Could Sir Thomas have seen all his niece’s feelings, when she wrote her first letter to her aunt, he would not have despaired. Though a good night’s rest, a pleasant morning, the hope of soon seeing William again, and the comparatively quiet state of the house (Tom and Charles being gone to school, Sam on some project of his own, and her father on his usual lounges), enabled Fanny to express herself cheerfully on the subject of home, there were still many drawbacks withheld. Could he have seen only half that she felt before the end of a week, he would have thought Mr. Crawford sure of her, and been delighted with his own sagacity.

Before the week ended, it was all disappointment. In the first place, William was gone. The Thrush had had her orders, the wind had changed, and he was sailed within four days from their reaching Portsmouth. During those days she had seen him only twice, in a short and hurried way, when he had come ashore on duty.

There had been no free conversation, no walk on the ramparts, no visit to the dockyard, no acquaintance with the Thrush—nothing of their plans. Everything in that quarter failed her, except William’s affection. His last thought on leaving home was for her. He stepped back again to the door to say, “Take care of Fanny, mother. She is tender, and not used to roughing it like the rest of us. I charge you, take care of Fanny.”

William was gone: and the home he had left her in was the very reverse of what she could have wished. It was the abode of noise, disorder, and impropriety. Nobody was in their right place, nothing was done as it ought to be.

She could not respect her parents as she had hoped. Of her father, her expectations had not been high. But he was more negligent of his family, his habits were worse, and his manners coarser, than she had been prepared for. He did not lack abilities but he had no curiosity, and no learning beyond his profession. He read only the newspaper and the navy-list; he talked only of the dockyard, the harbour, Spithead, and the Motherbank. He swore and he drank, he was dirty and gross. About the only thing he did not have was desiccated peeling skin. . . .

Fanny had never been able to recall anything approaching to tenderness in his former treatment of herself. There had remained only a general impression of roughness and loudness; and now he scarcely ever noticed her, but to make her the object of a coarse joke.