Mansfield Park - Jane Austen (read book TXT) 📗

was languor, and all but solitude.

 

A good night’s rest improved her spirits. She could think of William the next day more cheerfully; and as the morning afforded her an opportunity of talking over Thursday night with Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, in a very handsome style, with all the heightenings of imagination, and all the laughs of playfulness which are so essential to the shade of a departed ball, she could afterwards bring her mind without much effort into its everyday state, and easily conform to the tranquillity of the present quiet week.

 

They were indeed a smaller party than she had ever known there for a whole day together, and he was gone on whom the comfort and cheerfulness of every family meeting and every meal chiefly depended. But this must be learned to be endured. He would soon be always gone; and she was thankful that she could now sit in the same room with her uncle, hear his voice, receive his questions, and even answer them, without such wretched feelings as she had formerly known.

 

“We miss our two young men,” was Sir Thomas’s observation on both the first and second day, as they formed their very reduced circle after dinner; and in consideration of Fanny’s swimming eyes, nothing more was said on the first day than to drink their good health; but on the second it led to something farther.

William was kindly commended and his promotion hoped for.

“And there is no reason to suppose,” added Sir Thomas, “but that his visits to us may now be tolerably frequent.

As to Edmund, we must learn to do without him.

This will be the last winter of his belonging to us, as he has done.”

 

“Yes,” said Lady Bertram, “but I wish he was not going away.

They are all going away, I think. I wish they would stay at home.”

 

This wish was levelled principally at Julia, who had just applied for permission to go to town with Maria; and as Sir Thomas thought it best for each daughter that the permission should be granted, Lady Bertram, though in her own good-nature she would not have prevented it, was lamenting the change it made in the prospect of Julia’s return, which would otherwise have taken place about this time.

A great deal of good sense followed on Sir Thomas’s side, tending to reconcile his wife to the arrangement.

Everything that a considerate parent ought to feel was advanced for her use; and everything that an affectionate mother must feel in promoting her children’s enjoyment was attributed to her nature. Lady Bertram agreed to it all with a calm “Yes”; and at the end of a quarter of an hour’s silent consideration spontaneously observed, “Sir Thomas, I have been thinking—and I am very glad we took Fanny as we did, for now the others are away we feel the good of it.”

 

Sir Thomas immediately improved this compliment by adding, “Very true. We shew Fanny what a good girl we think her by praising her to her face, she is now a very valuable companion. If we have been kind to her, she is now quite as necessary to us.”

 

“Yes,” said Lady Bertram presently; “and it is a comfort to think that we shall always have her.”

 

Sir Thomas paused, half smiled, glanced at his niece, and then gravely replied, “She will never leave us, I hope, till invited to some other home that may reasonably promise her greater happiness than she knows here.”

 

“And that is not very likely to be, Sir Thomas.

Who should invite her? Maria might be very glad to see her at Sotherton now and then, but she would not think of asking her to live there; and I am sure she is better off here; and besides, I cannot do without her.”

 

The week which passed so quietly and peaceably at the great house in Mansfield had a very different character at the Parsonage. To the young lady, at least, in each family, it brought very different feelings. What was tranquillity and comfort to Fanny was tediousness and vexation to Mary.

Something arose from difference of disposition and habit: one so easily satisfied, the other so unused to endure; but still more might be imputed to difference of circumstances. In some points of interest they were exactly opposed to each other. To Fanny’s mind, Edmund’s absence was really, in its cause and its tendency, a relief. To Mary it was every way painful. She felt the want of his society every day, almost every hour, and was too much in want of it to derive anything but irritation from considering the object for which he went.

He could not have devised anything more likely to raise his consequence than this week’s absence, occurring as it did at the very time of her brother’s going away, of William Price’s going too, and completing the sort of general break-up of a party which had been so animated.

She felt it keenly. They were now a miserable trio, confined within doors by a series of rain and snow, with nothing to do and no variety to hope for. Angry as she was with Edmund for adhering to his own notions, and acting on them in defiance of her (and she had been so angry that they had hardly parted friends at the ball), she could not help thinking of him continually when absent, dwelling on his merit and affection, and longing again for the almost daily meetings they lately had. His absence was unnecessarily long. He should not have planned such an absence—he should not have left home for a week, when her own departure from Mansfield was so near.

Then she began to blame herself. She wished she had not spoken so warmly in their last conversation. She was afraid she had used some strong, some contemptuous expressions in speaking of the clergy, and that should not have been.

It was ill-bred; it was wrong. She wished such words unsaid with all her heart.

 

Her vexation did not end with the week. All this was bad, but she had still more to feel when Friday came round again and brought no Edmund; when Saturday came and still no Edmund; and when, through the slight communication with the other family which Sunday produced, she learned that he had actually written home to defer his return, having promised to remain some days longer with his friend.

 

If she had felt impatience and regret before—if she had been sorry for what she said, and feared its too strong effect on him—she now felt and feared it all tenfold more.

She had, moreover, to contend with one disagreeable emotion entirely new to her—jealousy. His friend Mr. Owen had sisters; he might find them attractive. But, at any rate, his staying away at a time when, according to all preceding plans, she was to remove to London, meant something that she could not bear. Had Henry returned, as he talked of doing, at the end of three or four days, she should now have been leaving Mansfield. It became absolutely necessary for her to get to Fanny and try to learn something more.

She could not live any longer in such solitary wretchedness; and she made her way to the Park, through difficulties of walking which she had deemed unconquerable a week before, for the chance of hearing a little in addition, for the sake of at least hearing his name.

 

The first half-hour was lost, for Fanny and Lady Bertram were together, and unless she had Fanny to herself she could hope for nothing. But at last Lady Bertram left the room, and then almost immediately Miss Crawford thus began, with a voice as well regulated as she could—“And how do you like your cousin Edmund’s staying away so long?

Being the only young person at home, I consider you

as the greatest sufferer. You must miss him. Does his staying longer surprise you?”

 

“I do not know,” said Fanny hesitatingly. “Yes; I had not particularly expected it.”

 

“Perhaps he will always stay longer than he talks of.

It is the general way all young men do.”

 

“He did not, the only time he went to see Mr. Owen before.”

 

“He finds the house more agreeable now. He is a very—

a very pleasing young man himself, and I cannot help being rather concerned at not seeing him again before I go to London, as will now undoubtedly be the case.

I am looking for Henry every day, and as soon as he comes there will be nothing to detain me at Mansfield.

I should like to have seen him once more, I confess.

But you must give my compliments to him. Yes; I think it must be compliments. Is not there a something wanted, Miss Price, in our language—a something between compliments and—

and love—to suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have had together? So many months’ acquaintance! But compliments may be sufficient here. Was his letter a long one?

Does he give you much account of what he is doing?

Is it Christmas gaieties that he is staying for?”

 

“I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle; but I believe it was very short; indeed I am sure it was but a few lines. All that I heard was that his friend had pressed him to stay longer, and that he had agreed to do so. A few days longer, or some days longer; I am not quite sure which.”

 

“Oh! if he wrote to his father; but I thought it might have been to Lady Bertram or you. But if he wrote to his father, no wonder he was concise. Who could write chat to Sir Thomas? If he had written to you, there would have been more particulars. You would have heard of balls and parties. He would have sent you a description of everything and everybody. How many Miss Owens are there?”

 

“Three grown up.”

 

“Are they musical?”

 

“I do not at all know. I never heard.”

 

“That is the first question, you know,” said Miss Crawford, trying to appear gay and unconcerned, “which every woman who plays herself is sure to ask about another.

But it is very foolish to ask questions about any young ladies—about any three sisters just grown up; for one knows, without being told, exactly what they are: all very accomplished and pleasing, and one very pretty.

There is a beauty in every family; it is a regular thing.

Two play on the pianoforte, and one on the harp; and all sing, or would sing if they were taught, or sing all the better for not being taught; or something like it.”

 

“I know nothing of the Miss Owens,” said Fanny calmly.

 

“You know nothing and you care less, as people say.

Never did tone express indifference plainer. Indeed, how can one care for those one has never seen? Well, when your cousin comes back, he will find Mansfield very quiet; all the noisy ones gone, your brother and mine and myself I do not like the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant now the time draws near. She does not like my going.”

 

Fanny felt obliged to speak. “You cannot doubt your being missed by many,” said she. “You will be very much missed.”

 

Miss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if wanting to hear or see more, and then laughingly said, “Oh yes! missed as every noisy evil is missed when it is taken away; that is, there is a great difference felt. But I am not fishing; don’t compliment me. If I am missed, it