Fanny was doubly silenced here. Though when the moment had passed, she regretted not asking him to say something more of his sister and Edmund. It was a subject which she must learn to speak of. Her weakness in that regard would soon be quite unpardonable.

When Mr. Price and his friend had seen all that they wished, and talked all they would of the “insolent dockyard villains”—as they came to refer to the mummies—the others were ready to return.

In the course of their walk back, Mr. Crawford contrived a minute’s privacy for telling Fanny that his only business in Portsmouth was to see her; that he was come down for a couple of days on her account, and hers only, and because he could not endure a longer total separation.

“To be honest, I had no idea to see Eastwind here,” he added, looking meaningfully into her eyes. “Could it be, sweet, kind Fanny, that he is the reason for your denial of me? All this time, could it have been he, indeed who has taken your heart?”

“No. He is but a family friend,” tried Fanny. But, proper deception was never in her nature. However, to keep her true secret, waylay the truth she must.

Crawford’s countenance shewed a light smile.

“You must be aware,” he spoke, “that I understand very well who and what he is. He is an ancient lord of Egypt, an echo of the past. I knew him for what he was from the beginning. You think me insensible to his presence all last autumn and summer, during our Mansfield thespian delights?”

“No, sir, I do not,” replied Fanny, thinking that someone who has a vampire for a sister surely learnt a long time ago to recognize and perceive all flavors of the unnatural.

“He was a shadow eternal. He attached himself to Lady Bertram, of course, but his real object was always you.”

“I—know.”

“Why yes, you do indeed, Fanny! Amazing all-seeing you!”

“Sir, please. I beg you not to speak in this manner.”

“Why? Is it because—possibly—you love him, this ancient ghost?”

“Your jealousy in this regard is stunning and gives me sorrow. And no, I do not.”

Mr. Crawford seemed to take this as she wanted him to, and did not pursue the questioning of her heart’s true desire.

“Then, dearest Fanny, I dare continue to hope on my own behalf,” he said gallantly, adding then hastily: “But of course I might never presume to impose on you with these feelings again, unless you find them interesting. Indeed, the matter of Eastwind is settled and I now put him out of our minds. He might continue to languish for love of you (and who could blame him?), while it is but his minions that might as yet be of continued concern to us.”

Fanny truly did not want to hear any more—of his feelings, of his suspicions, all spoken in platitudes.