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1That punishment, the public punishment of disgrace, should in a just measure attend his share of the offence is, we
2know, not one of the barriers which society gives to virtue. In this world the penalty is less equal than could be
3wished; but without presuming to look forward to a juster appointment hereafter, we may fairly consider a man of sense,
4like Henry Crawford, to be providing for himself no small portion of vexation and regret: vexation that must rise
5sometimes to self-reproach, and regret to wretchedness, in having so requited hospitality, so injured family peace, so
6forfeited his best, most estimable, and endeared acquaintance, and so lost the woman whom he had rationally as well as
7passionately loved. After what had passed to wound and alienate the two families, the continuance of the Bertrams and
8Grants in such close neighbourhood would have been most distressing; but the absence of the latter, for some months
9purposely lengthened, ended very fortunately in the necessity, or at least the practicability, of a permanent removal.
10Dr. Grant, through an interest on which he had almost ceased to form hopes, succeeded to a stall in Westminster, which,
11as affording an occasion for leaving Mansfield, an excuse for residence in London, and an increase of income to answer
12the expenses of the change, was highly acceptable to those who went and those who staid. Mrs. Grant, with a temper to
13love and be loved, must have gone with some regret from the scenes and people she had been used to; but the same
14happiness of disposition must in any place, and any society, secure her a great deal to enjoy, and she had again a home
15to offer Mary; and Mary had had enough of her own friends, enough of vanity, ambition, love, and disappointment in the
16course of the last half-year, to be in need of the true kindness of her sister's heart, and the rational tranquillity of
17her ways. They lived together; and when Dr. Grant had brought on apoplexy and death, by three great institutionary
18dinners in one week, they still lived together; for Mary, though perfectly resolved against ever attaching herself to a
19younger brother again, was long in finding among the dashing representatives, or idle heir-apparents, who were at the
20command of her beauty, and her £20,000, any one who could satisfy the better taste she had acquired at Mansfield, whose
21character and manners could authorise a hope of the domestic happiness she had there learned to estimate, or put Edmund
22Bertram sufficiently out of her head. Edmund had greatly the advantage of her in this respect. He had not to wait and
23wish with vacant affections for an object worthy to succeed her in them. Scarcely had he done regretting Mary Crawford,
24and observing to Fanny how impossible it was that he should ever meet with such another woman, before it began to strike
25him whether a very different kind of woman might not do just as well, or a great deal better: whether Fanny herself were
26not growing as dear, as important to him in all her smiles and all her ways, as Mary Crawford had ever been; and whether
27it might not be a possible, a hopeful undertaking to persuade her that her warm and sisterly regard for him would be
28foundation enough for wedded love. I purposely abstain from dates on this occasion, that every one may be at liberty to
29fix their own, aware that the cure of unconquerable passions, and the transfer of unchanging attachments, must vary much
30as to time in different people. I only entreat everybody to believe that exactly at the time when it was quite natural
31that it should be so, and not a week earlier, Edmund did cease to care about Miss Crawford, and became as anxious to
32marry Fanny as Fanny herself could desire. With such a regard for her, indeed, as his had long been, a regard founded on
33the most endearing claims of innocence and helplessness, and completed by every recommendation of growing worth, what
34could be more natural than the change? Loving, guiding, protecting her, as he had been doing ever since her being ten
35years old, her mind in so great a degree formed by his care, and her comfort depending on his kindness, an object to him
36of such close and peculiar interest, dearer by all his own importance with her than any one else at Mansfield, what was
37there now to add, but that he should learn to prefer soft light eyes to sparkling dark ones. And being always with her,
38and always talking confidentially, and his feelings exactly in that favourable state which a recent disappointment
39gives, those soft light eyes could not be very long in obtaining the pre-eminence. Having once set out, and felt that he
40had done so on this road to happiness, there was nothing on the side of prudence to stop him or make his progress slow;
41no doubts of her deserving, no fears of opposition of taste, no need of drawing new hopes of happiness from
42dissimilarity of temper. Her mind, disposition, opinions, and habits wanted no half-concealment, no self-deception on
43the present, no reliance on future improvement. Even in the midst of his late infatuation, he had acknowledged Fanny's
44mental superiority. What must be his sense of it now, therefore? She was of course only too good for him; but as nobody
45minds having what is too good for them, he was very steadily earnest in the pursuit of the blessing, and it was not
46possible that encouragement from her should be long wanting. Timid, anxious, doubting as she was, it was still
47impossible that such tenderness as hers should not, at times, hold out the strongest hope of success, though it remained
48for a later period to tell him the whole delightful and astonishing truth. His happiness in knowing himself to have been
49so long the beloved of such a heart, must have been great enough to warrant any strength of language in which he could
50clothe it to her or to himself; it must have been a delightful happiness. But there was happiness elsewhere which no
51description can reach. Let no one presume to give the feelings of a young woman on receiving the assurance of that
52affection of which she has scarcely allowed herself to entertain a hope. Their own inclinations ascertained, there were
53no difficulties behind, no drawback of poverty or parent. It was a match which Sir Thomas's wishes had even forestalled.
54Sick of ambitious and mercenary connexions, prizing more and more the sterling good of principle and temper, and chiefly
55anxious to bind by the strongest securities all that remained to him of domestic felicity, he had pondered with genuine
56satisfaction on the more than possibility of the two young friends finding their natural consolation in each other for
57all that had occurred of disappointment to either; and the joyful consent which met Edmund's application, the high sense
58of having realised a great acquisition in the promise of Fanny for a daughter, formed just such a contrast with his
59early opinion on the subject when the poor little girl's coming had been first agitated, as time is for ever producing
60between the plans and decisions of mortals, for their own instruction, and their neighbours' entertainment. Fanny was
61indeed the daughter that he wanted. His charitable kindness had been rearing a prime comfort for himself. His liberality
62had a rich repayment, and the general goodness of his intentions by her deserved it. He might have made her childhood
63happier; but it had been an error of judgment only which had given him the appearance of harshness, and deprived him of
64her early love; and now, on really knowing each other, their mutual attachment became very strong. After settling her at
65Thornton Lacey with every kind attention to her comfort, the object of almost every day was to see her there, or to get
66her away from it.
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