The novelty of travelling, and the happiness of being with William, soon raised Fanny's spirits; and by the time their first stage was ended, and they quit Sir Thomas's carriage, she was able to take leave of the old coachman, and send back proper messages, with cheerful looks.
Of pleasant talk between the brother and sister there was no end. Everything supplied amusement to the high glee of William's mind, and he was full of frolic and joke. All his talk ended in praise of the Thrush, schemes for battle, or speculations upon prize-money, which was to be generously distributed at home, keeping back only enough to make the little cottage comfortable, in which he and Fanny were to pass their later life together.
Fanny's immediate concerns involving Mr. Crawford made no part of their conversation. William knew what had passed, and lamented that his sister's feelings should be so cold towards a man whom he must consider as the first of human characters; but knowing her wish on the subject, he would not distress her by the slightest allusion to it.
She knew herself to be not yet forgotten by Mr. Crawford. She had heard repeatedly from his sister since their leaving Mansfield, and in each letter there had been a few lines from himself, warm and determined like his speeches.
It was a correspondence which Fanny found quite as unpleasant as she had feared. Miss Crawford's lively style of writing was itself an evil, for Edmund would never rest till she had read the letter to him; and then she had to listen to his admiration of her language and her warm attachments. There was, in fact, so much of message and allusion in every letter, that Fanny could only suppose it was meant for him to hear; and to find herself compelled into a correspondence which was bringing her the addresses of the man she did not love, and obliging her to administer to the passion of the man she did, was cruelly mortifying. Once she was no longer under the same roof as Edmund, she trusted that Miss Crawford would have less motive for writing, and that at Portsmouth their correspondence would dwindle into nothing.
With such thoughts as these, Fanny proceeded in her journey cheerfully. They made no stop till they reached Newbury, where a comfortable meal wound up the enjoyments and fatigues of the day.
The next morning saw them off again at an early hour; and they neared Portsmouth while there was yet daylight for Fanny to look around her, and wonder at the new buildings. They passed the drawbridge, and entered the town; and as the light was beginning to fail, they were rattled into a narrow street, and drawn up before the door of a small house now inhabited by Mr. Price.
Fanny was all fluttering hope and apprehension. A trollopy-looking maidservant stepped forward, and more intent on telling the news than giving them any help, immediately began with, "The Thrush is gone out of harbour, please sir, and one of the officers has been here to—"
She was interrupted by a fine tall boy of eleven years old, who, rushing out of the house, pushed the maid aside, and called out, "You are just in time, William. We have been looking for you this half-hour. The Thrush went out of harbour this morning. They think she will have her orders in a day or two. And Mr. Campbell was here at four o'clock to ask for you: he is going to her at six, and hoped you would be here in time to go with him."
A stare at Fanny, as William helped her out of the carriage, was all the notice which this brother gave her; but he made no objection to her kissing him, though still entirely engaged in detailing farther particulars of the Thrush's going out of harbour, in which he had a strong interest, being about to commence his career of seamanship in her at this very time.
Another moment and Fanny was in the narrow entrance-passage of the house, and in the arms of her mother, who met her with looks of true kindness, and with features which Fanny loved the more, because they were like her aunt Bertram's. There also were her two sisters: Susan, a well-grown fine girl of fourteen, and Betsey, the youngest of the family, about five—both glad to see her in their way, though without any polish to their manners in receiving her. But manner Fanny did not want. Would they but love her, she should be satisfied.
She was taken into a parlour, so small that she thought at first it was only a passage, and stood for a moment expecting to be invited on; but when she saw there was no other door, and that there were signs of habitation before her, she reproved herself, and grieved lest her thoughts should have been suspected. Her mother, however, could not stay long enough to suspect anything. She was gone again to welcome William.
"Oh! my dear William, how glad I am to see you. But have you heard about the Thrush? She is gone out of harbour already; and I do not know what I am to do about Sam's things, they will never be ready in time. And now you must be off for Spithead too. Campbell has been here, and now what shall we do? I thought to have had such a comfortable evening with you, and here everything comes upon me at once."
Her son answered cheerfully, making light of his own inconvenience in being obliged to hurry away so soon.
"To be sure, I had much rather she had stayed in harbour, that I might have sat a few hours with you in comfort; but as there is a boat ashore, I had better go off. Whereabouts does the Thrush lay at Spithead? But no matter; here's Fanny. Come, mother, you have hardly looked at your own dear Fanny yet."
Mrs. Price, having kindly kissed her daughter again, and commented on her growth, said with solicitude, "Poor dears! how tired you must both be! and now, what will you have? I began to think you would never come. Betsey and I have been watching for you this half-hour. And when did you get anything to eat? And what would you like to have now? I did not know what you would like, or else I would have got something ready. I am afraid Campbell will be here before there is time to dress a steak, and we have no butcher at hand. It is very inconvenient to have no butcher in the street. Perhaps you would like some tea."
They both declared they should prefer it to anything. "Then, Betsey, my dear, run into the kitchen and see if Rebecca has put the water on; and tell her to bring in the tea-things. I wish we could get the bell mended; but Betsey is a very handy little messenger."
Betsey went with alacrity, proud to show her abilities before her fine new sister.
"Dear me!" continued the anxious mother, "what a sad fire we have got, and I dare say you are both cold. Draw your chair nearer, my dear. I cannot think what Rebecca has been about. I am sure I told her to bring some coals half an hour ago. Susan, you should have taken care of the fire."
"I was upstairs, mama, moving my things," said Susan, in a fearless, self-defending tone, which startled Fanny. "You know you had settled that Fanny and I should have the other room; and I could not get Rebecca to give me any help."
Farther discussion was prevented by various bustles: first, the driver came to be paid; then there was a squabble between Sam and Rebecca about the manner of carrying up his sister's trunk, which he would manage all his own way; and lastly, in walked Mr. Price himself, his own loud voice preceding him, as with something of the oath kind he kicked away his son's bag and his daughter's hatbox in the passage, called out for a candle, and walked into the room.
Fanny had risen to meet him, but sank down again on finding herself undistinguished in the dusk, and unthought of. With a friendly shake of his son's hand, he instantly began—
"Ha! welcome back, my boy. Glad to see you. Have you heard the news? The Thrush went out of harbour this morning. By G—, you are just in time! The doctor has been here inquiring for you: he has got one of the boats, and is to be off for Spithead by six, so you had better go with him. I should not wonder if you had your orders to-morrow: but you cannot sail with this wind, if you are to cruise to the westward; and Captain Walsh thinks you will certainly have a cruise to the westward, with the Elephant. By G—, I wish you may! Well, we are ready, whatever happens. But by G—, you lost a fine sight by not being here in the morning to see the Thrush go out of harbour! If ever there was a perfect beauty afloat, she is one; and there she lays at Spithead, and anybody in England would take her for an eight-and-twenty. She lays close to the Endymion, between her and the Cleopatra."
"
Ha!" cried William, "that's just where I should have put her myself. It's the best berth at Spithead. But here is Fanny, sir; it is so dark you do not see her."
With an acknowledgment that he had quite forgot her, Mr. Price now received his daughter; and having given her a cordial hug, and observed that she was grown into a woman, seemed inclined to forget her again. Fanny shrunk back to her seat, sadly pained by his language and his smell of spirits; and he talked on only to his son, and only of the Thrush, though William, warmly interested as he was in that subject, more than once tried to make his father think of Fanny, and her long absence and long journey.
After some time, a candle was obtained; but as there was still no appearance of tea, William decided to go and change his dress, and prepare for his removal on board, so that he might have his tea in comfort afterwards.
As he left the room, two rosy-faced boys, ragged and dirty, about eight and nine years old, rushed into it, just released from school, and coming eagerly to see their sister and tell that the Thrush was gone out of harbour; Tom and Charles. Charles had been born since Fanny's going away, but Tom she had often helped to nurse, and now felt a particular pleasure in seeing again. Both were kissed very tenderly, but Tom she wanted to keep by her, to try to trace the features of the baby she had loved. Tom, however, had no mind for such treatment: he came home not to stand and be talked to, but to run about and make a noise; and both boys had soon burst from her, and slammed the parlour-door till her temples ached.
She had now seen all that were at home; there remained only two brothers between herself and Susan, one of whom was a clerk in London, and the other a midshipman on board an Indiaman.
But though she had seen all the members of the family, she had not yet heard all the noise they could make. Another quarter of an hour brought her a great deal more. William was soon calling out from the landing for his mother and Rebecca. A key was mislaid, Betsey was accused of having got at his new hat, and some slight, but essential alteration of his uniform waistcoat, which he had been promised to have done for him, had been entirely neglected.
Mrs. Price, Rebecca, and Betsey all went up to defend themselves, all talking together, but Rebecca loudest; William trying in vain to send Betsey down again; the whole of which, as almost every door in the house was open, could be plainly distinguished in the parlour, except when drowned by the superior noise of Sam, Tom, and Charles chasing each other up and down stairs, and tumbling about and hallooing.
Fanny was almost stunned. The smallness of the house and thinness of the walls brought everything so close to her, that, added to the fatigue of her journey, she hardly knew how to bear it. Within the room all was tranquil enough, for there were only her father and herself remaining; and he, taking out a newspaper, applied himself to studying it, without seeming to recollect her existence. The solitary candle was held between himself and the paper; but she was glad to have the light screened from her aching head, as she sat in bewildered, broken contemplation.
She was at home. But, alas! it was not such a home, she had not such a welcome, as—she checked herself; she was unreasonable. What right had she to be of importance to her family? William's concerns must be dearest, and he had every right. Yet to have so little asked about herself, to have scarcely an inquiry made after Mansfield! It did pain her to have Mansfield forgotten; the friends who had done so much—the dear, dear friends!
Perhaps it must be so. The destination of the Thrush must be now pre-eminently interesting. A day or two might show the difference. She only was to blame. Yet she thought it would not have been so at Mansfield. No, in her uncle's house there would have been a propriety, an attention towards everybody which there was not here.
The only interruption which her thoughts received for half an hour was from a sudden burst of her father's. At a more than ordinary pitch of thumping and hallooing in the passage, he exclaimed, "Devil take those young dogs! How they are singing out! Holla, you there! Sam, stop your confounded pipe, or I shall be after you."
This threat was so palpably disregarded, that though five minutes afterwards the three boys all burst into the room together and sat down, Fanny could not consider it as a proof of anything more than their being for the time thoroughly fagged, which their panting breaths seemed to prove, especially as they were still kicking each other's shins, and hallooing out at sudden starts immediately under their father's eye.
The next opening of the door brought something more welcome: the tea-things, which she had begun almost to despair of seeing that evening. Susan and an attendant girl, whose inferior appearance informed Fanny, to her great surprise, that she had previously seen the upper servant, brought in everything necessary for the meal.
Susan, putting the kettle on the fire and glancing at her sister, looked as if divided between the triumph of showing her usefulness, and the dread of being thought to demean herself by such a task. "She had been into the kitchen," she said, "to hurry Sally and help make the toast, and spread the bread and butter, or she did not know when they should have got tea, and she was sure her sister must want something after her journey."
Fanny was very thankful. Susan immediately set about making the tea; and with only a little unnecessary bustle, and some injudicious attempts at keeping her brothers in order, acquitted herself very well. Fanny's spirit was as much refreshed as her body; her head and heart were soon the better for such well-timed kindness. Susan had an open, sensible countenance; she was like William, and Fanny hoped to find her like him in disposition and goodwill.
William re-entered, followed by his mother and Betsey. He, complete in his lieutenant's uniform, looking all the taller, firmer, and more graceful for it, and with the happiest smile over his face, walked up directly to Fanny, who, rising from her seat in speechless admiration, threw her arms round his neck to sob out her pleasure.
Anxious not to appear unhappy, she soon recovered, and was able to admire his dress; listening with reviving spirits to his cheerful hopes of being on shore some part of every day before they sailed, and even of getting her to Spithead to see the ship.
The next bustle brought in Mr. Campbell, the surgeon of the Thrush, a very well-behaved young man, who came to call for his friend, and for whom there was with some contrivance found a chair, and with some hasty washing of the young tea-maker's, a cup and saucer; and after earnest talk between the gentlemen, noise rising upon noise, and bustle upon bustle, the moment came for setting off; everything was ready, William took leave, and all of them were gone; for the three boys were determined to see their brother and Mr. Campbell to the sally-port; and Mr. Price walked off at the same time.
Something like tranquillity might now be hoped for. Accordingly, when Rebecca had been prevailed on to carry away the tea-things, the small party of females was pretty well composed, and the mother was at leisure to think of her eldest daughter and the friends she had come from.
A few inquiries began: but one of the earliest—"How did sister Bertram manage about her servants?"—soon led her mind away from Northamptonshire, and fixed it on her own domestic grievances; and the shocking character of all the Portsmouth servants, of whom she believed her own two were the very worst, engrossed her completely.
Fanny was silent. As she sat looking at Betsey, she could not help thinking of another sister, a very pretty little girl, whom she had left when she went into Northamptonshire, and who had died a few years afterwards. Fanny in those days had preferred her to Susan; and when the news of her death had reached Mansfield, had been quite afflicted. The sight of Betsey brought the image of little Mary back again, but she would not have pained her mother by alluding to her for the world. Meanwhile Betsey was holding out something to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it at the same time from Susan's.
"What have you got there, my love?" said Fanny; "come and show it to me."
It was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claiming it as her own, and trying to get it away; but the child ran to her mother's protection, and Susan could onl
y reproach. "It was very hard that she was not to have her own knife; little sister Mary had left it to her upon her deathbed, and she ought to have had it to keep. But mama kept it from her, and was always letting Betsey get hold of it; and the end of it would be that Betsey would spoil it, and get it for her own."
Fanny was quite shocked. Every feeling of duty, honour, and tenderness was wounded by her sister's speech and her mother's reply.
"Now, Susan," cried Mrs. Price, in a complaining voice, "how can you be so cross? You are always quarrelling about that knife. Poor little Betsey; how cross Susan is to you! But you should not have taken it out of the drawer, my dear. You know I told you not to touch it, because Susan is so cross about it. I must hide it another time, Betsey. Poor Mary little thought it would be such a bone of contention when she gave it me to keep. Poor little soul! She said, 'Let sister Susan have my knife, mama, when I am dead.' She was so fond of it, Fanny, that she would have it lay by her in bed, all through her illness. It was the gift of her godmother. Poor little sweet creature! Well, she was taken away from evil to come. My own Betsey, you have not the luck of such a good godmother. Aunt Norris lives too far off to think of such little people as you."
Indeed, Fanny had nothing to convey from aunt Norris, but a message to say she hoped that her god-daughter was a good girl, and learnt her book. Mrs. Norris had thought of sending her a prayer-book; had taken down two old prayer-books of her husband with that idea; but, upon examination, the ardour of generosity went off. One was found to have too small a print for a child’s eyes, and the other to be too cumbersome.
Fanny, fatigued, was thankful to accept the first invitation of going to bed, leaving all below in confusion and noise again; the boys begging for toasted cheese, her father calling out for his rum and water, and Rebecca never where she ought to be.
There was nothing to raise her spirits in the confined and scantily furnished chamber that she was to share with Susan. The smallness of the rooms, and the narrowness of the passage and staircase, struck her. She thought with respect of her own little attic at Mansfield Park, which in that house was reckoned too small for anybody's comfort.
CHAPTER 39