“You have been here a month, I think?” said he.
“No. Not quite a month.—It is only four weeks tomorrow since I left Mansfield.”
“You are a most accurate and honest reckoner. I should call that a month.”
“I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening.”
“And it is to be a two months’ visit, is not it?”
“Yes.—My uncle talked of two months. I suppose it will not be less.”
“And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for you?”
“I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched exactly at the two months’ end.”
After a moment’s reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, “I know Mansfield, I know its way, I know its faults towards you. I know the danger of your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the imaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am aware that you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle everything for coming himself, or sending your aunt’s maid for you, without involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he may have laid down for the next quarter of a year. This will not do. Two months is an ample allowance, I should think six weeks quite enough.—I am considering your sister’s health,” said he, addressing himself to Susan, “which I think the confinement of Portsmouth unfavorable to. She requires constant air and exercise. When you know her as well as I do, I am sure you will agree that she does, and that she ought never to be long banished from the free air, and liberty of the country.—If, therefore (turning again to Fanny), you find yourself growing unwell, and any difficulties arise about your returning to Mansfield—without waiting for the two months to be ended—that must not be regarded as of any consequence, if you feel yourself at all less strong, or comfortable than usual, and will only let my sister know it, give her only the slightest hint, she and I will immediately come down, and take you back to Mansfield. You know the ease, and the pleasure with which this would be done. You know all that would be felt on the occasion.”
Fanny thanked him, but tried to laugh it off.
“I am perfectly serious,”—he replied,—”as you perfectly know.—And I hope you will not be cruelly concealing any tendency to indisposition.—Indeed, you shall not, it shall not be in your power, for so long only as you positively say, in every letter to Mary, ‘I am well.’—and I know you cannot speak or write a falsehood,—so long only shall you be considered as well.”
Fanny thanked him again, but was affected and distressed to a degree that made it impossible for her to say much, or even to be certain of what she ought to say.—This was towards the close of their walk. He attended them to the last, and left them only at the door of their own house, when he knew them to be going to dinner, and therefore pretended to be waited for elsewhere.
“I wish you were not so tired,” said he, still detaining Fanny after all the others were in the house; “I wish I left you in stronger health.—Is there any thing I can do for you in town? I have half an idea of going into Norfolk again soon. I am not satisfied about Maddison.—I am sure he still means to impose on me if possible, and get a cousin of his own into a certain mill, which I design for somebody else.—I must come to an understanding with him. I must make him know that I will not be tricked on the south side of Everingham, any more than on the north, that I will be master of my own property. I was not explicit enough with him before.—The mischief such a man does on an estate, both as to the credit of his employer, and the welfare of the poor, is inconceivable. I have a great mind to go back into Norfolk directly, and put everything at once on such a footing as cannot be afterwards swerved from.—Maddison is a clever fellow; I do not wish to displace him—provided he does not try to displace me;—but it would be simple to be duped by a man who has no right of creditor to dupe me—and worse than simple to let him give me a hard-hearted, griping fellow for a tenant, instead of an honest man, to whom I have given half a promise already.—Would not it be worse than simple? Shall I go?—Do you advise it?”