“Now we shall have no more rough road, Miss Crawford; our difficulties are over. The rest of the way is such as it ought to be. Mr. Rushworth has made it since he succeeded to the estate. Here begins the village. Those cottages are really a disgrace. That fellow over there, stumbling around disgracefully—merely ignore him. The church spire is reckoned remarkably handsome. I am glad the church is not so close to the great house as often happens in old places. The annoyance of the bells must be terrible. There is the parsonage: a tidy-looking house, and I understand the clergyman and his wife are very decent people. Those are almshouses, built by some of the family. To the right is the steward’s house; he is a very respectable man. No, that is not the steward himself—looks like another lumbering fellow, also very odd looking, raggedy, with unsightly skin—do please ignore him. Now we are coming to the lodge-gates; but we have nearly a mile through the park still. It is not ugly, you see, at this end; there is some fine timber, but the situation of the house is dreadful. We go down hill to it for half a mile, past those two oddly staggering ruffians—whatever is with so many peculiar drunks? Look, there goes one, walking right into the other as though he were a post! —and it is a pity, for it would not be an ill-looking place if it had a better approach and fewer rabble.”

Miss Crawford was not slow to admire. She pretty well guessed Miss Bertram’s feelings, and made it a point of honour to promote her enjoyment to the utmost. Mrs. Norris was all delight and volubility and yelps. Even Fanny had something to say in admiration, and might be heard with complacency. Her eye was eagerly taking in everything within her reach. And after being at some pains to get a view of the house, and observing that “it was a sort of building which she must look at with respect,” she added: “Now, where is the avenue? The house fronts the east, I perceive. The avenue, therefore, must be at the back of it. Mr. Rushworth talked of the west front.”

“Yes, it is exactly behind the house; begins at a little distance, and ascends for half a mile to the extremity of the grounds. You may see something of it here—the more distant trees. It is oak entirely.”

Miss Bertram could now speak with decided information of what she knew nothing about when Mr. Rushworth had asked her opinion. And her spirits were in as happy a flutter as vanity and pride could furnish, when they drove up to the spacious stone steps before the principal entrance.

In the meantime, back at Mansfield Park, we return, dear Reader, to Lady Bertram and the ancient newly resurrected Mummy, conversing politely in the attic.