The Prices were just setting off for church the next day when Mr. Crawford appeared. He was asked to go with them to the Garrison chapel, which was exactly what he had intended, and they all walked there together.
The family were now seen to advantage. Nature had given them no inconsiderable share of beauty, and every Sunday dressed them in their cleanest skins and best attire. Sunday always brought this comfort to Fanny, and on this Sunday she felt it more than ever. Her poor mother now did not look so very unworthy of being Lady Bertram's sister. It often grieved her that where nature had made so little difference, circumstances should have made so much, and that her mother, as handsome as Lady Bertram, should have an appearance so much more worn and shabby. But Sunday made her a very creditable Mrs. Price, with a fine family of children.
In chapel they were obliged to divide, but Mr. Crawford took care not to be divided from the female branch; and after chapel he continued with them, and joined the family party on the ramparts.
Mrs. Price took her weekly walk on the ramparts every fine Sunday throughout the year. There she met her acquaintance, heard a little news, talked over the badness of the Portsmouth servants, and wound up her spirits for the six days.
Thither they now went; Mr. Crawford most happy to consider the Miss Prices as his charge; and before they had been there long, somehow or other, there was no saying how, he was walking between them with an arm of each under his. Fanny did not know how to put an end to it. It made her uncomfortable, but yet there were enjoyments in the day.
Everything looked so beautiful under the influence of such a fine March sky, with the ever-varying hues of the sea, now at high water, dancing in its glee and dashing against the ramparts; and produced altogether such a combination of charms for Fanny, as made her almost careless of the circumstances under which she felt them. Had she been without his arm, she would soon have known that she needed it, for she lacked strength for a two hours' saunter. Fanny was beginning to feel the effect of being debarred from her usual regular exercise; she had lost ground as to health since her being in Portsmouth.
They often stopped some minutes to look and admire; and considering he was not Edmund, Fanny had to allow that he was open to the charms of nature, and very well able to express his admiration. She had a few tender reveries now and then, during which he could sometimes look in her face without detection; and he concluded that, though as bewitching as ever, her face was less blooming than it ought to be. She said she was very well; but he was convinced that her residence could not be comfortable, and he was growing anxious for her being again at Mansfield.
"You have been here a month, I think?" said he.
"No; not quite. It is four weeks to-morrow."
"You are a most accurate reckoner. I should call that a month. It is to be a two months' visit, is not?"
"Yes. My uncle talked of two months."
"And how are you to be conveyed back again?"
"I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet. Perhaps it may not be convenient for me to be fetched exactly at the two months' end."
After reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, "I know Mansfield, I know its faults towards you. I am aware that you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot organize it without involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he has laid down for the next quarter of a year. This will not do. Two months is plenty; I should think six weeks quite enough. I am considering your sister's health," said he, addressing Susan. "She requires constant air and exercise, and ought never to be long banished from the free air of the country. If, therefore" (turning again to Fanny), "you find yourself growing unwell, and any difficulties arise about your returning, if you feel yourself at all less strong or comfortable than usual, and will only let my sister know it, give her only the slightest hint, she and I will immediately come down, and take you back to Mansfield. You know the pleasure with which this would be done."
Fanny thanked him, but tried to laugh it off.
"I am perfectly serious," he replied, "as you know. And I hope you will not conceal any indisposition. Indeed, so long as you positively say, in every letter to Mary, 'I am well,' since I know you cannot speak a falsehood, so long only shall you be considered well."
Fanny thanked him again, but was affected and distressed to a great degree. This was towards the close of their walk. He left them at the door of their own house.
"I wish you were not so tired," said he, detaining Fanny after the others were gone in—"I wish I left you in stronger health. Is there anything I can do for you in town? I have half an idea of going into Norfolk again soon. I am not satisfied about Maddison. I am sure he still means to impose on me if possible. The mischief such a man does on an estate, both to the credit of his employer and the welfare of the poor, is inconceivable. I have a great mind to go back into Norfolk directly. Shall I go? Do you advise it?"
"I advise! You know very well what is right."
"Yes. When you give me your opinion, I always know what is right."
"Oh, no! do not say so. We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be. Good-bye; I wish you a pleasant journey."
"Is there nothing I can do for you in London?"
"Nothing; I am much obliged to you."
"Have you no message for anybody?"
"My love to your sister, if you please; and when you see my cousin, my cousin Edmund, I wish you would be so good as to say that I suppose I shall soon hear from him."
"Certainly; and if he is lazy or negligent, I will write his excuses myself."
He could say no more. He pressed her hand, looked at her, and was gone.
Could he have suspected how many privations, besides that of exercise, she endured in her father's house, he would have wondered that her looks were not more affected. She was so little equal to Rebecca's puddings and Rebecca's hashes, brought to table, as they all were, with half-cleaned plates, and not even half-cleaned knives and forks, that she very often deferred her heartiest meal till she could send her brothers in the evening for biscuits and buns. Though Sir Thomas might have thought his niece in the most promising way of being starved into valuing Mr. Crawford's company, he would probably have feared to push his experiment farther, lest she might die under the cure.
Fanny was out of spirits all the rest of the day. It was parting with somebody of the nature of a friend; and though, in one light, glad to have him gone, it seemed as if she was now deserted by everybody. It was a sort of renewed separation from Mansfield; and she could not think of his being in town with Mary and Edmund without feelings so close to envy as made her hate herself for having them.
Her dejection had no relief from anything around her; a friend or two of her father's spent the long, long evening there; and from six o'clock till half-past nine, there was little intermission of noise or grog. She was very low. The wonderful improvement which she fancied in Mr. Crawford was the nearest to comfort of anything in her thoughts. Not considering how much might be owing to contrast, she was quite persuaded of his being astonishingly more gentle and regardful of others than formerly. And, if in little things, must it not be so in great? So anxious for her health and comfort as he seemed, might she not suppose that he would not much longer persevere in a suit so distressing to her?
CHAPTER 43