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<h2> CHAPTER XLVI </h2>
<p>As Fanny could not doubt that her answer was conveying a real
disappointment, she was rather in expectation, from her knowledge of Miss
Crawford's temper, of being urged again; and though no second letter
arrived for the space of a week, she had still the same feeling when it
did come.</p>
<p>On receiving it, she could instantly decide on its containing little
writing, and was persuaded of its having the air of a letter of haste and
business. Its object was unquestionable; and two moments were enough to
start the probability of its being merely to give her notice that they
should be in Portsmouth that very day, and to throw her into all the
agitation of 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 opened the letter, the possibility of Mr. and Miss
Crawford's having applied to her uncle and obtained his permission was
giving her ease. This was the letter—</p>
<p>"A most scandalous, ill-natured rumour has just reached me, and I write,
dear Fanny, to warn you against giving the least credit to it, should it
spread into the country. Depend upon it, there is some mistake, and that a
day or two will clear it up; at any rate, that Henry is blameless, and in
spite of a moment's <i>etourderie</i>, thinks of nobody 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 proved but
Rushworth's folly. If they are gone, I would lay my life they are only
gone to Mansfield Park, and Julia with them. But why would not you let us
come for you? I wish you may not repent it.—Yours, etc."</p>
<p>Fanny stood aghast. As no scandalous, ill-natured rumour had reached her,
it was impossible for her to understand much of this strange letter. She
could only perceive that it must relate to Wimpole Street and Mr.
Crawford, and only conjecture that something very imprudent had just
occurred 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 alarmed for her. She was only sorry for the parties
concerned and for Mansfield, if the report should spread so far; but she
hoped it might not. If the Rushworths were gone themselves to Mansfield,
as was to be inferred from what Miss Crawford said, it was not likely that
anything unpleasant should have preceded them, or at least should make any
impression.</p>
<p>As to Mr. Crawford, she hoped it might give him a knowledge of his own
disposition, convince him that he was not capable of being steadily
attached to any one woman in the world, and shame him from persisting any
longer in addressing herself.</p>
<p>It was very strange! She had begun to think he really loved her, and to
fancy his affection for her something more than common; and his sister
still said that he cared for nobody else. Yet there must have been some
marked display of attentions to her cousin, there must have been some
strong indiscretion, since her correspondent was not of a sort to regard a
slight one.</p>
<p>Very uncomfortable she was, and must continue, till she heard from Miss
Crawford again. It was impossible to banish the letter from her thoughts,
and she could not relieve 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 due to her cousin.</p>
<p>The next day came and brought no second letter. Fanny was disappointed.
She could still think of little else all the morning; but, when her father
came back in the afternoon with the daily newspaper as usual, she was so
far from expecting any elucidation through such a channel that the subject
was for a moment out of her head.</p>
<p>She was deep in other musing. The remembrance of her first evening 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 thing in a
town and in the country. Here, its power was only a glare: a stifling,
sickly glare, serving but to bring forward 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 of moving dust,
and her eyes could only wander from the walls, marked by her father's
head, to the table cut and notched by her brothers, where stood the
tea-board never thoroughly 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 more greasy than even Rebecca's hands had
first produced it. Her father read his newspaper, and her mother lamented
over the ragged carpet as usual, while the tea was in 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?"</p>
<p>A moment's recollection enabled her to say, "Rushworth, sir."</p>
<p>"And don't they live in Wimpole Street?"</p>
<p>"Yes, sir."</p>
<p>"Then, there's the devil to pay among them, that's all! There" (holding
out the paper to her); "much good may such fine relations do you. I don't
know what Sir Thomas may think of such matters; he may be too much of the
courtier and fine gentleman to like his daughter the less. But, by G—!
if she belonged to <i>me</i>, I'd give her the rope's end as long as I
could stand over her. A little flogging for man and woman too would be the
best way of preventing such things."</p>
<p>Fanny read to herself that "it was with infinite concern the newspaper had
to announce to the world a matrimonial <i>fracas</i> in the family of Mr.
R. of Wimpole Street; the beautiful Mrs. R., whose name had not long been
enrolled in the lists of Hymen, and who had promised to become so
brilliant a leader in the fashionable world, having quitted her husband's
roof in company with the well-known and captivating Mr. C., the intimate
friend and associate of Mr. R., and it was not known even to the editor of
the newspaper whither they were gone."</p>
<p>"It is a mistake, sir," said Fanny instantly; "it must be a mistake, it
cannot be true; it must mean some other people."</p>
<p>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 truth rushed on her; and how she could have spoken at all, how
she could even have breathed, was afterwards matter of wonder to herself.</p>
<p>Mr. Price cared too little about the report to make her much answer. "It
might be all a lie," he acknowledged; "but so many fine ladies were going
to the devil nowadays that way, that there was no answering for anybody."</p>
<p>"Indeed, I hope it is not true," said Mrs. Price plaintively; "it would be
so very shocking! If I have spoken once to Rebecca about that carpet, I am
sure I have spoke at least a dozen times; have not I, Betsey? And it would
not be ten minutes' work."</p>
<p>The horror of a mind like Fanny's, as it received the conviction of such
guilt, and began to take in some part of the misery that must ensue, can
hardly be described. At first, it was a sort of stupefaction; but every
moment was 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 defence of her
brother, her hope of its being <i>hushed</i> <i>up</i>, her evident
agitation, were all of a piece with something very 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 it
unpunished, she could believe Miss Crawford to be the woman! Now she could
see her own mistake as to <i>who</i> were gone, or <i>said</i> to be gone.
It was not Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth; it was Mrs. Rushworth and Mr. Crawford.</p>
<p>Fanny seemed to herself never to have been shocked before. There was no
possibility of rest. The evening passed without a pause of misery, the
night was totally sleepless. She passed only from feelings of sickness to
shudderings of horror; and from hot fits of fever to cold. The event was
so shocking, that there were moments even when her heart revolted from it
as impossible: when she thought it could not be. A woman married only six
months ago; a man professing himself devoted, even <i>engaged</i> 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 horrible a 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. <i>His</i>
unsettled affections, wavering with his vanity, <i>Maria's</i> decided
attachment, and no sufficient principle on either side, gave it
possibility: Miss Crawford's letter stampt it a fact.</p>
<p>What would be the consequence? Whom would it not injure? Whose views might
it not affect? Whose peace would it not 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 were indeed 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 honour and decorum, Edmund's upright
principles, unsuspicious temper, and genuine strength of feeling, made her
think it scarcely possible for them to support life and reason under such
disgrace; and it appeared to her that, as far as this world alone was
concerned, the greatest blessing to every one of kindred with Mrs.
Rushworth would be instant annihilation.</p>
<p>Nothing happened the next day, or the next, to weaken her terrors. Two
posts came in, and brought no refutation, public or private. There was no
second letter to explain away the first from Miss Crawford; there was no
intelligence from Mansfield, though it was now full time for her to hear
again from her aunt. This was an evil omen. She had, indeed, scarcely the
shadow of a hope to soothe her mind, and was reduced to so low and wan and
trembling a condition, as no mother, not unkind, except Mrs. Price could
have overlooked, when the third day did bring the sickening knock, and a
letter was again put into her hands. It bore the London postmark, and came
from Edmund.</p>
<p>"Dear Fanny,—You know our present wretchedness. May God support you
under your share! We have been here two days, but there is nothing to be
done. They cannot be 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 a
few months. Settle it as you like; say what is proper; I am sure you will
feel such an instance of his kindness at such a moment! Do justice to his
meaning, however I may confuse it. You may imagine something of my present
state. There is no end of the evil let loose upon us. You will see me
early by the mail.—Yours, etc."</p>
<p>Never had Fanny more wanted a cordial. Never had she felt such a one as
this letter contained. To-morrow! to leave Portsmouth to-morrow! She was,
she felt she was, in the greatest danger of being exquisitely happy, while
so many were 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 as a comfort, and with leave to take Susan,
was altogether such a combination of blessings as set her heart in a glow,
and for a time seemed to distance every pain, and make her incapable of
suitably sharing the distress even 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 call herself to think of it, and acknowledge it
to be terrible and grievous, or it was escaping her, in the midst of all
the agitating pressing joyful cares attending this summons to herself.</p>
<p>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
horrible story of Mrs. Rushworth—now fixed to the last point of
certainty could affect her as it had done before. She had not time to be
miserable. Within twenty-four hours she was hoping to be gone; her father
and mother must 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 little alloyed by the black
communication which must briefly precede it—the joyful consent of
her father and mother to Susan's going with her—the general
satisfaction with which the going of both seemed regarded, and the ecstasy
of Susan herself, was all serving to support her spirits.</p>
<p>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 rejoicing from beginning to end, it was as much as ought to be
expected from human virtue at fourteen.</p>
<p>As nothing was really left for the decision of Mrs. Price, or the good
offices of Rebecca, everything was rationally and duly accomplished, and
the girls were ready for the morrow. The advantage of much sleep to
prepare them for their journey was impossible. The cousin who was
travelling towards them could hardly have less than visited their agitated
spirits—one all happiness, the other all varying and indescribable
perturbation.</p>
<p>By eight in the morning Edmund was in the house. The girls heard his
entrance from above, and Fanny went down. The idea of immediately seeing
him, with the knowledge of what he must be suffering, brought back all her
own first feelings. He so near her, and in misery. She was ready to sink
as she entered the parlour. He was alone, and met her instantly; and she
found herself pressed to 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 he say more.</p>
<p>He turned away to recover himself, and when he spoke again, though his
voice still faltered, his manner shewed the wish of self-command, and the
resolution of avoiding any farther allusion. "Have you breakfasted? When
shall you be ready? Does Susan go?" were questions following each other
rapidly. His great object was to be off as soon as possible. When
Mansfield was considered, time was precious; and the state of his own mind
made him find relief only in motion. It was settled that he should order
the carriage to the door in half an hour. Fanny answered for their having
breakfasted and being quite ready in half an hour. He had already ate, and
declined staying 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.</p>
<p>He looked very ill; evidently suffering under violent emotions, which he
was determined to suppress. She knew it must be so, but it was terrible to
her.</p>
<p>The carriage came; and he entered the house again at the same moment, just
in time to spend a few minutes with the family, and be a witness—but
that he saw nothing—of the tranquil manner in which the daughters
were parted with, and just in time to prevent their sitting down to the
breakfast-table, which, by dint of much unusual activity, was quite and
completely ready as the carriage drove from the door. Fanny's last meal in
her father's house was in character with her first: she was dismissed from
it as hospitably as she had been welcomed.</p>
<p>How her heart swelled with joy and gratitude as she passed the barriers of
Portsmouth, and how Susan's face wore its broadest smiles, may be easily
conceived. Sitting forwards, however, and screened by her bonnet, those
smiles were unseen.</p>
<p>The journey was likely to be a silent one. Edmund's deep sighs 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 his attempts to talk on indifferent subjects could never be
long supported.</p>
<p>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 passed without her hearing a word from him on the subjects
that were weighing him down. The next morning produced a little more. Just
before their setting out from Oxford, while Susan was stationed at a
window, in eager observation of 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 her father's house, attributing an undue share of the
change, attributing <i>all</i> 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 had once loved, could desert you! But <i>yours</i>—your
regard was new compared with——Fanny, think of <i>me</i>!"</p>
<p>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 before the usual
dinner-time, and as they approached the beloved 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 with some anxiety,
that all her best manners, all her lately acquired knowledge of what was
practised here, was on the point of being called into action. Visions of
good and ill breeding, of old vulgarisms and new gentilities, were before
her; and she was meditating much upon silver forks, napkins, and
finger-glasses. Fanny had been everywhere awake to the difference of the
country since February; but when they entered the Park her perceptions and
her pleasures were of the keenest sort. It was three months, full three
months, since her quitting it, and the change was from winter to summer.
Her eye fell everywhere on lawns and plantations of the freshest green;
and the trees, though not fully clothed, were in that delightful state
when farther beauty is known to be at hand, and when, while much is
actually given to the sight, more yet remains for the imagination. Her
enjoyment, however, was for herself alone. Edmund could not 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
the lovely scenes of home must be shut out.</p>
<p>It made her melancholy again; and the knowledge of what must be enduring
there, invested even the house, modern, airy, and well situated as it was,
with a melancholy aspect.</p>
<p>By one of the suffering party within they were expected with 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."</p>
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