Since the Miss Bertrams wanted their horses every fine day, and had no idea of carrying their obliging manners to the sacrifice of any real pleasure, that time, of course, never came. They took their cheerful rides in the fine mornings of April and May. Fanny either sat at home the whole day with one aunt, or walked beyond her strength at the instigation of the other: Lady Bertram holding exercise to be as unnecessary for everybody as it was unpleasant to herself, unless it involved unpacking postal boxes; and Mrs. Norris, who was walking all day (and often running in tongue-lolling, saliva scattering frenzy all night), thinking everybody ought to walk as much.

Edmund was absent at this time, or the evil would have been earlier remedied. When he returned, to understand how Fanny was situated, and perceived its ill effects, there seemed with him but one thing to be done. “Fanny must have a horse” was the resolute declaration with which he opposed whatever was voiced by the supineness of his mother, or the economy of his aunt. Mrs. Norris could not help thinking that some steady old equine thing might be found among the numbers belonging to the Park that would do vastly well; or that one might be borrowed of the steward; or that perhaps Dr. Grant might now and then lend them the pony he sent to the post.

“Hah!” exclaimed Edmund to Fanny, taking her aside upon that occasion. “A pony taken from the post? A pony denied the privilege of transporting Cursed Egyptian treasures? Never, not in all Creation!”

“Something is afoot, cousin,” Fanny said meanwhile. “While you’ve been away, your mother has taken to reading hieroglyphics—out loud! As though she knows their meaning. And she promised to have me visit whatever is in that room.”

“Stand firm, dearest Fanny,” he replied. “Your faith will be fixed and strong, and no Curse will have power over it. But—do try to make any excuses possible with mother not to visit that room. And if needed, promise me you will run—”

“Edmund, I will do as you say.”