She was delighted, but her happiness was of a subdued, deep, heart-swelling sort. She could only thank and accept. Afterwards, she could speak more largely to William and Edmund of what she felt. Tenderness and the remembrance of all her earliest pleasures, and her early suffering at parting, came over her with renewed strength. To be in the centre of a circle of family, loved by so many, and more loved by all than she had ever been before; to feel herself the equal of those who surrounded her; to be at peace from all mention of the Crawfords, safe from every reproachful look on their account. This was a prospect to be dwelt on!

Edmund, too—to be two months away from him, must do her good. At a distance, unassailed by his looks or his kindness, safe from the perpetual irritation of knowing his heart, and striving to avoid his confidence, she should be able to reason herself into a properer state. She should be able to think of him with that creature in London, without wretchedness—far easier to endure all this at Portsmouth.

The only drawback was the doubt of her aunt Bertram’s being comfortable without her. She was of use to no one else; but there she might be missed to a degree that she did not like to think of. And, that part of the arrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to accomplish.

But he was master at Mansfield Park. He did induce his wife to let her go; obtaining it rather from submission than conviction, for Lady Bertram was convinced of very little more than that Sir Thomas thought Fanny ought to go, and therefore that she must.

In the calmness of her own dressing-room, in the impartial flow of her own meditations (currently harboring a sorry void where used to repose all of Ancient Egypt), Lady Bertram could not acknowledge any necessity for Fanny’s ever going near a father and mother who had done without her so long, while the girl was so useful to herself. And as to the not missing Fanny (which Mrs. Norris insisted), she refused to admit any such thing.

Sir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscience, and dignity. He called it a sacrifice, and demanded it of her as such. But Mrs. Norris wanted to persuade her that Fanny could be very well spared.

“That may be, sister,” was Lady Bertram’s reply. “But I am sure I shall miss her very much.”

The next step was to communicate with Portsmouth. Fanny wrote to offer herself. And her mother’s answer, though short, was very kind—confirming all the daughter’s views of finding happiness in being with her warm and affectionate “mama” (who had certainly shewn no remarkable fondness for her formerly). Now that Fanny knew better how to be useful (she thought) they should soon be what mother and daughter ought to be to each other.