It was the only point of resemblance. There was nothing alike in the two apartments. Fanny often heaved a sigh at the remembrance of all her books and boxes, and various comforts at Mansfield. By degrees the girls came to spend the mornings upstairs, at first only in working and talking, but after a few days, the remembrance of the said books grew so potent that Fanny found it impossible not to try for books again.

There were none in her father’s house. But wealth is luxurious and daring, and some of hers found its way to a circulating library. She became a subscriber; amazed at her own doings in every way, to be a renter, a chuser of books! And to chuse with another’s improvement in mind! But so it was. Susan had read nothing, and Fanny longed to share her own first pleasures, and inspire a taste for the biography and poetry which she delighted in.

In this occupation she hoped to bury some of the recollections of Mansfield. Reading might divert her thoughts from pursuing Edmund to London. She had no doubt of what would ensue there. The promised notification was hanging over her head. The postman’s knock brought its daily terrors, and reading could at least temporarily banish them.

Chapter XLI

A week was gone since Edmund might be supposed in town, and Fanny had heard nothing. There were three different conclusions to be drawn from his silence. Either his going had been again delayed, or he had yet procured no opportunity of seeing Miss Crawford alone, or he was too happy for letter-writing!

One morning, having now been nearly four weeks from Mansfield, Fanny and Susan were preparing to remove, as usual, upstairs. They were stopped by the knock of a visitor, whom they felt they could not avoid, judging from Rebecca’s alertness in going to the door, a duty which always interested her beyond any other.

It was a gentleman’s voice—a voice that Fanny was just turning pale about, when Mr. Crawford walked into the room.

Good sense will always act when really called upon. Fanny found that she had been able to name him to her mother, and recall her remembrance of the name, as that of “William’s friend,” though she could not previously have believed herself capable of uttering a syllable at such a moment.

Mr. Crawford, here at Portsmouth! Fanny wanted nothing more than to disappear like a little mouse into the floor (where either Mr. Rushworth or Mrs. Norris were more than welcome to do away with her—a fate less disastrous than what awaited her in the present moment).

The consciousness of his being known there only as William’s friend was some support. Having introduced him, and being all reseated, Fanny did not know how to proceed next. The terrors of what this visit might lead to were overpowering, and she fancied herself on the point of fainting away.