Chapter XLII

by Jane Austen

　　The Prices were just setting off for church the next daywhen Mr. Crawford appeared again. He came, not to stop,but to join them; he was asked to go with them to theGarrison chapel, which was exactly what he had intended,and they all walked thither together.The family were now seen to advantage. Nature had giventhem no inconsiderable share of beauty, and every Sundaydressed them in their cleanest skins and best attire.Sunday always brought this comfort to Fanny, and on thisSunday she felt it more than ever. Her poor mother nowdid not look so very unworthy of being Lady Bertram'ssister as she was but too apt to look. It often grievedher 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 Sundaymade her a very creditable and tolerably cheerful-lookingMrs. Price, coming abroad with a fine family of children,feeling a little respite of her weekly cares, and onlydiscomposed if she saw her boys run into danger, or Rebeccapass by with a flower in her hat.In chapel they were obliged to divide, but Mr. Crawfordtook care not to be divided from the female branch;and after chapel he still continued with them, and madeone in the family party on the ramparts.Mrs. Price took her weekly walk on the ramparts everyfine Sunday throughout the year, always going directlyafter morning service and staying till dinner-time. Itwas her public place: there she met her acquaintance,heard a little news, talked over the badness of thePortsmouth servants, and wound up her spirits for the sixdays ensuing.Thither they now went; Mr. Crawford most happy to considerthe Miss Prices as his peculiar charge; and before theyhad been there long, somehow or other, there was nosaying how, Fanny could not have believed it, but hewas 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 therewere enjoyments in the day and in the view which wouldbe 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 influenceof such a sky, the effects of the shadows pursuing eachother 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 withso fine a sound, produced altogether such a combinationof charms for Fanny, as made her gradually almost carelessof the circumstances under which she felt them. Nay, had shebeen without his arm, she would soon have known that sheneeded 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 beginningto feel the effect of being debarred from her usualregular exercise; she had lost ground as to healthsince her being in Portsmouth; and but for Mr. Crawfordand the beauty of the weather would soon have been knockedup now.The loveliness of the day, and of the view, he feltlike herself. They often stopt with the same sentimentand 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 opento the charms of nature, and very well able to expresshis admiration. She had a few tender reveries now and then,which he could sometimes take advantage of to look in herface without detection; and the result of these looks was,that though as bewitching as ever, her face was lessblooming than it ought to be. She _said_ she wasvery well, and did not like to be supposed otherwise;but take it all in all, he was convinced that her presentresidence could not be comfortable, and therefore couldnot be salutary for her, and he was growing anxious forher 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-morrowsince I left Mansfield.""You are a most accurate and honest reckoner. I shouldcall 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 itwill not be less.""And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who comesfor you?""I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yetfrom my aunt. Perhaps I may be to stay longer.It may not be convenient for me to be fetched exactlyat the two months' end."After a moment's reflection, Mr. Crawford replied,"I know Mansfield, I know its way, I know its faultstowards _you_. I know the danger of your being sofar forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to theimaginary 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 involvingthe slightest alteration of the arrangements which hemay 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 consideringyour 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 heras 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 airand liberty of the country. If, therefore" (turning againto Fanny), "you find yourself growing unwell, and anydifficulties 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 comfortablethan usual, and will only let my sister know it, give heronly the slightest hint, she and I will immediatelycome down, and take you back to Mansfield. You knowthe 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 anytendency to indisposition. Indeed, you shall _not_;it shall not be in your power; for so long only as youpositively say, in every letter to Mary, 'I am well,'and I know you cannot speak or write a falsehood, so longonly shall you be considered as well."Fanny thanked him again, but was affected and distressedto 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 attendedthem to the last, and left them only at the door of theirown house, when he knew them to be going to dinner,and therefore pretended to be waited for elsewhere."I wish you were not so tired," said he, still detainingFanny after all the others were in the house--"I wish Ileft you in stronger health. Is there anything I cando for you in town? I have half an idea of going intoNorfolk again soon. I am not satisfied about Maddison.I am sure he still means to impose on me if possible,and get a cousin of his own into a certain mill, which Idesign for somebody else. I must come to an understandingwith him. I must make him know that I will not betricked on the south side of Everingham, any more than onthe north: that I will be master of my own property.I was not explicit enough with him before. The mischiefsuch a man does on an estate, both as to the credit of hisemployer and the welfare of the poor, is inconceivable.I have a great mind to go back into Norfolk directly,and put everything at once on such a footing as cannotbe afterwards swerved from. Maddison is a clever fellow;I do not wish to displace him, provided he does not tryto displace _me_; but it would be simple to be dupedby a man who has no right of creditor to dupe me,and worse than simple to let him give me a hard-hearted,griping fellow for a tenant, instead of an honest man,to whom I have given half a promise already. Would it notbe worse than simple? Shall I go? Do you advise it?""I advise! You know very well what is right.""Yes. When you give me your opinion, I always knowwhat is right. Your judgment is my rule of right.""Oh, no! do not say so. We have all a better guidein ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other personcan be. Good-bye; I wish you a pleasant journey to-morrow.""Is there nothing I can do for you in town?""Nothing; I am much obliged to you.""Have you no message for anybody?""My love to your sister, if you please; and when you seemy cousin, my cousin Edmund, I wish you would be so goodas to say that I suppose I shall soon hear from him.""Certainly; and if he is lazy or negligent, I will writehis excuses myself."He could say no more, for Fanny would be no longer detained.He pressed her hand, looked at her, and was gone._He_ went to while away the next three hours as he could,with his other acquaintance, till the best dinner thata capital inn afforded was ready for their enjoyment,and _she_ turned in to her more simple one immediately.Their general fare bore a very different character;and could he have suspected how many privations, besides thatof exercise, she endured in her father's house, he wouldhave wondered that her looks were not much more affectedthan he found them. She was so little equal to Rebecca'spuddings and Rebecca's hashes, brought to table, as theyall were, with such accompaniments of half-cleaned plates,and not half-cleaned knives and forks, that she was veryoften constrained to defer her heartiest meal till she couldsend her brothers in the evening for biscuits and buns.After being nursed up at Mansfield, it was too late in theday to be hardened at Portsmouth; and though Sir Thomas,had he known all, might have thought his niece in themost promising way of being starved, both mind and body,into a much juster value for Mr. Crawford's good companyand good fortune, he would probably have feared to pushhis experiment farther, lest she might die under the cure.Fanny was out of spirits all the rest of the day.Though tolerably secure of not seeing Mr. Crawford again,she could not help being low. It was parting with somebodyof the nature of a friend; and though, in one light,glad to have him gone, it seemed as if she was nowdeserted by everybody; it was a sort of renewed separationfrom Mansfield; and she could not think of his returningto town, and being frequently with Mary and Edmund,without feelings so near akin to envy as made her hateherself for having them.Her dejection had no abatement from anything passingaround her; a friend or two of her father's, as alwayshappened if he was not with them, spent the long,long evening there; and from six o'clock till half-past nine,there was little intermission of noise or grog. She wasvery low. The wonderful improvement which she stillfancied in Mr. Crawford was the nearest to administeringcomfort of anything within the current of her thoughts.Not considering in how different a circle she had beenjust seeing him, nor how much might be owing to contrast,she was quite persuaded of his being astonishinglymore gentle and regardful of others than formerly.And, if in little things, must it not be so in great?So anxious for her health and comfort, so very feelingas he now expressed himself, and really seemed, might notit be fairly supposed that he would not much longerpersevere in a suit so distressing to her?