Chapter XLVI

by Jane Austen

　　As Fanny could not doubt that her answer was conveyinga real disappointment, she was rather in expectation,from her knowledge of Miss Crawford's temper, of beingurged again; and though no second letter arrived for thespace of a week, she had still the same feeling when itdid come.On receiving it, she could instantly decide on itscontaining little writing, and was persuaded of itshaving the air of a letter of haste and business.Its object was unquestionable; and two moments wereenough to start the probability of its being merelyto give her notice that they should be in Portsmouththat very day, and to throw her into all the agitationof doubting what she ought to do in such a case.If two moments, however, can surround with difficulties,a third can disperse them; and before she had openedthe letter, the possibility of Mr. and Miss Crawford'shaving applied to her uncle and obtained his permissionwas giving her ease. This was the letter--"A most scandalous, ill-natured rumour has just reached me,and I write, dear Fanny, to warn you against giving theleast credit to it, should it spread into the country.Depend upon it, there is some mistake, and that a day or twowill clear it up; at any rate, that Henry is blameless,and in spite of a moment's _etourderie_, thinks ofnobody but you. Say not a word of it; hear nothing,surmise nothing, whisper nothing till I write again.I am sure it will be all hushed up, and nothing provedbut Rushworth's folly. If they are gone, I would laymy life they are only gone to Mansfield Park, and Juliawith them. But why would not you let us come for you?I wish you may not repent it.--Yours, etc."Fanny stood aghast. As no scandalous, ill-natured rumourhad reached her, it was impossible for her to understandmuch of this strange letter. She could only perceivethat it must relate to Wimpole Street and Mr. Crawford,and only conjecture that something very imprudent had justoccurred in that quarter to draw the notice of the world,and to excite her jealousy, in Miss Crawford's apprehension,if she heard it. Miss Crawford need not be alarmedfor her. She was only sorry for the parties concernedand for Mansfield, if the report should spread so far;but she hoped it might not. If the Rushworths were gonethemselves to Mansfield, as was to be inferred fromwhat Miss Crawford said, it was not likely that anythingunpleasant should have preceded them, or at least shouldmake any impression.As to Mr. Crawford, she hoped it might give him a knowledgeof his own disposition, convince him that he was not capableof being steadily attached to any one woman in the world,and shame him from persisting any longer in addressing herself.It was very strange! She had begun to think he reallyloved her, and to fancy his affection for her somethingmore than common; and his sister still said that he caredfor nobody else. Yet there must have been some markeddisplay of attentions to her cousin, there must havebeen some strong indiscretion, since her correspondentwas not of a sort to regard a slight one.Very uncomfortable she was, and must continue, till sheheard from Miss Crawford again. It was impossible tobanish the letter from her thoughts, and she could notrelieve herself by speaking of it to any human being.Miss Crawford need not have urged secrecy with so much warmth;she might have trusted to her sense of what was dueto her cousin.The next day came and brought no second letter.Fanny was disappointed. She could still think of littleelse all the morning; but, when her father came backin the afternoon with the daily newspaper as usual,she was so far from expecting any elucidation through sucha channel that the subject was for a moment out of her head.She was deep in other musing. The remembrance of her firstevening in that room, of her father and his newspaper,came across her. No candle was now wanted.The sun was yet an hour and half above the horizon.She felt that she had, indeed, been three months there;and the sun's rays falling strongly into the parlour,instead of cheering, made her still more melancholy,for sunshine appeared to her a totally different thingin a town and in the country. Here, its power was onlya glare: a stifling, sickly glare, serving but to bringforward stains and dirt that might otherwise have slept.There was neither health nor gaiety in sunshine in a town.She sat in a blaze of oppressive heat, in a cloud ofmoving dust, and her eyes could only wander from the walls,marked by her father's head, to the table cut and notchedby her brothers, where stood the tea-board neverthoroughly cleaned, the cups and saucers wiped in streaks,the milk a mixture of motes floating in thin blue,and the bread and butter growing every minute moregreasy than even Rebecca's hands had first produced it.Her father read his newspaper, and her mother lamentedover the ragged carpet as usual, while the tea wasin preparation, and wished Rebecca would mend it;and Fanny was first roused by his calling out to her,after humphing and considering over a particular paragraph:"What's the name of your great cousins in town, Fan?"A moment's recollection enabled her to say, "Rushworth, sir.""And don't they live in Wimpole Street?""Yes, sir.""Then, there's the devil to pay among them, that's all!There" (holding out the paper to her); "much good may suchfine relations do you. I don't know what Sir Thomas maythink of such matters; he may be too much of the courtierand fine gentleman to like his daughter the less. But, by G--! if she belonged to _me_, I'd give her the rope's endas long as I could stand over her. A little flogging forman and woman too would be the best way of preventing such things."Fanny read to herself that "it was with infinite concernthe newspaper had to announce to the world a matrimonial_fracas_ in the family of Mr. R. of Wimpole Street;the beautiful Mrs. R., whose name had not long beenenrolled in the lists of Hymen, and who had promisedto become so brilliant a leader in the fashionable world,having quitted her husband's roof in company with thewell-known and captivating Mr. C., the intimate friendand associate of Mr. R., and it was not known evento the editor of the newspaper whither they were gone.""It is a mistake, sir," said Fanny instantly; "it must bea mistake, it cannot be true; it must mean some other people."She spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame;she spoke with a resolution which sprung from despair,for she spoke what she did not, could not believe herself.It had been the shock of conviction as she read. The truthrushed on her; and how she could have spoken at all, how shecould even have breathed, was afterwards matter of wonderto herself.Mr. Price cared too little about the report to make hermuch answer. "It might be all a lie," he acknowledged;"but so many fine ladies were going to the devil nowadaysthat way, that there was no answering for anybody.""Indeed, I hope it is not true," said Mrs. Price plaintively;"it would be so very shocking! If I have spoken onceto Rebecca about that carpet, I am sure I have spoke atleast a dozen times; have not I, Betsey? And it wouldnot be ten minutes' work."The horror of a mind like Fanny's, as it received theconviction of such guilt, and began to take in some partof the misery that must ensue, can hardly be described.At first, it was a sort of stupefaction; but every momentwas quickening her perception of the horrible evil.She could not doubt, she dared not indulge a hope,of the paragraph being false. Miss Crawford's letter,which she had read so often as to make every line her own,was in frightful conformity with it. Her eager defenceof her brother, her hope of its being _hushed_ _up_,her evident agitation, were all of a piece with somethingvery bad; and if there was a woman of character in existence,who could treat as a trifle this sin of the first magnitude,who would try to gloss it over, and desire to have itunpunished, she could believe Miss Crawford to be the woman!Now she could see her own mistake as to _who_ were gone,or _said_ to be gone. It was not Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth;it was Mrs. Rushworth and Mr. Crawford.Fanny seemed to herself never to have been shocked before.There was no possibility of rest. The evening passedwithout a pause of misery, the night was totally sleepless.She passed only from feelings of sickness to shudderingsof horror; and from hot fits of fever to cold. The eventwas so shocking, that there were moments even when herheart revolted from it as impossible: when she thoughtit could not be. A woman married only six months ago;a man professing himself devoted, even _engaged_ to another;that other her near relation; the whole family,both families connected as they were by tie upon tie;all friends, all intimate together! It was too horriblea confusion of guilt, too gross a complication of evil,for human nature, not in a state of utter barbarism,to be capable of! yet her judgment told her it was so._His_ unsettled affections, wavering with his vanity,_Maria's_ decided attachment, and no sufficient principleon either side, gave it possibility: Miss Crawford'sletter stampt it a fact.What would be the consequence? Whom would it not injure?Whose views might it not affect? Whose peace would itnot cut up for ever? Miss Crawford, herself, Edmund;but it was dangerous, perhaps, to tread such ground.She confined herself, or tried to confine herself, to the simple,indubitable family misery which must envelop all, if it wereindeed a matter of certified guilt and public exposure.The mother's sufferings, the father's; there she paused.Julia's, Tom's, Edmund's; there a yet longer pause.They were the two on whom it would fall most horribly.Sir Thomas's parental solicitude and high sense of honourand decorum, Edmund's upright principles, unsuspicious temper,and genuine strength of feeling, made her think itscarcely possible for them to support life and reasonunder such disgrace; and it appeared to her that, as faras this world alone was concerned, the greatest blessingto every one of kindred with Mrs. Rushworth would beinstant annihilation.Nothing happened the next day, or the next, to weakenher terrors. Two posts came in, and brought no refutation,public or private. There was no second letter to explainaway the first from Miss Crawford; there was no intelligencefrom Mansfield, though it was now full time for herto hear again from her aunt. This was an evil omen.She had, indeed, scarcely the shadow of a hope to sootheher mind, and was reduced to so low and wan and tremblinga condition, as no mother, not unkind, except Mrs. Pricecould have overlooked, when the third day did bring thesickening knock, and a letter was again put into her hands.It bore the London postmark, and came from Edmund."Dear Fanny,--You know our present wretchedness.May God support you under your share! We have been heretwo days, but there is nothing to be done. They cannotbe traced. You may not have heard of the last blow--Julia's elopement; she is gone to Scotland with Yates.She left London a few hours before we entered it.At any other time this would have been felt dreadfully.Now it seems nothing; yet it is an heavy aggravation.My father is not overpowered. More cannot be hoped.He is still able to think and act; and I write,by his desire, to propose your returning home.He is anxious to get you there for my mother's sake.I shall be at Portsmouth the morning after you receive this,and hope to find you ready to set off for Mansfield.My father wishes you to invite Susan to go with you for afew months. Settle it as you like; say what is proper;I am sure you will feel such an instance of hiskindness at such a moment! Do justice to his meaning,however I may confuse it. You may imagine somethingof my present state. There is no end of the evil letloose upon us. You will see me early by the mail.--Yours, etc."Never had Fanny more wanted a cordial. Never had she feltsuch a one as this letter contained. To-morrow! to leavePortsmouth to-morrow! She was, she felt she was, in thegreatest danger of being exquisitely happy, while so manywere miserable. The evil which brought such good to her!She dreaded lest she should learn to be insensible of it.To be going so soon, sent for so kindly, sent for asa comfort, and with leave to take Susan, was altogethersuch a combination of blessings as set her heart ina glow, and for a time seemed to distance every pain,and make her incapable of suitably sharing the distresseven of those whose distress she thought of most.Julia's elopement could affect her comparatively but little;she was amazed and shocked; but it could not occupy her,could not dwell on her mind. She was obliged to callherself to think of it, and acknowledge it to be terribleand grievous, or it was escaping her, in the midst of allthe agitating pressing joyful cares attending this summonsto herself.There is nothing like employment, active indispensable employment,for relieving sorrow. Employment, even melancholy,may dispel melancholy, and her occupations were hopeful.She had so much to do, that not even the horriblestory of Mrs. Rushworth--now fixed to the last pointof certainty could affect her as it had done before.She had not time to be miserable. Within twenty-fourhours she was hoping to be gone; her father and mothermust be spoken to, Susan prepared, everything got ready.Business followed business; the day was hardly long enough.The happiness she was imparting, too, happiness very littlealloyed by the black communication which must brieflyprecede it--the joyful consent of her father and motherto Susan's going with her--the general satisfaction withwhich the going of both seemed regarded, and the ecstasyof Susan herself, was all serving to support her spirits.The affliction of the Bertrams was little felt in the family.Mrs. Price talked of her poor sister for a few minutes,but how to find anything to hold Susan's clothes,because Rebecca took away all the boxes and spoilt them,was much more in her thoughts: and as for Susan,now unexpectedly gratified in the first wish of her heart,and knowing nothing personally of those who had sinned,or of those who were sorrowing--if she could help rejoicingfrom beginning to end, it was as much as ought to be expectedfrom human virtue at fourteen.As nothing was really left for the decision of Mrs. Price,or the good offices of Rebecca, everything was rationallyand duly accomplished, and the girls were ready forthe morrow. The advantage of much sleep to preparethem for their journey was impossible. The cousinwho was travelling towards them could hardly have lessthan visited their agitated spirits--one all happiness,the other all varying and indescribable perturbation.By eight in the morning Edmund was in the house. The girlsheard his entrance from above, and Fanny went down.The idea of immediately seeing him, with the knowledgeof what he must be suffering, brought back all her ownfirst feelings. He so near her, and in misery. She wasready to sink as she entered the parlour. He was alone,and met her instantly; and she found herself pressedto his heart with only these words, just articulate,"My Fanny, my only sister; my only comfort now!"She could say nothing; nor for some minutes could hesay more.He turned away to recover himself, and when he spoke again,though his voice still faltered, his manner shewedthe wish of self-command, and the resolution of avoidingany farther allusion. "Have you breakfasted? When shallyou be ready? Does Susan go?" were questions followingeach other rapidly. His great object was to be offas soon as possible. When Mansfield was considered,time was precious; and the state of his own mind madehim find relief only in motion. It was settled that heshould order the carriage to the door in half an hour.Fanny answered for their having breakfasted and being quiteready in half an hour. He had already ate, and declinedstaying for their meal. He would walk round the ramparts,and join them with the carriage. He was gone again;glad to get away even from Fanny.He looked very ill; evidently suffering underviolent emotions, which he was determined to suppress.She knew it must be so, but it was terrible to her.The carriage came; and he entered the house again atthe same moment, just in time to spend a few minutes withthe family, and be a witness--but that he saw nothing--of the tranquil manner in which the daughters wereparted with, and just in time to prevent their sittingdown to the breakfast-table, which, by dint of muchunusual activity, was quite and completely ready asthe carriage drove from the door. Fanny's last mealin her father's house was in character with her first:she was dismissed from it as hospitably as she had been welcomed.How her heart swelled with joy and gratitude as shepassed the barriers of Portsmouth, and how Susan's facewore its broadest smiles, may be easily conceived.Sitting forwards, however, and screened by her bonnet,those smiles were unseen.The journey was likely to be a silent one. Edmund's deepsighs often reached Fanny. Had he been alone with her,his heart must have opened in spite of every resolution;but Susan's presence drove him quite into himself, and hisattempts to talk on indifferent subjects could never belong supported.Fanny watched him with never-failing solicitude,and sometimes catching his eye, revived an affectionate smile,which comforted her; but the first day's journey passedwithout her hearing a word from him on the subjectsthat were weighing him down. The next morning produceda little more. Just before their setting out from Oxford,while Susan was stationed at a window, in eager observationof the departure of a large family from the inn,the other two were standing by the fire; and Edmund,particularly struck by the alteration in Fanny's looks,and from his ignorance of the daily evils of herfather's house, attributing an undue share of the change,attributing _all_ to the recent event, took her hand,and said in a low, but very expressive tone, "No wonder--you must feel it--you must suffer. How a man who hadonce loved, could desert you! But _yours_--your regardwas new compared with----Fanny, think of _me_!"The first division of their journey occupied a long day,and brought them, almost knocked up, to Oxford;but the second was over at a much earlier hour.They were in the environs of Mansfield long beforethe usual dinner-time, and as they approached thebeloved place, the hearts of both sisters sank a little.Fanny began to dread the meeting with her aunts and Tom,under so dreadful a humiliation; and Susan to feel withsome anxiety, that all her best manners, all her latelyacquired knowledge of what was practised here, was onthe point of being called into action. Visions of goodand ill breeding, of old vulgarisms and new gentilities,were before her; and she was meditating much uponsilver forks, napkins, and finger-glasses. Fanny hadbeen everywhere awake to the difference of the countrysince February; but when they entered the Park herperceptions and her pleasures were of the keenest sort.It was three months, full three months, since herquitting it, and the change was from winter to summer.Her eye fell everywhere on lawns and plantations of thefreshest green; and the trees, though not fully clothed,were in that delightful state when farther beauty is knownto be at hand, and when, while much is actually givento the sight, more yet remains for the imagination.Her enjoyment, however, was for herself alone. Edmund couldnot share it. She looked at him, but he was leaning back,sunk in a deeper gloom than ever, and with eyes closed,as if the view of cheerfulness oppressed him, and thelovely scenes of home must be shut out.It made her melancholy again; and the knowledge of what mustbe enduring there, invested even the house, modern, airy,and well situated as it was, with a melancholy aspect.By one of the suffering party within they were expectedwith such impatience as she had never known before.Fanny had scarcely passed the solemn-looking servants,when Lady Bertram came from the drawing-room to meet her;came with no indolent step; and falling on her neck, said,"Dear Fanny! now I shall be comfortable.