Fanny watched him with never-failing solicitude. Sometimes catching his eye, she revived an affectionate smile, which comforted her. But the first day’s journey passed, without hearing a word from him on the subjects weighing him down.

The next morning produced a little more. Just before their setting out from Oxford, while Susan was stationed at a window, in eager observation of the departure of a large family from the inn, the other two were standing by the fire. Edmund was particularly struck by the alteration in Fanny’s looks. And from his ignorance of the daily evils of her father’s house, he attributed an undue share of the change, to the recent event. He took Fanny’s hand, and said in a low, but very expressive tone, “No wonder—you must feel it—you must suffer. How a man who had once loved, could desert you! But yours—your regard was new compared with—Fanny, think of me!”

Fanny felt another stab of sorrow in her heart.

The first part of their journey occupied a long day, and brought them, almost knocked up[31], to Oxford; but the second was over at a much earlier hour. They were in the environs of Mansfield long before dinner-time, and as they approached the beloved place, the hearts of both sisters sank a little.

Fanny began to dread the meeting with her aunts and Tom, under so dreadful a humiliation. Susan started to feel with some anxiety, that all her best manners, all her lately acquired knowledge of what was practised here, was on the point of being called into action. Visions of good and ill breeding, of old vulgarisms and new gentilities, were before her, and she was meditating much upon silver forks, napkins, and finger-glasses.

Fanny had been everywhere awake to the difference of the country since February. But when they entered the Park her perceptions and her pleasures were of the keenest sort. It was full three months since her quitting it, and the change was from winter to summer. Her eye fell everywhere on lawns and plantations of the freshest green. And the trees, though not fully clothed, were in that delightful state when further beauty is known to be at hand, and more yet remains for the imagination.

Her enjoyment, however, was for herself alone. Edmund could not share it. She looked at him, but he was leaning back, sunk in a deeper gloom than ever, and with eyes closed, as if the view of cheerfulness oppressed him, and the lovely scenes of home must be shut out.

It made her sad again. And the knowledge of what must be enduring there, invested even the house—modern, airy, and well situated as it was—with a melancholy aspect.