Of pictures there were abundance, and some few good, but the larger part were family portraits, no longer anything to anybody but Mrs. Rushworth, who had been at great pains to learn all that the housekeeper could teach, and was now almost equally well qualified to shew the house. On the present occasion she addressed herself chiefly to Miss Crawford and Fanny, but there was no comparison in the willingness of their attention. Miss Crawford, who had seen scores of great houses, and cared for none of them, had only the appearance of civilly listening. Fanny, however, to whom everything was interesting and new, attended with unaffected earnestness to all that Mrs. Rushworth could relate of the family in former times, its rise and grandeur, regal visits and loyal efforts. She was delighted to connect anything with history already known, or warm her imagination with scenes of the past.

The situation of the house excluded the possibility of much prospect from any of the rooms. While Fanny and some of the others were attending Mrs. Rushworth, Henry Crawford was looking grave and shaking his head at the windows. Every room on the west front looked across a lawn to the beginning of the avenue immediately beyond tall iron palisades and gates.

Having visited more rooms than could only contribute to the window-tax, and find employment for housemaids, “Now,” said Mrs. Rushworth, “we are coming to the chapel, which properly we ought to enter from above, and look down upon. But as we are quite among friends, I will take you in this way.”

They entered, and Miss Crawford went last, after a moment of inexplicable hesitation.

Fanny’s imagination had prepared her for something grander than a mere spacious, oblong room, fitted up for the purpose of devotion. There was nothing striking or solemn other than the profusion of mahogany, and the crimson velvet cushions appearing over the ledge of the family gallery above.

“I am disappointed,” said she, in a low voice, to Edmund. “This is not my idea of a chapel. There is nothing awe-inspiring here, or melancholy, or grand. Here are no aisles, no arches, no inscriptions. No banners, cousin, to be ‘blown by the night wind of heaven.’ No signs that a ‘Scottish monarch sleeps below.’”

“You forget, Fanny, how recently all this has been built, and for how confined a purpose, compared with the old chapels of castles and monasteries. It was only for the private use of the family. They have been buried, I suppose, in the parish church. There you must look for the banners and the achievements.”

“It was foolish of me not to think of all that; but I am disappointed. I suppose that with an imagination accustomed to hoary wonders and Curses of Mansfield Park, all else pales in comparison.”

“Hush! Speak not of the Unmentionable,” retorted Edmund, but he wore a fleeting smile.