Jane Austen's Mansfield Park: Abridged

by Emma Laybourn

"Well, Fanny, how do you like Miss Crawford?" said Edmund the next day.

  "Very well. I like to hear her talk; and she is so extremely pretty, that I have great pleasure in looking at her."

  "She has a wonderful play of feature! But was there nothing in her conversation that struck you, Fanny, as not quite right?"

  "Oh yes! she ought not to have spoken of her uncle as she did. An uncle with whom she has been living so many years, and who, whatever his faults, is so fond of her brother. I could not have believed it!"

  "I thought you would be struck. It was very wrong."

  "And ungrateful, I think."

  "Ungrateful is a strong word. I do not know that her uncle has any claim to her gratitude; it is respect for her aunt's memory which misleads her. It must be difficult to do justice to her affection for Mrs. Crawford, without accusing the Admiral. I do not pretend to know which was most to blame in their disagreements, though the Admiral's present conduct might incline one to the side of his wife; but it is natural that Miss Crawford should acquit her aunt. However, there is certainly impropriety in making her opinions public. It makes one aware of the disadvantages she has been under. But I think her present home must do her good. She speaks of her brother with very pleasing affection."

  "Yes, except as to his writing such short letters. She made me almost laugh; but what right had she to suppose that you would not write long letters?"

  "The right of a lively mind, Fanny, seizing whatever may amuse it; perfectly allowable, when untinctured by ill-humour or roughness; and there is not a shadow of either in Miss Crawford’s manner. She is perfectly feminine, except in the instances we have been speaking of. There she cannot be justified. I am glad you saw it all as I did."

  Having formed her mind, he had a good chance of her thinking like him; though on this subject, there began now to be some danger of dissimilarity, for he was in a line of admiration of Miss Crawford, where Fanny could not follow.

  Miss Crawford's attractions did not lessen. The harp arrived, and added to her beauty, wit, and good-humour; for she played with expression and taste, and there was something clever to be said at the close of every air. Edmund was daily at the Parsonage, to be indulged with his favourite instrument: each morning secured an invitation for the next.

  A young woman, pretty, lively, with a harp as elegant as herself, placed near a window that opened on a little lawn, surrounded by the rich foliage of summer, was enough to catch any man's heart. Edmund was beginning to be a good deal in love; and to the lady’s credit it may be added that, without his being an elder brother, and without any of the arts of flattery, he began to be agreeable to her. She had not foreseen this, and could hardly understand it; for he was not pleasant by any common rule: he talked no nonsense; he paid no compliments; his opinions were unbending, his attentions tranquil. There was a charm, perhaps, in his sincerity, his steadiness, his integrity. She did not think very much about it, however: he pleased her for the present; it was enough.

  Fanny could not wonder that Edmund was at the Parsonage every morning; she too would gladly have gone to hear the harp; neither could she wonder that after their evening stroll he should think it right to attend Mrs. Grant and her sister to their home, while Mr. Crawford was devoted to the ladies of the Park; but she thought it a very bad exchange. She was surprised that he could spend so many hours with Miss Crawford, and not see more of the sort of fault which he had already observed; but so it was.

  The first actual pain which Miss Crawford caused her was the consequence of a wish to learn to ride. Edward encouraged it, and offered his own quiet mare for her first attempts, as the best fitted for a beginner. He meant no injury to Fanny in this offer: she was not to lose a day's exercise. The mare was only to be taken down to the Parsonage half an hour before her ride were to begin; and Fanny, so far from feeling slighted, was almost over-powered with gratitude that he should be asking her leave.

  Miss Crawford made her first attempt with great credit to herself, and no inconvenience to Fanny. Edmund returned with the mare in excellent time, before either Fanny or the steady old coachman who attended her were ready to set forward.

  The second day's trial was not so guiltless. Miss Crawford's enjoyment was such that she did not know how to leave off. Active and fearless, and though small, strongly made, she seemed formed for a horsewoman; and to the pleasure of the exercise, something was probably added in Edmund's attendance, and the conviction of surpassing her sex by her early progress, to make her unwilling to dismount. Fanny was waiting, and Mrs. Norris was beginning to scold her for not being gone, and still no horse was announced. To avoid her aunt, and look for Edward, she went out.

  The houses, though scarcely half a mile apart, were not within sight of each other; but, by walking fifty yards from the hall door, she could command a view of the Parsonage and its surroundings; and she immediately saw the group—Edmund and Miss Crawford both on horse-back, riding side by side, Dr. and Mrs. Grant, and Mr. Crawford, with the grooms, looking on. A happy party it appeared: for the sound of merriment ascended to her. She wondered that Edmund should forget her, and felt a pang. Miss Crawford and her companion made the circuit of the field; then, at her apparent suggestion, they rose into a canter; and to Fanny's timid nature it was astonishing to see how well she sat.

  After a few minutes they stopped. Edmund was close to her; he was speaking to her, evidently directing her management of the bridle; he had hold of her hand; she saw it, or the imagination supplied what the eye could not reach. She must not wonder at all this; what could be more natural than that Edmund should make himself useful? It would have been becoming in Miss Crawford’s brother to assist her; but Mr. Crawford was not as kind as Edmund.

  Her feelings were eased by seeing the party in the meadow disperse. Miss Crawford, still on horseback, with Edmund on foot, passed into the park, and came towards the spot where she stood. Fanny began then to be afraid of appearing rude and impatient; and walked to meet them.

  "My dear Miss Price," said Miss Crawford, "I apologise for keeping you waiting—I knew it was late, and that I was behaving extremely ill; if you please, you must forgive me."

  Fanny's answer was extremely civil, and Edmund added his conviction that she could be in no hurry. "For there is time enough for my cousin to ride twice as far as she ever goes," said he, "and you have prevented her from setting off when it was too hot for comfort: clouds are now coming up, and she will not suffer from the heat. I wish you may not be fatigued by so much exercise."

  "Nothing ever fatigues me but doing what I do not like," said she, as she sprang down with his help; "Miss Price, I give way to you with a bad grace; but I hope you will have a pleasant ride on this beautiful animal."

  The old coachman now joining them, Fanny was lifted on her horse, and they set off; her discomfort not lightened by seeing that the others were walking together to the village; nor did her attendant do her much good by his comments on Miss Crawford's great cleverness as a horse-woman.

  "It is a pleasure to see a lady with such a good heart for riding!" said he. "She did not have a thought of fear. Very different from you, miss, when you first began. Lord bless you! how you did tremble!"

  In the drawing-room Miss Crawford was also praised by the Miss Bertrams; her delight in riding, and her early excellence, were like their own.

  "I was sure she would ride well," said Julia. "Her figure is as neat as her brother's."

  "Yes," added Maria, "and her spirits are as good. I think that good horsemanship has a great deal to do with the mind."

  When they parted at night Edmund asked Fanny whether she meant to ride the next day.

  "No, I do not know—not if you want the mare."

  "I do not want her for myself," said he; "but whenever you are next inclined to stay at home, I think Miss Crawford would be glad to have her for a morning. She has a desire to get as far as Mansfield Common, and I have no doubt of her being equal to it. But any morning will do. She would be extremely sorr
y to interfere with you. It would be very wrong if she did. She rides only for pleasure; you for health."

  "I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly," said Fanny; "I have been out often lately, and would rather stay at home. I am strong enough now to walk very well."

  Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's comfort, and the ride to Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed. A successful scheme of this sort generally brings on another; and they all wished to go somewhere else the day after. Four fine mornings successively were spent in this manner, in showing the Crawfords the country’s finest spots. It was all gaiety and good-humour—till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of the party was exceedingly clouded.

  Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and she was excluded. It was done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good-humour, on account of Mr. Rushworth, who was expected at the Park that day; but it was felt as a grievous injury, and Maria could barely conceal her anger till she reached home. As Mr. Rushworth did not come, the injury was increased; she could only be sullen, and throw as great a gloom as possible over dinner.

  Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris said little. Edmund, looking around, said, "Where is Fanny? Is she gone to bed?"

  "Not that I know of," replied Mrs. Norris; "she was here a moment ago."

  Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room told them that she was on the sofa. Mrs. Norris began scolding.

  "That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling upon a sofa. Why cannot you come and sit here, and employ yourself? If you have no work, I can supply you from the poor basket. There is the new calico, that was bought last week, not touched yet. I am sure I almost broke my back cutting it out. You should learn to think of other people. It is a shocking trick for a young person to be always lolling upon a sofa."

  Before half of this was said, Fanny had returned to the table and taken up her work; and Julia, who was in high good-humour, did her the justice of exclaiming, "I must say, ma'am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa as anybody in the house."

  "Fanny," said Edmund, looking at her attentively, "I am sure you have the headache."

  She could not deny it, but said it was not very bad.

  "I can hardly believe you," he replied; "I know your looks too well. How long have you had it?"

  "Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat."

  "Did you go out in the heat?"

  "To be sure she did," said Mrs. Norris: "would you have her stay within on such a fine day? Even your mother was out to-day."

  "Yes, indeed, Edmund," added her ladyship. "I sat in the flower-garden, while Fanny cut the roses; and very pleasant it was, but very hot."

  "Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?"

  "Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year. Poor thing! She found it hot enough; but they were so full-blown that one could not wait."

  "There was no help for it," rejoined Mrs. Norris, in a rather softened voice; "There is nothing so likely to give one a headache as standing in a hot sun; but I dare say it will be well to-morrow. Suppose you let her have your aromatic vinegar."

  "She has had it since she came back from your house the second time," said Lady Bertram.

  "What!" cried Edmund; "has she been walking twice across the hot park, ma'am? No wonder her head aches."

  "I was afraid it would be too much for her," said Lady Bertram; "but your aunt wished to have the roses."

  "Were there roses enough to oblige her to go twice?"

  "No; but they were to be put into the spare room to dry; and, unluckily, Fanny forgot to lock the room and bring away the key, so she was obliged to go again."

  Edmund got up and walked about, saying, "And could nobody be employed on such an errand but Fanny? Upon my word, ma'am, it has been very ill-managed."

  "I do not know how it was to have been done better," cried Mrs. Norris, "unless I had gone myself; but I cannot be in two places at once; and I was talking to Mr. Green at that very time about your mother's dairymaid. Really I cannot do everything at once. And as for Fanny's just stepping down to my house—it is not much above a quarter of a mile. How often do I pace it three times a day, and in all weathers too?"

  "I wish Fanny had half your strength, ma'am."

  "If Fanny would be more regular in her exercise, she would not be knocked up so soon. She has not been out on horseback this long while, and I am persuaded that, when she does not ride, she ought to walk. But I thought it would do her good after stooping among the roses; between ourselves, Edmund, it was cutting the roses that did the mischief."

  "I am afraid it was, indeed," said the candid Lady Bertram; "The heat was enough to kill anybody. Sitting and calling to Pug was almost too much for me."

  Edmund said no more; but going quietly to the supper-tray, brought a glass of Madeira to Fanny, and obliged her to drink. She wished to decline it; but her tears made it easier to swallow than to speak.

  Vexed as Edmund was with his mother and aunt, he was still more angry with himself. Fanny had been left without any exercise, and without any excuse for avoiding whatever her unreasonable aunts might require. He was ashamed to think that for four days she had not been able to ride, and resolved that it should never happen again.

  Fanny went to bed with her heart full. She had been struggling against discontent and envy for some days. As she leant on the sofa, the pain of her mind had been much beyond that in her head; and the sudden change which Edmund's kindness had then occasioned, made her hardly know how to support herself.

  CHAPTER 8