A quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, passed away, and Fanny was still thinking of Edmund, Miss Crawford, and herself, without interruption from any one. She began to be surprised at being left so long, and to listen with an anxious desire of hearing their steps and their voices again. She listened, and at length she heard; she heard voices and feet approaching; but she had just satisfied herself that it was not those she wanted, when Miss Bertram, Mr Rushworth, and Mr Crawford, issued from the same path which she had trod herself, and were before her.
‘Miss Price all alone!’ and ‘My dear Fanny, how comes this?’ were the first salutations. She told her story. ‘Poor dear Fanny,’ cried her cousin, ‘how ill you have been used by them! You had better have stayed with us.’
Then seating herself with a gentleman on each side, she resumed the conversation which had engaged them before, and discussed the possibility of improvements with much animation. Nothing was fixed on; but Henry Crawford was full of ideas and projects, and, generally speaking, whatever he proposed was immediately approved, first by her, and then by Mr Rushworth, whose principal business seemed to be to hear the others, and who scarcely risked an original thought of his own beyond a wish that they had seen his friend Smith’s place.
After some minutes spent in this way, Miss Bertram, observing the iron gate, expressed a wish of passing through it into the park, that their views and their plans might be more comprehensive. It was the very thing of all others to be wished, it was the best, it was the only way of proceeding with any advantage, in Henry Crawford’s opinion, and he directly saw a knoll not half a mile off, which would give them exactly the requisite command of the house. Go therefore they must to that knoll, and through that gate; but the gate was locked. Mr Rushworth wished he had brought the key; he had been very near thinking whether he should not bring the key; he was determined he would never come without the key again; but still this did not remove the present evil. They could not get through; and as Miss Bertram’s inclination for so doing did by no means lessen, it ended in Mr Rushworth’s declaring outright that he would go and fetch the key. He set off accordingly.
‘It is undoubtedly the best thing we can do now, as we are so far from the house already,’ said Mr Crawford, when he was gone.
‘Yes, there is nothing else to be done. But now, sincerely, do not you find the place altogether worse than you expected?’
‘No, indeed; far otherwise. I find it better, grander, more complete in its style, though that style may not be the best. And to tell you the truth,’ speaking rather lower, ‘I do not think that I shall ever see Sotherton again with so much pleasure as I do now. Another summer will hardly improve it to me.’
After a moment’s embarrassment the lady replied, ‘You are too much a man of the world not to see with the eyes of the world. If other people think Sotherton improved, I have no doubt that you will.’
‘I am afraid I am not quite so much the man of the world as might be good for me in some points. My feelings are not quite so evanescent, nor my memory of the past under such easy dominion as one finds to be the case with men of the world.’
This was followed by a short silence. Miss Bertram began again. ‘You seemed to enjoy your drive here very much this morning. I was glad to see you so well entertained. You and Julia were laughing the whole way.’
‘Were we? Yes, I believe we were; but I have not the least recollection at what. Oh! I believe I was relating to her some ridiculous stories of an old Irish groom of my uncle’s. Your sister loves to laugh.’
‘You think her more light-hearted than I am.’
‘More easily amused,’ he replied, ‘consequently, you know,’ smiling, ‘better company. I could not have hoped to entertain you with Irish anecdotes during a ten miles’ drive.’
‘Naturally, I believe, I am as lively as Julia, but I have more to think of now.’
‘You have, undoubtedly; and there are situations in which very high spirits would denote insensibility. Your prospects, however, are too fair to justify want of spirits. You have a very smiling scene before you.’
‘Do you mean literally or figuratively? Literally, I conclude. Yes, certainly the sun shines, and the park looks very cheerful. But unluckily that iron gate, that ha-ha, give me a feeling of restraint and hardship. “I cannot get out,” as the starling said.’ As she spoke, and it was with expression, she walked to the gate: he followed her. ‘Mr Rushworth is so long fetching this key!’
‘And for the world you would not get out without the key and without Mr Rushworth’s authority and protection, or I think you might with little difficulty pass round the edge of the gate, here, with my assistance; I think it might be done, if you really wished to be more at large, and could allow yourself to think it not prohibited.’
‘Prohibited! nonsense! I certainly can get out that way, and I will. Mr Rushworth will be here in a moment you know; we shall not be out of sight.’
‘Or if we are, Miss Price will be so good as to tell him that he will find us near that knoll: the grove of oak on the knoll.’
Fanny, feeling all this to be wrong, could not help making an effort to prevent it. ‘You will hurt yourself, Miss Bertram,’ she cried; ‘you will certainly hurt yourself against those spikes. You will tear your gown; you will be in danger of slipping into the ha-ha. You had better not go.’
Her cousin was safe on the other side, while these words were spoken, and, smiling with all the good humour of success, she said, ‘Thank you, my dear Fanny, but I and my gown are alive and well, and so good-bye.’
Fanny was again left to her solitude, and with no increase of pleasant feelings, for she was sorry for almost all that she had seen and heard, astonished at Miss Bertram, and angry with Mr Crawford. By taking a circuitous route, and, as it appeared to her, very unreasonable direction to the knoll, they were soon beyond her eye; and for some minutes longer she remained without sight or sound of any companion. She seemed to have the little wood all to herself. She could almost have thought that Edmund and Miss Crawford had left it, but that it was impossible for Edmund to forget her so entirely.
She was again roused from disagreeable musings by sudden footsteps: somebody was coming at a quick pace down the principal walk. She expected Mr Rushworth, but it was Julia, who, hot and out of breath, and with a look of dis appointment, cried out on seeing her, ‘Heyday! Where are the others? I thought Maria and Mr Crawford were with you.’
Fanny explained.
‘A pretty trick, upon my word! I cannot see them anywhere,’ looking eagerly into the park. ‘But they cannot be very far off, and I think I am equal to as much as Maria, even without help.’
‘But, Julia, Mr Rushworth will be here in a moment with the key. Do wait for Mr Rushworth.’
‘Not I, indeed. I have had enough of the family for one morning. Why, child, I have but this moment escaped from his horrible mother. Such a penance as I have been enduring, while you were sitting here so composed and so happy! It might have been as well, perhaps, if you had been in my place, but you always contrive to keep out of these scrapes.’
This was a most unjust reflection, but Fanny could allow for it, and let it pass: Julia was vexed, and her temper was hasty; but she felt that it would not last, and therefore taking no notice, only asked her if she had not seen Mr Rushworth.
‘Yes, yes, we saw him. He was posting away as if upon life and death, and could but just spare time to tell us his errand, and where you all were.’
‘It is a pity he should have so much trouble for nothing.’
‘That is Miss Maria’s concern. I am not obliged to punish myself for her sins. The mother I could not avoid, as long as my tiresome aunt was dancing about with the housekeeper, but the son I can get away from.’
And