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1His present state Fanny could hardly bear to think of. There was but one of his children who was not at this time a
2source of misery to him. Tom's complaints had been greatly heightened by the shock of his sister's conduct, and his
3recovery so much thrown back by it, that even Lady Bertram had been struck by the difference, and all her alarms were
4regularly sent off to her husband; and Julia's elopement, the additional blow which had met him on his arrival in
5London, though its force had been deadened at the moment, must, she knew, be sorely felt. She saw that it was. His
6letters expressed how much he deplored it. Under any circumstances it would have been an unwelcome alliance; but to have
7it so clandestinely formed, and such a period chosen for its completion, placed Julia's feelings in a most unfavourable
8light, and severely aggravated the folly of her choice. He called it a bad thing, done in the worst manner, and at the
9worst time; and though Julia was yet as more pardonable than Maria as folly than vice, he could not but regard the step
10she had taken as opening the worst probabilities of a conclusion hereafter like her sister's. Such was his opinion of
11the set into which she had thrown herself. Fanny felt for him most acutely. He could have no comfort but in Edmund.
12Every other child must be racking his heart. His displeasure against herself she trusted, reasoning differently from
13Mrs. Norris, would now be done away. She should be justified. Mr. Crawford would have fully acquitted her conduct in
14refusing him; but this, though most material to herself, would be poor consolation to Sir Thomas. Her uncle's
15displeasure was terrible to her; but what could her justification or her gratitude and attachment do for him? His stay
16must be on Edmund alone. She was mistaken, however, in supposing that Edmund gave his father no present pain. It was of
17a much less poignant nature than what the others excited; but Sir Thomas was considering his happiness as very deeply
18involved in the offence of his sister and friend; cut off by it, as he must be, from the woman whom he had been pursuing
19with undoubted attachment and strong probability of success; and who, in everything but this despicable brother, would
20have been so eligible a connexion. He was aware of what Edmund must be suffering on his own behalf, in addition to all
21the rest, when they were in town: he had seen or conjectured his feelings; and, having reason to think that one
22interview with Miss Crawford had taken place, from which Edmund derived only increased distress, had been as anxious on
23that account as on others to get him out of town, and had engaged him in taking Fanny home to her aunt, with a view to
24his relief and benefit, no less than theirs. Fanny was not in the secret of her uncle's feelings, Sir Thomas not in the
25secret of Miss Crawford's character. Had he been privy to her conversation with his son, he would not have wished her to
26belong to him, though her twenty thousand pounds had been forty. That Edmund must be for ever divided from Miss Crawford
27did not admit of a doubt with Fanny; and yet, till she knew that he felt the same, her own conviction was insufficient.
28She thought he did, but she wanted to be assured of it. If he would now speak to her with the unreserve which had
29sometimes been too much for her before, it would be most consoling; but that she found was not to be. She seldom saw
30him: never alone. He probably avoided being alone with her. What was to be inferred? That his judgment submitted to all
31his own peculiar and bitter share of this family affliction, but that it was too keenly felt to be a subject of the
32slightest communication. This must be his state. He yielded, but it was with agonies which did not admit of speech.
33Long, long would it be ere Miss Crawford's name passed his lips again, or she could hope for a renewal of such
34confidential intercourse as had been. It was long. They reached Mansfield on Thursday, and it was not till Sunday
35evening that Edmund began to talk to her on the subject. Sitting with her on Sunday evening--a wet Sunday evening--the
36very time of all others when, if a friend is at hand, the heart must be opened, and everything told; no one else in the
37room, except his mother, who, after hearing an affecting sermon, had cried herself to sleep, it was impossible not to
38speak; and so, with the usual beginnings, hardly to be traced as to what came first, and the usual declaration that if
39she would listen to him for a few minutes, he should be very brief, and certainly never tax her kindness in the same way
40again; she need not fear a repetition; it would be a subject prohibited entirely: he entered upon the luxury of relating
41circumstances and sensations of the first interest to himself, to one of whose affectionate sympathy he was quite
42convinced. How Fanny listened, with what curiosity and concern, what pain and what delight, how the agitation of his
43voice was watched, and how carefully her own eyes were fixed on any object but himself, may be imagined. The opening was
44alarming. He had seen Miss Crawford. He had been invited to see her. He had received a note from Lady Stornaway to beg
45him to call; and regarding it as what was meant to be the last, last interview of friendship, and investing her with all
46the feelings of shame and wretchedness which Crawford's sister ought to have known, he had gone to her in such a state
47of mind, so softened, so devoted, as made it for a few moments impossible to Fanny's fears that it should be the last.
48But as he proceeded in his story, these fears were over. She had met him, he said, with a serious--certainly a
49serious--even an agitated air; but before he had been able to speak one intelligible sentence, she had introduced the
50subject in a manner which he owned had shocked him. "'I heard you were in town,' said she; 'I wanted to see you. Let us
51talk over this sad business. What can equal the folly of our two relations?' I could not answer, but I believe my looks
52spoke. She felt reproved. Sometimes how quick to feel! With a graver look and voice she then added, 'I do not mean to
53defend Henry at your sister's expense.' So she began, but how she went on, Fanny, is not fit, is hardly fit to be
54repeated to you. I cannot recall all her words. I would not dwell upon them if I could. Their substance was great anger
55at the folly of each. She reprobated her brother's folly in being drawn on by a woman whom he had never cared for, to do
56what must lose him the woman he adored; but still more the folly of poor Maria, in sacrificing such a situation,
57plunging into such difficulties, under the idea of being really loved by a man who had long ago made his indifference
58clear. Guess what I must have felt. To hear the woman whom--no harsher name than folly given! So voluntarily, so freely,
59so coolly to canvass it! No reluctance, no horror, no feminine, shall I say, no modest loathings? This is what the world
60does. For where, Fanny, shall we find a woman whom nature had so richly endowed? Spoilt, spoilt!" After a little
61reflection, he went on with a sort of desperate calmness. "I will tell you everything, and then have done for ever. She
62saw it only as folly, and that folly stamped only by exposure. The want of common discretion, of caution: his going down
63to Richmond for the whole time of her being at Twickenham; her putting herself in the power of a servant; it was the
64detection, in short--oh, Fanny! it was the detection, not the offence, which she reprobated. It was the imprudence which
65had brought things to extremity, and obliged her brother to give up every dearer plan in order to fly with her." He
66stopt. "And what," said Fanny (believing herself required to speak), "what could you say?"
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