She was now left a good deal to herself, to get acquainted with the house and grounds as she could, and spent her days very happily in so doing. Meanwhile, those who might otherwise have attended to her were shut up, or wholly occupied each with the person quite dependent on them, at this time, for everything like comfort—Edmund trying to bury his own feelings in exertions for the relief of his brother’s, and Fanny devoted to her aunt Bertram, returning to every former office with more than former zeal, and thinking she could never do enough for one who seemed so much to want her.

To talk over the dreadful business with Fanny, talk and lament, was all Lady Bertram’s consolation. To be listened to and borne with, and hear the voice of kindness and sympathy in return, was everything that could be done for her. To be comforted was out of the question—the case admitted of no comfort. Lady Bertram did not think deeply, but, guided by Sir Thomas, she thought justly on all important points. And she saw, therefore, in all its enormity, what had happened, and neither endeavoured herself, nor required Fanny to advise her, to think little of guilt and infamy.

Her affections were not acute, nor was her mind tenacious. After a time, Fanny found it possible to direct her thoughts to other subjects, and revive some interest in the usual occupations (even bringing out an Egyptian statuette or two out of hiding); but whenever Lady Bertram was fixed on the event, she could see it only in one light, as comprehending the loss of a daughter, and a disgrace never to be wiped off.

Fanny learnt from her all the particulars. Her aunt was not a very methodical narrator, but with the help of some letters to and from Sir Thomas, and what she already knew herself, she was soon able to understand the circumstances attending the story.