear.""_You_ assign greater consequence to the clergyman than onehas been used to hear given, or than I can quite comprehend.One does not see much of this influence and importancein society, and how can it be acquired where they areso seldom seen themselves? How can two sermons a week,even supposing them worth hearing, supposing the preacherto have the sense to prefer Blair's to his own, do allthat you speak of? govern the conduct and fashion themanners of a large congregation for the rest of the week?One scarcely sees a clergyman out of his pulpit.""_You_ are speaking of London, _I_ am speaking of thenation at large.""The metropolis, I imagine, is a pretty fair sampleof the rest.""Not, I should hope, of the proportion of virtue to vicethroughout the kingdom. We do not look in great citiesfor our best morality. It is not there that respectablepeople of any denomination can do most good; and itcertainly is not there that the influence of the clergy canbe most felt. A fine preacher is followed and admired;but it is not in fine preaching only that a good clergymanwill be useful in his parish and his neighbourhood,where the parish and neighbourhood are of a size capableof knowing his private character, and observing hisgeneral conduct, which in London can rarely be the case.The clergy are lost there in the crowds of their parishioners.They are known to the largest part only as preachers.And with regard to their influencing public manners,Miss Crawford must not misunderstand me, or suppose I meanto call them the arbiters of good-breeding, the regulatorsof refinement and courtesy, the masters of the ceremoniesof life. The _manners_ I speak of might rather becalled _conduct_, perhaps, the result of good principles;the effect, in short, of those doctrines which itis their duty to teach and recommend; and it will,I believe, be everywhere found, that as the clergy are,or are not what they ought to be, so are the rest ofthe nation.""Certainly," said Fanny, with gentle earnestness."There," cried Miss Crawford, "you have quite convincedMiss Price already.""I wish I could convince Miss Crawford too.""I do not think you ever will," said she, with an arch smile;"I am just as much surprised now as I was at firstthat you should intend to take orders. You really arefit for something better. Come, do change your mind.It is not too late. Go into the law.""Go into the law! With as much ease as I was told to gointo this wilderness.""Now you are going to say something about law beingthe worst wilderness of the two, but I forestall you;remember, I have forestalled you.""You need not hurry when the object is only to preventmy saying a _bon_ _mot_, for there is not the least wit inmy nature. I am a very matter-of-fact, plain-spoken being,and may blunder on the borders of a repartee for halfan hour together without striking it out."A general silence succeeded. Each was thoughtful.Fanny made the first interruption by saying, "I wonderthat I should be tired with only walking in this sweet wood;but the next time we come to a seat, if it is not disagreeableto you, I should be glad to sit down for a little while.""My dear Fanny," cried Edmund, immediately drawing her armwithin his, "how thoughtless I have been! I hope youare not very tired. Perhaps," turning to Miss Crawford,"my other companion may do me the honour of taking an arm.""Thank you, but I am not at all tired." She took it,however, as she spoke, and the gratification of havingher do so, of feeling such a connexion for the first time,made him a little forgetful of Fanny. "You scarcelytouch me," said he. "You do not make me of any use.What a difference in the weight of a woman's arm fromthat of a man! At Oxford I have been a good deal usedto have a man lean on me for the length of a street,and you are only a fly in the comparison.""I am really not tired, which I almost wonder at;for we must have walked at least a mile in this wood.Do not you think we have?""Not half a mile," was his sturdy answer; for he was not yetso much in love as to measure distance, or reckon time,with feminine lawlessness."Oh! you do not consider how much we have wound about.We have taken such a very serpentine course, and the wooditself must be half a mile long in a straight line,for we have never seen the end of it yet since we leftthe first great path.""But if you remember, before we left that first great path,we saw directly to the end of it. We looked down thewhole vista, and saw it closed by iron gates, and itcould not have been more than a furlong in length.""Oh! I know nothing of your furlongs, but I am sureit is a very long wood, and that we have been windingin and out ever since we came into it; and therefore,when I say that we have walked a mile in it, I must speakwithin compass.""We have been exactly a quarter of an hour here,"said Edmund, taking out his watch. "Do you think weare walking four miles an hour?""Oh! do not attack me with your watch. A watch is alwaystoo fast or too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch."A few steps farther brought them out at the bottom of thevery walk they had been talking of; and standing back,well shaded and sheltered, and looking over a ha-ha intothe park, was a comfortable-sized bench, on which theyall sat down."I am afraid you are very tired, Fanny," said Edmund,observing her; "why would not you speak sooner? This will bea bad day's amusement for you if you are to be knocked up.Every sort of exercise fatigues her so soon, Miss Crawford,except riding.""How abominable in you, then, to let me engross her horseas I did all last week! I am ashamed of you and of myself,but it shall never happen again.""_Your_ attentiveness and consideration makes me moresensible of my own neglect. Fanny's interest seemsin safer hands with you than with me.""That she should be tired now, however, gives me no surprise;for there is nothing in the course of one's dutiesso fatiguing as what we have been doing this morning:seeing a great house, dawdling from one room to another,straining one's eyes and one's attention, hearing what onedoes not understand, admiring what one does not care for.It is generally allowed to be the greatest bore in the world,and Miss Price has found it so, though she did notknow it.""I shall soon be rested," said Fanny; "to sitin 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 mustgo 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 yourselfthat 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 wouldnot calculate, she would not compare. She would onlysmile and assert. The greatest degree of rationalconsistency could not have been more engaging, and theytalked with mutual satisfaction. At last it was agreedthat they should endeavour to determine the dimensionsof the wood by walking a little more about it. They wouldgo to one end of it, in the line they were then in--for there was a straight green walk along the bottomby the side of the ha-ha--and perhaps turn a little wayin 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 anearnestness which she could not resist, and she was lefton 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.