Jane Austen's Mansfield Park: Abridged

by Emma Laybourn

The breakfast was soon over; the last kiss was given, and William was gone. Mr. Crawford had been very punctual, and short and pleasant had been the meal.

  Fanny walked back to the breakfast-room with a very saddened heart; and there her uncle kindly left her to cry in peace, conceiving, perhaps, that the cold pork bones in William's plate might but divide her feelings with the broken egg-shells in Mr. Crawford's. She sat and cried as her uncle intended, but for her brother only. William was gone, and she felt as if she had wasted half his visit in idle cares.

  It was a heavy, melancholy day. Edmund bade them good-bye for a week, and mounted his horse for Peterborough, and then all were gone. Nothing remained of last night but remembrances, which she had nobody to share in. She talked to her aunt Bertram, but it was heavy work. Lady Bertram was not certain of anybody's dress or anybody's place at supper but her own. Much of her conversation was a languid, "Yes, very well; did you? did he? I did not see that; I should not know one from the other." This was very bad. It was only better than Mrs. Norris's sharp answers would have been; but she was gone home with the leftover jellies to nurse a sick maid.

  The evening was heavy like the day. "I cannot think what is the matter with me," said Lady Bertram. "I feel quite stupid. It must be sitting up so late last night. Fanny, you must do something to keep me awake. Fetch the cards; I feel so very stupid."

  The cards were brought, and Fanny played at cribbage with her aunt till bedtime; and as Sir Thomas was reading to himself, no sounds were heard in the room for the next two hours beyond the reckonings of the game—"And that makes thirty-one; four in hand and eight in crib. You are to deal, ma'am; shall I deal for you?" Fanny thought of the difference which twenty-four hours had made. Last night it had been bustle and motion, noise and brilliancy, everywhere. Now it was languor, and all but solitude.

  A good night's rest improved her spirits. She could think of William more cheerfully; and as she was able to talk over Thursday night with Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, with all the playfulness so essential to the shade of a departed ball, she could afterwards bring her mind back to its everyday tranquillity.

  They were a small party now, with Edmund gone. But she must learn to endure this. He would soon be always gone; and she was thankful that she could now sit in the same room with her uncle and answer his questions without such wretched feelings as formerly.

  "We miss our two young men," observed Sir Thomas on the first day; and seeing Fanny's swimming eyes, said nothing more than to drink their good health; but on the second day, William was kindly commended and his promotion hoped for.

  "His visits to us may now be more frequent,” said Sir Thomas. “As to Edmund, we must learn to do without him. This will be the last winter of his belonging to us."

  "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 asked to go to town with Maria; and as Sir Thomas had granted permission, Lady Bertram was lamenting the change it made in the prospect of Julia's return. Sir Thomas used much good sense to reconcile his wife to the arrangement. Everything that an affectionate mother must feel in promoting her children's enjoyment was attributed to her nature. Lady Bertram agreed to it all, and then observed, "Sir Thomas, 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 added, "Very true. We show Fanny what a good girl we think her by praising her to her face; she is now a very valuable companion."

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

  Sir Thomas half smiled, glanced at his niece, and gravely replied, "She will never leave us, I hope, till invited to some other home that may promise her greater happiness."

  "That is not very likely, Sir Thomas. Who should invite her? Maria would not think of asking her to live at Sotherton; and besides, I cannot do without her."

  The week which passed so quietly at the great house in Mansfield had a very different character at the Parsonage. What was tranquillity and comfort to Fanny was tediousness and vexation to Mary. 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 almost every hour, and was irritated when she considered why he went. They were now a miserable trio at the Parsonage, confined within doors by rain and snow, with nothing to do. 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 their almost daily meetings. He should not have planned such an absence, 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, contemptuous expressions in speaking of the clergy, and that was ill-bred; it was wrong. She wished such words unsaid with all her heart.

  All this was bad, but she had still more to feel when Friday came round again and brought no Edmund; Saturday, and still no Edmund; and when she learned that he had written home to defer his return, having promised to remain some days longer with his friend.

  If she had felt impatience and regret before, she now felt it tenfold more. She had, moreover, to contend with an entirely new emotion—jealousy. His friend Mr. Owen had sisters; he might find them attractive. It became absolutely necessary for her to try to learn something more; and she made her way to the Park and Fanny, for the chance of hearing a little news, or at least hearing his name.

  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? 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 stay longer than he talks of, as 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 soon as Henry 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 needed, Miss Price, in our language—a something between compliments and—and love—to suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have had together? But compliments may be sufficient here. Was his letter a long one? 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. All that I heard was that his friend had pressed him to stay a few days longer, and that he had agreed to do so."

  "Oh! 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 particulars of balls and parties. He would have sent you a description of everybody. How many Miss Owens are there?"

  "Three grown up."

  "Are they musical?"

  "I do not at all know."

  "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 one knows, without being told, exactly what any three sisters must be: all very accomplished and pleasing, and one very pretty. 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. 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, myself included. Mrs. Grant 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. But I may be found by those who want to see me. I shall not be in any distant, or unapproachable region."

  Now Fanny could not bring herself to speak, and Miss Crawford was disappointed; for she had hoped to hear some pleasant assurance of her power from one who she thought must know.

  "The Miss Owens," said she, "suppose you were to have one of the Miss Owens settled at Thornton Lacey; how should you like it? I dare say they are trying for it. It would be a very pretty establishment for them. Their father is a clergyman, and their brother is a clergyman, and they are all clergymen together. You don't speak, Fanny; but honestly now, do not you rather expect it?"

  "No," said Fanny stoutly, "I do not expect it at all."

  "Not at all!" cried Miss Crawford with alacrity. "But I dare say you know—perhaps you do not think him likely to marry at all—or not at present."

  "No, I do not," said Fanny softly, hoping she did not err.

  Her companion looked at her keenly; and gathering greater spirit from Fanny’s blush, only said, "He is best off as he is," and turned the subject.

  CHAPTER 30