“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 shown, 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 showing the Crawfords the country, and doing the honors of its finest spots. Everything answered; it was all gaiety and good-humor, 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 good humor, 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 showing 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 humor, 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 good-humor, 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 today for above an hour.”