Edmund Bertram's Diary

AUGUST

Monday 1 August

Miss Crawford made even better progress this morning than she did on Friday, and delighted me with her daring.

‘This is wonderful!’ she said, as she walked the mare about the stable yard. ‘Why have I never done this before?’

‘Because you have lived in town, and there it is not so easy to learn.’

‘But here, with you, it is simple,’ she said, giving me a smile. ‘I am beginning to think a country life is the life for me after all. To spend my time in the open air, in country pursuits, is becoming the ideal for me, whereas a few months ago the thought of it filled me with horror. What, to live amongst green fields with no shops or theatres to entertain me? But then I did not know what pure entertainment could come from simply living.’

I felt she had been in the saddle long enough, and was about to help her dismount when she said she wanted to try her skills beyond the stable yard. She was playful yet determined, and at last I gave in. Mrs. Grant, coming into the stables at that moment, proposed that we made a party of it, and before long Dr and Mrs. Grant, Crawford, Miss Crawford and I ventured into the meadow, escorted by our grooms.

We were about to walk round the meadow when Crawford suggested that, if I would escort his sister, the rest of the party would watch her and see how she did.

‘We can observe her much better if we are not too close to her,’ he said. The others were agreeable and Miss Crawford and I set off round the meadow together. To begin with we went at a walking pace but then she said, ‘This is so tame! Why do we not go faster?’

And with that she began to canter. She had a good seat and sat with her back straight and her head held high. Her veil was blowing behind her in the wind and a lock of her hair fell clear of its pins and blew about her face. It drew my eye, and I was not sorry when I had to call her to a halt and show her how to manage the bridle.

‘But there is Miss Price,’ she said, with an effort glancing towards the Park. ‘I have been very remiss. I have enjoyed myself so much I had quite forgotten her. Take me to her, if you please, so that I can apologize to her for keeping her from her exercise.’

I walked beside her, through the gate and into the lane, and we saw Fanny coming to meet us. I felt I had not behaved as I ought, for I had forgotten Fanny entirely whilst I had been with Miss Crawford, but Miss Crawford apologized so prettily that Fanny could not help but be satisfied.

‘I give way to you with a very bad grace,’ said Miss Crawford. ‘But I sincerely hope you will have a pleasant ride, and that I may have nothing but good to hear of this dear delightful animal.’

I helped her to spring down and then the old coachman lifted Fanny up on to the horse and they set off together.

Maria and Julia were delighted to discover that their new friend showed such a natural ability.

‘I was sure she would ride well,’ said Julia, ‘she has the make for it. Her figure is as neat as her brother’s.’

‘Yes,’ added Maria, ‘and her spirits are as good, and she has the same energy of character. I cannot but think that good horsemanship has a great deal to do with the mind.’

I could not help but agree.

When we parted at night, I asked Fanny whether she meant to ride the next day.

‘No, I do not know — not if you want the mare,’ she said kindly.

‘I do not want her at all for myself, but whenever you are next inclined to stay at home, I think Miss Crawford would be glad to have her a longer time — for a whole morning, in short. She has a great desire to get as far as Mansfield Common: Mrs. Grant has been telling her of its fine views, and I have no doubt of her being perfectly equal to it. But any morning will do for this. She would be extremely sorry to interfere with you. It would be very wrong if she did. She rides only for pleasure; you for health.’

‘I shall not ride tomorrow, certainly. I have been out very often lately, and would rather stay at home. You know I am strong enough now to walk very well.’

She is right in this, but I cannot help protecting her for I have done so almost half my life, and indeed I do not think I could stop now even if I wanted to.

Tuesday 2 August

We rode out to the common this morning and I was astounded by Miss Crawford’s rapid progress.

‘You did not think I could do it,’ she said to me teasingly. ‘Come, admit it.’

‘On the contrary, I never had a doubt of it,’ I told her. ‘I have seldom seen anyone take to horseback as rapidly as you have done.’

‘We must go out again tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I am sure there must be some other fine rides hereabouts, and we ought to make the most of the weather whilst it is so fine.’

‘Oh, yes, there are many pleasant rides,’ said Maria, ‘and there are an abundance of shady lanes, so that we may take our exercise even if the day is hot.’

‘Then I am at your disposal,’ said Miss Crawford.

Crawford was included in the invitation and we have arranged to meet again early tomorrow morning.

Wednesday 3 August

Three times now we have ridden around the country and Miss Crawford has never once complained of the heat, though it has been very hot. Today was no exception and we were all glad to arrive back at the Parsonage, where we sat in the shade and drank lemonade.

‘You must dine with us this evening,’ said Mrs. Grant. She turned to Maria. ‘We cannot prevail upon you to stay with us, of course, Miss Bertram, as rumor has it a certain person might be calling at the Park this evening, and we must not suppose any entertainment we can offer you will be equal to his. But I hope we may prevail upon you, Mr. Bertram, and you, Miss Julia, to join us.’

Maria returned to the Park and Julia and I spent a very agreeable evening at the Parsonage, with a fine dinner and Miss Crawford’s excellent harp to entertain us. Crawford joined her in a song and persuaded Julia to join in, too. Usually reluctant to sing, she yielded to Crawford’s entreaties and we were all very well entertained.

Julia and I walked home through the warm summer evening, glowing and cheerful, but when we returned to the Park we found that Maria, Mama and Aunt Norris were very much the reverse. Maria would scarcely raise her eyes from her book and wore a scowl; Mama was half asleep and even Aunt Norris was silent. Fanny was nowhere to be seen, but when I asked if she had gone to bed, her own gentle voice spoke from the other end of the room and she said she was on the sofa.

‘That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all the evening upon a sofa,’ my aunt scolded her. ‘Why cannot you come and sit here, and employ yourself as we do? If you have no work of your own, I can supply you from the poor-basket. You should learn to think of other people; and take my word for it, it is a shocking trick for a young person to be always lolling upon a sofa.’

‘I must say, ma’am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa as anybody in the house,’ remarked Julia.

Fanny by this time had joined my aunt at the table, and I saw that she was looking far from well. When I questioned her, she admitted she had a headache, and that she had had one since before dinner. It was not hard to find out why, for my aunt had sent her out into the garden to cut roses.

‘It was very hot,’ said Mama, ‘though it was shady enough in the alcove where I was sitting.’

I was vexed that Fanny had been so ill used, and further vexed to discover that she had not only been standing and stooping in the hot sun, but that she had been sent across the park to my aunt’s house twice, the first time to take the roses and the second time to lock the door.

‘For she forgot to lock it the first time, so she was obliged to go again,’ said my aunt.

‘This should never have happened,’ I said, as I put my hand sympathetically on Fanny’s head. ‘It was too hot for anyone to walk much in the sun today, and certainly too hot for Fanny.’

‘If Fanny would be more regular in her exercise, she would not be knocked up so soon,’ said my aunt. ‘She has not been out on horseback now this long while, and I am persuaded that when she does not ride she ought to walk.’

I said no more, but took a glass of Madeira to Fanny and made her drink it. Vexed as I was with Mama and Aunt Norris for keeping her out so long in the sun, I was more vexed with myself, for it was I who had deprived her of her exercise by encouraging Miss Crawford to ride the mare. And it was I who had left her without any choice of companionship whilst we were away.

However unwilling I was to check a pleasure of Miss Crawford’s, I resolved that Fanny must have the mare whenever she wanted, for I would not see her ill again.

Thursday 4 August

I made good my resolve and took Fanny out for a ride this morning. I found that I had missed her company. The pleasant, fresh-feeling morning inspired us to travel farther afield than usual and we rode to Bridge’s farm. We called in to see Mrs. Bridge, for Fanny had heard that she was not well, and found her in bed with the new baby beside her. The other children were running wild, for although the eldest girl did her best, the younger ones would not mind her. Fanny set about seeing to Mrs. Bridge’s comfort and helping her with the baby whilst I called the children to order, and soon they were usefully occupied. When we left the house there were fresh flowers in an earthenware jar on the windowsill, the floor had been swept, Mrs. Bridge was easy, the baby was sleeping, and the other children were playing outside in the sunshine. We returned to the house. Having seen Fanny safely indoors, I went round to the stables to speak to the coachman, and when I went into the house at last I found that Rushworth and his mother were there. They had revived the plan of a visit to Sotherton and it had been decided that we would all go on Wednesday; all except Fanny, who was to stay at home with Mama.

‘I am sure Fanny would like the visit,’ I said. ‘I know she particularly wants to see the avenue. She may take my place and I will stay at home with you, Mama.’

There were the usual protests but at last I had my way.

Monday 8 August

There was a change of plan this morning, for Mrs. Grant offered to stay behind with Mama, and so I am to go with the others to Sotherton. I could not help my spirits rising at the thought of spending a day with Miss Crawford.

Wednesday 10 August

It was a perfect morning for our journey to Sotherton. Crawford arrived early with his sisters and Mrs. Grant alighted from the carriage, saying, ‘As there are five of you, it will be better that one should sit with Henry, and as you were saying lately, that you wished you could drive, Julia, I think this will be a good opportunity for you to take a lesson.’

Julia mounted the box and sat next to Crawford whilst Maria took her seat within. Fanny and Miss Crawford joined her and I mounted my horse. Mrs. Grant and Mama waved us of, with Pug barking in Mama’s arms, and we were away.

As I rode behind the barouche I could not help but observe Fanny, and take satisfaction from her expression, which spoke of her delight at everything she saw. The road to Sotherton was new to her and her face lit up at each new view. The landscape was pretty with the harvest and there was plenty to see, with the cottages, the cattle and the children all adding to the color.

‘These woods belong to Sotherton,’ said Maria as we reached Rushworth land, and she was rewarded by a look of admiration from Fanny, for indeed, the woods were majestic, and in the heat of the day they delighted us not only with their grandeur but with their ability to provide us with welcome shade. ‘I believe it is all now Mr. Rushworth’s property, on either side of the road.’

The mansion soon came in view. Miss Crawford looked curious, Fanny interested, and Maria proud, and small wonder, for it is a fine property. Julia paid it no heed, for she was attending to Crawford, and he was equally absorbed in teaching her.

We arrived at last and found Rushworth at the door to receive us. Maria blossomed under his attentions, and the attentions of his mother, and she pointed out all the attractions of the house to Mary Crawford with the consciousness of a young woman who would soon be calling it home.

‘This is very elegant,’ said Miss Crawford as we went into the dining-parlor, where a collation was laid out.

‘It is one of the newer additions to the house,’ said Mrs. Rushworth. She was an attentive hostess and, as we ate, Rushworth returned to the subject of the improvements to the estate. He proposed driving Crawford round it in his curricle when he should have finished his repast, the better to give his opinion.

‘But that would be to deprive ourselves of other eyes and other judgments. Would it not be better to find some carriage that could accommodate us all?’ Crawford asked. The point was still being discussed by the time we finished our repast, and the matter was delayed by Mrs. Rushworth offering to show us around the house before we set out. Fanny was fascinated by the furniture and the rugs; the marble and the damask; and the family portraits which lined the walls. Miss Crawford, though, was restless, and confided in me that she had seen many such houses.

We went into the chapel, and here Fanny was disappointed.

‘This is not my idea of a chapel. There is nothing awful here, nothing melancholy, nothing grand, no fleur-de-lys, or quatre-geuille, or garlands.’

‘You have been influenced too much by Scott. This is no Melrose Abbey,’ I said with a smile, for Fanny’s reading had prepared her for something far more Gothic.

‘Perhaps I have,’ she returned, and I knew that, in her imagination, she was seeing the Abbey Scott had described, in the eerie light of moonlight. She began to murmur:

‘The darken’d roof rose high aloof

On pillars lofty and light and small;

The key-stone, that lock’d each ribbed aisle,

Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-geuille,

The corbel s were carved grotesque and grim;

And the pillars, with cluster’d shafts so trim,

With base and with capital flourish’d around,

Seem’d bundles of lances which garlands had bound.’

I continued:

‘Full many a scutcheon and banner riven,

Shook to the cold night-wind of heaven,

Around the screenëd altar’s pale;

And there the dying lamps did burn,

Before thy low and lonely urn,

O gallant Chief of Otterburne.’

‘But here are no pillars, no lamps, no inscriptions,’ she said, disappointed.

‘You forget, Fanny, how lately all this has been built, and for how confined a purpose, compared with the old chapels of castles and monasteries. It was only for the private use of the family. They have been buried, I suppose, in the parish church. There you must look for the banners and the achievements.’

‘It was foolish of me not to think of all that; but I am disappointed all the same. I hoped to find banners being blown by the night wind of heaven. Or even,’ she added with a smile, ‘rustling with the current of air, foretelling woe and destruction.’

‘Now that I know,’ said Miss Crawford. ‘It is from Charlotte Smith’s The Old Manor House.’

‘You have read it?’ I asked.

‘Indeed, I am fond of Gothic romances — particularly on long winter evenings when there is nothing better to do. Henry read it to me last year. And to be sure, this chapel needs a current of air foretelling woe, for it is very dull.’

Mrs. Rushworth, ahead with the others, was explaining that, although the house had its own chapel, it was no longer used for family prayers.

‘Every generation has its improvements,’ said Miss Crawford in a droll voice. And, just as I felt I was getting to know her, I realized I did not know her at all. I was dismayed by her attitude, for I have always felt there was something fine about a family assembling for prayers, all together, turning their thoughts into the same path before they separate for the day.

Fanny voiced my thoughts, but Miss Crawford was not to be persuaded, saying satirically, ‘Very fine indeed! It must do the heads of the family a great deal of good to force all the poor housemaids and footmen to leave business and pleasure, and say their prayers here twice a day, while they are inventing excuses themselves for staying away.’

‘That is hardly Fanny’s idea of a family assembling,’ I told her. But she would not be serious, saying, ‘Cannot you imagine with what unwilling feelings the former belles of the house of Rushworth did many a time repair to this chapel? The young Mrs. Eleanors and Mrs. Bridgets — starched up into seeming piety, but with heads full of something very different — especially if the poor chaplain were not worth looking at — and, in those days, I fancy parsons were very inferior even to what they are now.’

Fanny colored, for she felt all the unluckiness of this remark as it reflected on my chosen profession. But although I was dismayed at Miss Crawford’s attitude, I took heart from the fact that she was surely capable of thinking seriously on serious subjects if only she was given encouragement to do so. She could not have reached womanhood without realizing that not everything in life could be turned into a jest.

I was hoping to discuss it with her, but barely had we begun when Julia distracted our attention by saying, ‘Do look at Mr. Rushworth and Maria, standing side by side, exactly as if the ceremony were going to be performed. Have not they completely the air of it? Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not take place directly, if we had but a proper license, for here we are altogether, and nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant.’

‘It will be a most happy event to me, whenever it takes place,’ said Mrs. Rushworth.

‘My dear Edmund, if you were but in orders now, you might perform the ceremony directly. How unlucky that you are not yet ordained. Mr. Rushworth and Maria are quite ready.’

Miss Crawford looked stunned.

‘Ordained!’ she said, turning to me and looking aghast. ‘What, are you to be a clergyman?’

‘Yes, I shall take orders soon after my father’s return — probably at Christmas,’ I told her. She regained her color quickly, saying, ‘If I had known this before, I would have spoken of the cloth with more respect.’

I smiled, for it showed that, as I suspected, she had a good heart, and had simply been carried away by playfulness. As we left the chapel I walked beside her to show I was not offended by her unfortunate remarks.

We soon afterwards came to a door leading outside. We took it, and found ourselves amidst lawns and shrubs, where pheasants roamed at will. There was also a bowling-green and a long terrace walk, backed by iron palisades, beyond which lay a wilderness. Crawford spotted the capabilities of the area and was soon deep in conversation with Maria and Rushworth, whilst Fanny, Miss Crawford and I went on. The day was hot and after a walk along the terrace, Miss Crawford expressed a wish to go into the wilderness, where we would be cool beneath the trees. We went in, going down a long flight of steps, and found ourselves in darkness and shade.

‘This is better,’ said Miss Crawford. ‘Give me a wilderness and I am happy, rather than a straight path which is hard beneath the feet. Here is nature untrammeled, not bent into shapes which do not suit her, but allowed to roam free. It is a much happier place. Do you not think so, Mr. Bertram?’

‘For my own part I prefer a path, but the wilderness has a certain allure,’ I conceded.

‘There is too much regularity in the planting, but otherwise a pretty wilderness, very pretty indeed,’ said Miss Crawford.

‘Too much regularity! Not at all,’ said Fanny. ‘Nature must have some order, or we would lose our way.’

Miss Crawford was soon speaking again of my plans to become a clergyman.

‘Why should it surprise you?’ I asked her. ‘You must suppose me designed for some profession, and might perceive that I am neither a lawyer, nor a soldier, nor a sailor.’

‘Very true; but, in short, it had not occurred to me. And you know there is generally an uncle or a grandfather to leave a fortune to the second son.’

‘A very praiseworthy practice, but not quite universal!’

‘But why are you to be a clergyman?’ she said, puzzling over it. ‘I thought that was always the lot of the youngest, where there were many to choose before him.’

‘Do you think the church itself never chosen?’ I asked, amused at her ignorance.

‘Men love to distinguish themselves, and a clergyman is nothing.’

I was only too happy to prove her wrong, and Fanny ventured her own opinions, which were in support of mine.

‘You have quite convinced Miss Price already,’ said Miss Crawford satirically.

‘I wish I could convince Miss Crawford, too,’ I returned.

She laughed and said, ‘I do not think you ever will. You really are fit for something better. Come, do change your mind. It is not too late. Go into the law,’ she offered.

‘Go into the law! With as much ease as I was told to go into this wilderness!’ I said, torn between exasperation and amusement.

‘Now you are going to say something about the law being the worst wilderness of the two,’ she said with an arch smile, ‘but I forestall you.’

‘You need not hurry when the object is to prevent me from saying a bon mot, for there is not the least wit in my nature, ’ I said, for I was frustrated by her determination to turn everything into a joke.

A general silence fell, and I regretted my ill-humored words, but they were said and could not be recalled. It was broken only when Fanny said she was tired and that, when we came to a seat, she would like to rest for a while.

I immediately drew her arm through mine, to give her my support, and after a moment’s hesitation I offered my other arm to Miss Crawford. To my relief she took it and we walked on. The gloom did not last long, and I blessed Miss Crawford’s wit and good humor just as much as, a few minutes before, I had been condemning them, for she bore no grudge for my sharpness and was soon teasing me again.

‘We have walked a very great distance,’ she said airily. ‘It must have been at least a mile.’

‘Not half a mile!’ I protested.

‘Oh! you do not consider how much we have wound about. We have taken such a very serpentine course, and the wood itself must be half a mile long in a straight line, for we have never seen the end of it yet since we left the first great path.’

‘But if you remember, before we left that first great path, we saw directly to the end of it. We looked down the whole vista, and saw it closed by iron gates, and it could not have been more than a furlong in length.’

‘Oh! I know nothing of your furlongs,’ she said, ‘but I am sure it is a very long wood.’

‘We have been exactly a quarter of an hour here,’ I teased her, taking out my watch. ‘Do you think we are walking four miles an hour?’

‘Oh! do not attack me with your watch. A watch is always too fast or too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch!’

Perfect good humor was restored by the time we came to the bottom of the wood, where there was a seat, and we all sat down.

‘To sit in the shade on a fine day, and look upon verdure, is the most perfect refreshment,’ said Fanny.

Miss Crawford, however, was of a livelier disposition and was soon eager to be walking again. There was a straight green running along the side of the ha-ha, and she proposed walking along it, to better determine the dimensions of the wood. I fell in with her wishes and, leaving Fanny sitting on the bench to rest, we walked on together.

‘Now, Miss Crawford, if you will look up the walk, you will convince yourself that it cannot be half a mile long, or half half a mile,’ I said.

She smiled saucily. ‘It is an immense distance. I see that with a glance.’

We were still laughing and arguing the point when we came to a side gate which led into the Park. To my surprise and pleasure — for I was growing tired of the wilderness, despite its beauty — Miss Crawford expressed a wish to go into the Park. I tried the gate; it was not locked; and we went through.

We came at last to the avenue.

‘So these are the trees Mr. Rushworth thinks his landscaper will cut down,’ mused Miss Crawford.

‘Indeed.’

‘It would look better, I agree, for it would open the prospect wonderfully, but I am glad the avenue is here today. It is much pleasanter beneath the trees.’

We sat beneath them and talked of many things, Miss Crawford charming me as she so easily does, and I began to think that, if only she could be brought to think seriously from time to time, she would be my idea of a perfect woman.

We soon resumed our walk and found Fanny much rested on our return. I gave her my arm and we walked back to the house, where soon the whole party assembled for dinner. The talk was all of the projected improvements to the estate and we set out for home in great good humor. It was a beautiful evening, mild and still, and I could not help wishing for more such days, and such evenings, in the future.

Monday 15 August

The mail brought a letter from my father, saying he intended to take his passage in the September packet, and that he would be with us in November.

The Crawfords dined with us this evening and Miss Crawford looked lovelier than ever in a simple muslin gown. After tea, as we stood by the window looking out into the twilight, the pearls in her dusky hair glowed like the moon in the darkening sky and I had an urge to lift my hand to her head. It was only with difficulty that I resisted.

‘Your father’s return will be an interesting event,’ she said, turning towards me.

‘It will indeed, after such an absence; an absence not only long, but including so many dangers,’ I agreed.

‘It will be the forerunner also of other interesting events; your sister’s marriage, and your taking orders,’ she said pensively.

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t be affronted,’ she said, with an air both humorous and restless, ‘but it does put me in mind of some of the old heathen heroes, who after performing great exploits in a foreign land, offered sacrifices to the gods on their safe return.’

‘There is no sacrifice in the case,’ I said, glancing at Maria, who sat at the pianoforte with Rushworth, ‘it is entirely her own doing.’

‘Oh yes I know it is. I was merely joking. She has done no more than what every young woman would do; and I have no doubt of her being extremely happy. My other sacrifice, of course, you do not understand.’

But she was wrong; I did understand; and I assured her that my taking orders was also voluntary.

‘It is fortunate that your inclination and your father’s convenience should accord so well,’ she said. ‘There is a very good living kept for you, I understand, hereabouts.’

‘Which you suppose has biased me? It has, but not in any blameworthy way: I do not see why a man should make a worse clergyman because he knows he will have a competence early in life.’

Fanny had joined us and she added her agreement, saying, ‘It is the same sort of thing as for the son of an admiral to go into the Navy, or the son of a general to be in the Army, and nobody sees anything wrong in that. Nobody wonders that they should prefer the line where their friends can serve them best, or suspects them to be less in earnest in it than they appear.’

‘No, my dear Miss Price, and for reasons good,’ said Miss Crawford. ‘The profession, either Navy or Army, is its own justification. It has everything in its favor: heroism, danger, bustle, fashion. Soldiers and sailors are always acceptable in society. Nobody can wonder that men are soldiers and sailors.’

‘But the motives of a man who takes orders with the certainty of preferment may be fairly suspected, you think?’ I asked. ‘To be justified in your eyes, he must do it in the most complete uncertainty of any provision.’

‘What! take orders without a living! No; that is madness indeed; absolute madness.’

‘Shal I ask you how the church is to be filled, if a man is neither to take orders with a living nor without?’ I asked her in amusement. ‘No; for you certainly would not know what to say.’

At this she smiled, acknowledging the point.

‘But I must beg some advantage to the clergyman from your own argument,’ I went on. ‘As he cannot be influenced by those feelings which you rank highly as temptations to the soldier and sailor in their choice of a profession; as heroism, and noise, and fashion, are all against him, he ought to be less liable to the suspicion of wanting sincerity or good intentions in the choice of his.’

‘Oh! no doubt he is very sincere in preferring an income ready made, to the trouble of working for one; and has the best intentions of doing nothing all the rest of his days but eat, drink, and grow fat,’ she said airily. ‘It is indolence, Mr. Bertram, indeed; indolence and love of ease; a want of all laudable ambition, of taste for good company, or of inclination to take the trouble of being agreeable, which make men clergymen. A clergyman has nothing to do but be slovenly and selfish — read the newspaper, watch the weather, and quarrel with his wife. His curate does all the work, and the business of his own life is to dine.’

‘You can have been personally acquainted with very few of a set of men you condemn so conclusively,’ I said, thinking, as before, that her thoughts came from others and not herself, for she had not enough experience to draw such conclusions from the few opportunities she had had to mix with clergymen. ‘You are speaking what you have been told at your uncle’s table.’

But she immediately contradicted me.

‘I have been so little addicted to take my opinions from my uncle that I can hardly suppose — and since you push me so hard, I must observe, that I am not entirely without the means of seeing what clergymen are, being at this present time the guest of my own brother, Dr Grant. And though Dr Grant is most kind and obliging to me, and though he is really a gentleman, and, I dare say, a good scholar and clever, and often preaches good sermons, and is very respectable, I see him to be an indolent, selfish bon-vivant, who must have his palate consulted in everything; who will not stir a finger for the convenience of any one; and who, moreover, if the cook makes a blunder, is out of humor with his excellent wife. To own the truth, Henry and I were partly driven out this very evening by a disappointment about a green goose, which he could not get the better of. My poor sister was forced to stay and bear it.’

My suspicions were every moment being confirmed. She had only had bad examples before her and so it was not to be wondered at that she should feel as she did. But I hoped that when she had seen more she would change her mind; and I knew her to be so reasonable that I did not have a doubt of it.

‘It is a great defect of temper, and to see your sister suffering from it must be exceedingly painful to such feelings as yours,’ I acknowledged. ‘Fanny, it goes against us. We cannot attempt to defend Dr Grant.’

‘No, but we need not give up his profession for all that,’ said Fanny. ‘Besides, a sensible man like Dr Grant cannot go to church twice every Sunday, and preach such very good sermons, without being the better for it himself. It must make him think; and I have no doubt that he oftener endeavors to restrain himself than he would if he had been anything but a clergyman.’

‘We cannot prove to the contrary, to be sure; but I wish you a better fate, Miss Price, than to be the wife of a man whose amiableness depends upon his own sermons,’ said Miss Crawford satirically. ‘For though he may preach himself into a good humor every Sunday, it will be bad enough to have him quarrelling about green geese from Monday morning till Saturday night.’

‘I think the man who could often quarrel with Fanny must be beyond the reach of any sermons,’ I said affectionately.

Fanny smiled, and turned her face to the window so that I should not see how much my words had pleased her. I thought how pretty she was looking, and I was glad that my father was returning, so that she would soon be able to take part in all the pleasures of life to which her growing maturity entitled her.

‘I fancy Miss Price has been more used to deserve praise than to hear it,’ said Miss Crawford, seeing how shyly she received the compliment.

I was about to say that that would change when Fanny went more into society, but I was forestalled by Maria calling for Miss Crawford from the pianoforte, and inviting her to join them in a glee.

Miss Crawford agreed at once, tripping off to the instrument. I looked after her, thinking what a wonderful woman she was, from her obliging manners down to her light and graceful tread.

‘There goes good humor, I am sure,’ I said. ‘How well she walks! and how readily she falls in with the inclination of others! joining them the moment she is asked. What a pity that she should have been in such hands!’

Fanny agreed, for if Miss Crawford had had better friends and relatives, it was clear to both of us that her opinions would have matched our own.

We remained by the window and looked out into the darkening night. all that was solemn and soothing and lovely appeared in the brilliancy of the unclouded sky, and the contrast of the deep shade of the woods.

‘Here’s harmony!’ said Fanny softly. ‘Here’s repose! Here’s what may leave all painting and all music behind, and what poetry only can attempt to describe! Here’s what may tranquillize every care, and lift the heart to rapture! When I look out on such a night as this, I feel as if there could be neither wickedness nor sorrow in the world.’

She spoke with great feeling, and I said it was a great pity that not everyone had been given a taste of nature, for they lost a great deal by it.

‘You taught me to think and feel on the subject,’ she said with a warm smile.

‘I had a very apt scholar,’ I replied. I turned my head to look up at the star-speckled sky. ‘There’s Arcturus looking very bright.’

‘Yes, and the Bear,’ mused Fanny. ‘I wish I could see Cassiopeia. ’

‘We must go out on the lawn for that. Should you be afraid?’

‘Not in the least. It is a great while since we have had any stargazing.’

‘I do not know how it has happened,’ I said.

I was about to give her my arm and suggest we supply our recent lack, when the bustle around the pianoforte died down and the music began.

‘We will stay till this is finished, Fanny,’ I said.

I walked over to the instrument and as I did so Miss Crawford began to sing. I was enchanted by her voice which flowed, silvery, into the warm night; and I was enraptured by the sight of her standing with her hands clasped in front of her, showing the delicacy of her white arms and the grace of her carriage. I was so enchanted by the whole that, when it was over, I asked to hear it again.

The evening at last broke up and I walked Miss Crawford’s party back to the rectory. It was only when I returned to the Park that I realized that Fanny and I had not had our stargazing, after all.

Saturday 27 August

Tom has returned and has regaled us all with stories of Brighton and Weymouth, of parties and friends, and all his doings of the last six weeks. I watched Miss Crawford, fearing to see signs of her earlier liking for him returning but, although she listened politely to everything he had to say, she seemed more interested in talking to me. It relieved me more than I can say. Her face, her voice, her carriage, her air, all delight me. Indeed, I find myself thinking that, if I had anything to offer her, I would be in some danger, for she is the most bewitching woman I have ever met.

Monday 29 August

Henry Crawford has returned to his own estate in Norfolk, for he cannot afford to be absent in September when there is so much to be done. My sisters seem listless without him, for they have both greatly enjoyed his company, but Miss Crawford and Fanny are the same as ever and their spirits carry us through.

Tuesday 30 August

Owen wrote to me this morning inviting me to stay with his family again at Christmas. He suggested I make it a longer visit than previously, as we are going to be ordained together, and I have accepted.