The grandeur of the house astonished, but could not console her. The rooms were too large and cluttered for her to move in with ease: whatever she touched she expected to injure. She crept about in constant terror of something or other related to ancient burial; often retreating towards her own chamber to cry. And the little girl who was spoken of in the drawing-room when she left it at night as seeming so desirably sensible of her peculiar good fortune, ended every day’s sorrows by sobbing herself to sleep.

Lady Bertram’s visits to a nearby locked room did not help, since they seemed to occur in the middle of the night. Fanny passed the room on the way downstairs, and she wondered with a strange dread born of instinct, what was within—some gothic mystery of Udolpho, and yet no doubt, something likely quite harmless and imported from Luxor. A week had passed in this way, and no suspicion of it conveyed by her quiet passive manner, when she was found one morning by her cousin Edmund, the youngest of the sons, sitting crying on the attic stairs, next to a Cairo crate.

“My dear little cousin,” said he, with all the gentleness of an excellent nature, “what can be the matter?” And sitting down by her, he was at great pains to overcome her shame in being so surprised, and persuade her to speak openly. Was she ill? or was anybody angry with her? or had she quarrelled with Maria and Julia? or was she puzzled about anything in her antiquities lesson that he could explain? Did she, in short, want anything he could possibly get her, or do for her? For a long while no answer could be obtained beyond a “no, no—not at all—no, thank you”; but he still persevered; and no sooner had he begun to refer to her own home, than her increased sobs explained to him where the grievance lay. He tried to console her.

“You are sorry to leave Mama, my dear little Fanny,” said he, “which shows you to be a very good girl. But you must remember that you are with relations and friends, who all love you, and wish to make you happy. Let us walk out in the park, and you shall tell me all about your brothers and sisters. And I will be sure to tell you all about mine. After I am all done, you will be quite shocked, I dare say, possibly terrified, and even astounded out of your misery. You see, dear Fanny, Mansfield Park is under a Dreadful Ancient Curse. But it’s quite all right, because, you see, I have it all quite under control.”

“I beg pardon, cousin,” Fanny inquired, “did I hear you speak correctly, a—Curse?”

“Yes, dearest Fanny, and it is tremendously exciting!”

“What do you mean?”