they parted at night Edmund asked Fanny whether she meant to ride the next day.
“No, I do not know–not if you want the mare,” was her answer.
“I do not want her at all for myself,” said he; “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,” said Fanny; “I have been out very often lately, and would rather stay at home. You know I am strong enough now to walk very well.”
Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny’s comfort, and the ride to Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the time, and doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful scheme of this sort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield Common disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There were many other views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot, there were shady lanes wherever they wanted to go. A young party is always provided with a shady lane. Four fine mornings successively were spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the country, and doing the honours of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety and goodhumour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to be talked of with pleasure–till the fourth day, when the happiness of one of the party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was the one. Edmund and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and she was excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect goodhumour, on Mr. Rushworth’s account, who was partly expected at the Park that day; but it was felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were severely taxed to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home. As Mr. Rushworth did not come, the injury was increased, and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, and throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert.
Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece’s ill-humour, and having asked one or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around, said, “But where is Fanny? Is she gone to bed?”
“No, not that I know of,” replied Mrs. Norris; “she was here a moment ago.”
Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room, which was a very long one, told them that she was on the sofa. Mrs. Norris began scolding.
“That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to be idling away all the evening upon a sofa. 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. There is all the new calico, that was bought last week, not touched yet. I am sure I almost broke my back by cutting it out. 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.”
Before half this was said, Fanny was returned to her seat at the table, and had taken up her work again; and Julia, who was in high goodhumour, from the pleasures of the day, did her the justice of exclaiming, “I must say, ma’am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa as anybody in the house.”
“Fanny,” said Edmund, after looking at her attentively, “I am sure you have the headache.”
She could not deny it, but said it was not very bad.
“I can hardly believe you,” he replied; “I know your looks too well. How long have you had it?”
“Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat.”
“Did you go out in the heat?”
“Go out! to be sure she did,” said Mrs. Norris: “would you have her stay within such a fine day as this? Were not we all out? Even your mother was out to-day for above an hour.”
“Yes, indeed, Edmund,” added her ladyship, who had been thoroughly awakened by Mrs. Norris’s sharp reprimand to Fanny; “I was out above an hour. I sat three-quarters of an hour in the flower-garden, while Fanny cut the roses; and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very hot. It was shady enough in the alcove, but I declare I quite dreaded the coming home again.”
“Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?”
“Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year. Poor thing! She found it hot enough; but they were so full-blown that one could not wait.”
“There was no help for it, certainly,” rejoined Mrs. Norris, in a rather softened voice; “but I question whether her headache might not be caught then, sister. There is nothing so likely to give it as standing and stooping in a hot sun; but I dare say it will be well tomorrow. Suppose you let her have your aromatic vinegar; I always forget to have mine filled.”
“She has got it,” said Lady Bertram; “she has had it ever since she came back from your house the second time.”
“What!” cried Edmund; “has she been walking as well as cutting roses; walking across the hot park to your house, and doing it twice, ma’am? No wonder her head aches.”
Mrs. Norris was talking to Julia, and did not hear.
“I was afraid it would be too much for her,” said Lady Bertram; “but when the roses were gathered, your aunt wished to have them, and then you know they must be taken home.”
“But were there roses enough to oblige her to go twice?”
“No; but they were to be put into the spare room to dry; and, unluckily, Fanny forgot to lock the door of the room and bring away the key, so she was obliged to go again.”
Edmund got up and walked about the room, saying, “And could nobody be employed on such an errand but Fanny? Upon my word, ma’am, it has been a very ill-managed business.”
“I am sure I do not know how it was to have been done better,” cried Mrs. Norris, unable to be longer deaf; “unless I had gone myself, indeed; but I cannot be in two places at once; and I was talking to Mr. Green at that very time about your mother’s dairymaid, by her desire, and had promised John Groom to write to Mrs. Jefferies about his son, and the poor fellow was waiting for me half an hour. I think nobody can justly accuse me of sparing myself upon any occasion, but really I cannot do everything at once. And as for Fanny’s just stepping down to my house for me–it is not much above a quarter of a mile–I cannot think I was unreasonable to ask it. How often do I pace it three times a day, early and late, ay, and in all weathers too, and say nothing about it?”
“I wish Fanny had half your strength, ma’am.”
“If Fanny would be more regular in her exercise, she would not be knocked up so soon. 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. If she had been riding before, I should not have asked it of
