As Fanny could not doubt that her answer was conveying a real disappointment, she was rather in expectation, from her knowledge of Miss Crawford's temper, of being urged again; and though no second letter arrived for the space of a week, she had still the same feeling when it did come.

On receiving it, she could instantly decide on its containing little writing, and was persuaded of its having the air of a letter of haste and business. Its object was unquestionable; and two moments were enough to start the probability of its being merely to give her notice that they should be in Portsmouth that very day, and to throw her into all the agitation of doubting what she ought to do in such a case. If two moments, however, can surround with difficulties, a third can disperse them; and before she had opened the letter, the possibility of Mr. and Miss Crawford's having applied to her uncle and obtained his permission was giving her ease. This was the letter—

A most scandalous, ill-natured rumour has just reached me, and I write, dear Fanny, to warn you against giving the least credit to it, should it spread into the country. Depend upon it, there is some mistake, and that a day or two will clear it up—at any rate, that Henry is blameless, and in spite of a moment's etourderie, thinks of nobody but you. Say not a word of it—hear nothing, surmise nothing, whisper nothing till I write again. I am sure it will be all hushed up, and nothing proved but Rushworth's folly. If they are gone, I would lay my life they are only gone to Mansfield Park, and Julia with them. But why would not you let me come for you? I wish you may not repent it.

Yours, etc.

Fanny stood aghast. As no scandalous, ill-natured rumour had reached her, it was impossible for her to understand much of this strange letter. She could only perceive that it must relate to Wimpole Street and Mr. Crawford, and only conjecture that something very imprudent had just occurred in that quarter to draw the notice of the world, and to excite her jealousy, in Miss Crawford's apprehension, if she heard it. Miss Crawford need not be alarmed for her. She was only sorry for the parties concerned and for Mansfield, if the report should spread so far; but she hoped it might not. If the Rushworths were gone themselves to Mansfield, as was to be inferred from what Miss Crawford said, it was not likely that anything unpleasant should have preceded them, or at least should make any impression.

As to Mr. Crawford, she hoped it might give him a knowledge of his own disposition, convince him that he was not capable of being steadily attached to anyone woman in the world, and shame him from persisting any longer in addressing herself.

It was very strange! She had begun to think he really loved her, and to fancy his affection for her something more than common—and his sister still said that he cared for nobody else. Yet there must have been some marked display of attentions to her cousin, there must have been some strong indiscretion, since her correspondent was not of a sort to regard a slight one.

Very uncomfortable she was, and must continue, till she heard from Miss Crawford again. It was impossible to banish the letter from her thoughts, and she could not relieve herself by speaking of it to any human being. Miss Crawford need not have urged secrecy with so much warmth; she might have trusted to her sense of what was due to her cousin.

The next day came and brought no second letter. Fanny was disappointed. She could still think of little else all the morning; but, when her father came back in the afternoon with the daily newspaper as usual, she was so far from expecting any elucidation through such a channel that the subject was for a moment out of her head.

She was deep in other musing. The remembrance of her first evening in that room, of her father and his newspaper, came across her. No candle was now wanted. The sun was yet an hour and half above the horizon. She felt that she had, indeed, been three months there; and the sun's rays falling strongly into the parlour, instead of cheering, made her still more melancholy; for sunshine appeared to her a totally different thing in a town and in the country. Here, its power was only a glare, a stifling, sickly glare, serving but to bring forward stains and dirt that might otherwise have slept. There was neither health nor gaiety in sunshine in a town. She sat in a blaze of oppressive heat, in a cloud of moving dust; and her eyes could only wander from the walls, marked by her father's head, to the table cut and notched by her brothers, where stood the tea-board never thoroughly cleaned, the cups and saucers wiped in streaks, the milk a mixture of motes floating in thin blue, and the bread and butter growing every minute more greasy than even Rebecca's hands had first produced it. Her father read his newspaper, and her mother lamented over the ragged carpet as usual, while the tea was in preparation—and wished Rebecca would mend it; and Fanny was first roused by his calling out to her, after humphing and considering over a particular paragraph—“What's the name of your great cousins in town, Fan?”

A moment's recollection enabled her to say, “Rushworth, sir.”

“And don't they live in Wimpole Street?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then, there's the devil to pay among them, that's all. There” (holding out the paper to her); “much good may such fine relations do you. I don't know what Sir Thomas may think of such matters; he may be too much of the courtier and fine gentleman to like his daughter the less. But, by God! if she belonged to me, I'd give her the rope's end as long as I could stand over her. A little flogging for man and woman too would be the best way of preventing such things.”

Fanny read to herself that “it was with infinite concern the newspaper had to announce to the world a matrimonial fracas in the family of Mr. R. of Wimpole Street; the beautiful Mrs. R., whose name had not long been enrolled in the lists of Hymen, and who had promised to become so brilliant a leader in the fashionable world, having quitted her husband's roof in company with the well known and captivating Mr. C., the intimate friend and associate of Mr. R., and it was not known even to the editor of the newspaper whither they were gone.”

“It is a mistake, sir,” said Fanny instantly; “it must be a mistake, it cannot be true—it must mean some other people.”

She spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame; she spoke with a resolution which sprung from despair, for she spoke what she did not, could not believe herself. It had been the shock of conviction as she read. The truth rushed on her; and how she could have spoken at all, how she could even have breathed—was afterwards matter of wonder to herself.

Mr. Price cared too little about the report to make her much answer. “It might be all a lie,” he acknowledged; “but so many fine ladies were going to the devil nowadays that way, that there was no answering for anybody.”

“Indeed, I hope it is not true,” said Mrs. Price plaintively; “it would be so very shocking! If I have spoken once to Rebecca about that carpet, I am sure I have spoke at least a dozen times; have not I, Betsey? And it would not be ten minutes' work.”

The horror of a mind like Fanny's, as it received the conviction of such guilt, and began to take in some part of the misery that must ensue, can hardly be described. At first, it was a sort of stupefaction; but every moment was quickening her perception of the horrible evil. She could not doubt, she dared not indulge a hope, of the paragraph being false. Miss Crawford's letter, which she had read so often as to make every line her own, was in frightful conformity with it. Her eager defence of her brother, her hope of its being hushed up, her evident agitation, were all of a piece with something very bad; and if there was a woman of character in existence, who could treat as a trifle this sin of the first magnitude, who could try to gloss it over, and desire to have it unpunished, she could believe Miss Crawford to be the woman! Now she could see her own mistake as to who were gone—or said to be gone. It was not Mr.and Mrs. Rushworth; it was Mrs. Rushworth and Mr. Crawford.

Fanny seemed to herself never to have been shocked before. There was no possibility of rest. The evening passed without a pause of misery, the night was totally sleepless. She passed only from feelings of sickness to shudderings of horror; and from hot fits of fever to cold. The event was so shocking, that there were moments even when her heart revolted from it as impossible—when she thought it could not be. A woman married only six months ago; a man professing himself devoted, even engaged to another—that other her near relation—the whole family, both families connected as they were by tie upon tie; all friends, all intimate together! It was too horrible a confusion of guilt, too gross a complication of evil, for human nature, not in a state of utter barbarism, to be capable of! Yet her judgment told her it was so.His unsettled affections, wavering with his vanity, Maria's decided attachment, and no sufficient principle on either side, gave it possibility—Miss Crawford's letter stampt it a fact.

What would be the consequence? Whom would it not injure? Whose views might it not affect? Whose peace would it not cut up forever? Miss Crawford, herself—Edmund; but it was dangerous, perhaps, to tread such ground. She confined herself, or tried to confine herself, to the simple, indubitable family misery which must envelop all, if it were indeed a matter of certified guilt and public exposure. The mother's sufferings, the father's; there—she paused. Julia's, Tom's, Edmund's—there a yet longer pause. They were the two on whom it would fall most horribly. Sir Thomas's parental solicitude and high sense of honour and decorum, Edmund's upright principles, unsuspicious temper, and genuine strength of feeling, made her think it scarcely possible for them to support life and reason under such disgrace; and it appeared to her that, as far as this world alone was concerned, the greatest blessing to every one of kindred with Mrs. Rushworth would be instant annihilation.

Nothing happened the next day, or the next, to weaken her terrors. Two posts came in, and brought no refutation, public or private. There was no second letter to explain away the first from Miss Crawford; there was no intelligence from Mansfield, though it was now full time for her to hear again from her aunt. This was an evil omen. She had, indeed, scarcely the shadow of a hope to soothe her mind, and was reduced to so low and wan and trembling a condition, as no mother—not unkind, except Mrs. Price could have overlooked, when the third day did bring the sickening knock, and a letter was again put into her hands. It bore the London postmark, and came from Edmund.

Dear Fanny—You know our present wretchedness. May God support you under your share. We have been here two days, but there is nothing to be done. They cannot be traced. You may not have heard of the last blow—Julia's elopement; she is gone to Scotland with Yates. She left London a few hours before we entered it. At any other time this would have been felt dreadfully. Now it seems nothing, yet it is an heavy aggravation. My father is not overpowered. More cannot be hoped. He is still able to think and act; and I write, by his desire, to propose your returning home. He is anxious to get you there for my mother's sake. I shall be at Portsmouth the morning after you receive this, and hope to find you ready to set off for Mansfield. My father wishes you to invite Susan to go with you for a few months. Settle it as you like; say what is proper; I am sure you will feel such an instance of his kindness at such a moment! Do justice to his meaning, however I may confuse it. You may imagine something of my present state. There is no end of the evil let loose upon us. You will see me early by the mail.

Yours, etc.

Never had Fanny more wanted a cordial. Never had she felt such a one as this letter contained. Tomorrow! To leave Portsmouth tomorrow! She was, she felt she was, in the greatest danger of being exquisitely happy, while so many were miserable. The evil which brought such good to her! She dreaded lest she should learn to be insensible of it. To be going so soon, sent for so kindly, sent for as a comfort, and with leave to take Susan, was altogether such a combination of blessings as set her heart in a glow, and for a time seemed to distance every pain, and make her incapable of suitably sharing the distress even of those whose distress she thought of most. Julia's elopement could affect her comparatively but little; she was amazed and shocked; but it could not occupy her, could not dwell on her mind. She was obliged to call herself to think of it, and acknowledge it to be terrible and grievous, or it was escaping her, in the midst of all the agitating pressing joyful cares attending this summons to herself.

There is nothing like employment, active indispensable employment, for relieving sorrow. Employment, even melancholy, may dispel melancholy, and her occupations were hopeful. She had so much to do, that not even the horrible story of Mrs. Rushworth (now fixed to the last point of certainty) could affect her as it had done before. She had not time to be miserable. Within twenty-four hours she was hoping to be gone; her father and mother must be spoken to, Susan prepared, everything got ready. Business followed business; the day was hardly long enough. The happiness she was imparting, too, happiness very little alloyed by the black communication which must briefly precede it—the joyful consent of her father and mother to Susan's going with her—the general satisfaction with which the going of both seemed regarded—and the ecstasy of Susan herself, was all serving to support her spirits.

The affliction of the Bertrams was little felt in the family. Mrs. Price talked of her poor sister for a few minutes—but how to find anything to hold Susan's clothes, because Rebecca took away all the boxes and spoilt them, was much more in her thoughts, and as for Susan, now unexpectedly gratified in the first wish of her heart, and knowing nothing personally of those who had sinned, or of those who were sorrowing—if she could help rejoicing from beginning to end, it was as much as ought to be expected from human virtue at fourteen.

As nothing was really left for the decision of Mrs. Price, or the good offices of Rebecca, everything was rationally and duly accomplished, and the girls were ready for the morrow. The advantage of much sleep to prepare them for their journey was impossible. The cousin who was travelling towards them could hardly have less than visited their agitated spirits, one all happiness, the other all varying and indescribable perturbation.

By eight in the morning Edmund was in the house. The girls heard his entrance from above, and Fanny went down. The idea of immediately seeing him, with the knowledge of what he must be suffering, brought back all her own first feelings. He so near her, and in misery. She was ready to sink as she entered the parlour. He was alone, and met her instantly; and she found herself pressed to his heart with only these words, just articulate, “My Fanny—my only sister—my only comfort now.” She could say nothing; nor for some minutes could he say more.

He turned away to recover himself, and when he spoke again, though his voice still faltered, his manner showed the wish of self-command, and the resolution of avoiding any farther allusion. “Have you breakfasted? When shall you be ready? Does Susan go?” were questions following each other rapidly. His great object was to be off as soon as possible. When Mansfield was considered, time was precious; and the state of his own mind made him find relief only in motion. It was settled that he should order the carriage to the door in half an hour. Fanny answered for their having breakfasted and being quite ready in half an hour. He had already ate, and declined staying for their meal. He would walk round the ramparts, and join them with the carriage. He was gone again; glad to get away even from Fanny.

He looked very ill; evidently suffering under violent emotions, which he was determined to suppress. She knew it must be so, but it was terrible to her.

The carriage came; and he entered the house again at the same moment, just in time to spend a few minutes with the family, and be a witness—but that he saw nothing—of the tranquil manner in which the daughters were parted with, and just in time to prevent their sitting down to the breakfast table, which, by dint of much unusual activity, was quite and completely ready as the carriage drove from the door. Fanny's last meal in her father's house was in character with her first; she was dismissed from it as hospitably as she had been welcomed.

How her heart swelled with joy and gratitude as she passed the barriers of Portsmouth, and how Susan's face wore its broadest smiles, may be easily conceived. Sitting forwards, however, and screened by her bonnet, those smiles were unseen.

The journey was likely to be a silent one. Edmund's deep sighs often reached Fanny. Had he been alone with her, his heart must have opened in spite of every resolution; but Susan's presence drove him quite into himself, and his attempts to talk on indifferent subjects could never be long supported.

Fanny watched him with never-failing solicitude, and sometimes catching his eye, received an affectionate smile, which comforted her; but the first day's journey passed without her hearing a word from him on the subjects that were 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; and Edmund, particularly struck by the alteration in Fanny's looks, and from his ignorance of the daily evils of her father's house, attributing an undue share of the change, attributing all to the recent event, took her 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!”

The first division of their journey occupied a long day, and brought them, almost knocked up, to Oxford; but the second was over at a much earlier hour. They were in the environs of Mansfield long before the usual 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; and Susan 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 three months, 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 farther beauty is known to be at hand, and when, while much is actually given to the sight, 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 melancholy 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.

By one of the suffering party within they were expected with such impatience as she had never known before. Fanny had scarcely passed the solemn-looking servants, when Lady Bertram came from the drawing room to meet her; came with no indolent step; and falling on her neck, said, “Dear Fanny! now I shall be comfortable.”

范妮并不怀疑自己的回信着实会让对方感到失望。她了解克劳福德小姐的脾气，估计克劳福德小姐会再次催促自己。虽然整整一个星期没再收到来信，但她仍然没有改变这一看法。恰在这时，信来了。

她一接到这封信，就能立即断定信写得不长，看上去像是一封匆忙写就的事务性信件。信的目的是毋庸置疑的。转眼间，她就料定是通知她他们当天就要来到朴次茅斯，不由得心中一阵慌乱，不知道该怎么办是好。然而，如果说一转眼会带来什么难处的话，那再一转眼就会将难处驱散。她还没有打开信，就觉得克劳福德兄妹也许征得了她姨父的同意，于是又放下心来。信的内容如下：

我刚听到一个极其荒唐、极其恶毒的谣言。我写这封信，亲爱的范妮，就是为了告诫你，假如此言传到了乡下，请你丝毫不要相信。这里面肯定有误，过一两天就会水落石出——不管怎么说，亨利是一点错都没有。尽管一时不慎，但他心里没有别人，只有你。请只字别提这件事——什么也不要听，什么也不要猜，什么也不要传，等我下次来信再说。我相信这件事不会张扬出去，只怪拉什沃思太蠢。如果他们已经走了，我敢担保他们只不过是去了曼斯菲尔德庄园，而且朱莉娅也和他们在一起。可你为什么不让我们来接你呢？但愿你不要为此而后悔。

永远是你的

范妮给吓得目瞪口呆。她没有听到什么荒唐、恶毒的谣言，因此也就看不大明白这封莫名其妙的信。她只能猜测，这件事必定与温普尔街和克劳福德先生有关。她只能猜测那个地方刚出了什么很不光彩的事，闹得沸沸扬扬，因而克劳福德小姐担心，她要是听说了什么，就会心生妒忌。其实，克劳福德小姐用不着替她担心。如果消息真会传这么远的话，她只是替当事人和曼斯菲尔德感到难过，不过她希望不至于传这么远。从克劳福德小姐的话里推断，拉什沃思夫妇好像是到曼斯菲尔德去了。如果当真如此，在这之前就不该有什么不愉快的事情，至少不会引起人们的注意。

至于克劳福德先生，她希望这会使他了解自己的脾性，让他明白他对世上哪个女人都不会忠贞不渝，让他没有脸再来死乞白赖地纠缠她。

真是奇怪呀！她已开始觉得他真正在爱她，认为他对她的情意非同寻常——他妹妹还在说他心里没有别人。然而，他向她表姐献殷勤时肯定有些惹眼，肯定有很不检点的地方，不然的话，像克劳福德小姐这样的人才不会留意呢。

范妮坐卧不宁，而且在她接到克劳福德小姐的下封信之前，这种状况还要继续下去。她无法把这封信从她脑际驱除出去，也不能找个人说一说，让心里轻松一些。克劳福德小姐用不着一个劲地叮嘱她保守秘密，她知道表姐的利害关系所在，克劳福德小姐完全可以相信她。

第二天来了，第二封信却没有来。范妮感到失望。整个上午，她都没有心思去想别的事情。但是，到了下午，等父亲像平常一样拿着报纸回到家里，她全然没有想到可以通过这个渠道了解一点情况，因而才一时把这件事忘却了。

她沉思起别的事情来，想起了自己第一天晚上在这间屋里的情景，想起了父亲读报的情景。现在可不需要点蜡烛。太阳还要一个半小时才能沉落在地平线下。她觉得她在这里确实待了三个月了。强烈的阳光射进起居室里，不仅没给她带来喜悦，反而使她更加悲哀。她觉得城里的阳光与乡下的完全不同。在这里，太阳只是一种强光，一种令人窒息、令人生厌的强光，只会使原本沉睡的污秽和浊垢显现出来。城里的阳光既不能带来健康，也不能带来欢乐。她坐在灼人的刺目的阳光下，坐在飞舞的尘埃中，两眼看到的只是四堵墙壁和一张桌子。墙上有父亲的脑袋靠脏了的痕迹，桌上被弟弟们刻得坑坑洼洼，桌上的茶盘从来没有擦干净过，杯子和碟子擦后留下条条污痕，牛奶上浮着一层薄薄的蓝色灰尘；涂有黄油的面包，丽贝卡刚做的时候，就沾上了她手上的油污，现在这油污时刻都在增加。茶还没沏好，父亲在读报，母亲像平时那样在唠叨那破地毯——抱怨丽贝卡也不补一补。这时候，父亲读到一段新闻，哼了一声，琢磨了一番，然后把范妮唤醒了，说：“你城里的阔表姐家姓什么，范？”

范妮定了定神，答道：“拉什沃思，父亲。”

“他们是不是住在温普尔街？”

“是的，父亲。”

“那他们家可倒霉了，就是这么回事。瞧，（把报纸递给范妮）这些阔亲戚会给你带来许多好处。我不知道托马斯爵士怎样看待这样的事情。像他这样的达官贵人，不会不娇贵他的女儿的。不过，天呀，她要是我女儿的话，我就拿鞭子把她抽个够。不管是男是女，用鞭子抽一抽，是防范这种事的最好办法。”

范妮念起报上的告示：“本报无比关切地向世人公布温普尔街拉先生家的一场婚姻闹剧。新婚不久、有望成为社交界女皇的美丽的拉太太，同拉先生的密友与同事、知名的风流人物克先生一起离开丈夫家出走。去向如何，连本报编辑也不得而知。”

“搞错了，父亲，”范妮马上说道，“肯定是搞错了——这不可能——肯定是说的别的什么人。”

她这样说是本能地想替当事人遮遮丑。这是绝望中的挣扎，因为她说的话连她自己都不相信。她在读报时就已深信不会有错，因而感到大为震惊。事实像洪水一样向她袭来。她当时怎么能说出话来，甚至怎么能透过气来——她事后想起来都感到奇怪。

普莱斯先生并不怎么关心这条报道，因而没有多问女儿。“也可能全是谎言，”他说。“但是，如今有许许多多阔太太就这样毁了自己。对谁都不能打包票啊。”

“哦，我真希望没这回事儿，”普莱斯太太凄怆地说，“那该有多吓人啊！我要是再跟丽贝卡说一次这条地毯的事儿，那我敢说我至少说了十几次了。对吧，贝齐？她要是动手补一补，费不了她十分钟。”

范妮对这桩罪孽已深信不疑，并开始担心由此而来的不幸后果，这时候她心里惊恐到何种地步，那是无法用言语形容的。一开始，她处于一种目瞪口呆的状态。接着，她迅捷地认清了这桩丑事多么骇人听闻。她无法怀疑这段报道，不敢祈望这段报道是不实之词。克劳福德小姐的那封信她不知道看过多少遍，里边的每句话她都能记得滚瓜烂熟，那封信与这条消息内容相符到可怕的程度。克劳福德小姐迫不及待地替她哥哥辩护，希望这件事给隐瞒下来，她显然为之忐忑不安。这一切都说明问题非常严重。如果世界上还有哪个良家女子能把这样的头等罪孽看作小事，试图轻描淡写地掩饰过去，想要使之免受惩罚，她相信克劳福德小姐就是这样一个人！范妮现在才明白自己搞错了，没有弄清楚谁出走了，没有弄清信里说的是谁出走了。不是拉什沃思夫妇俩一起走了，而是拉什沃思太太和克劳福德先生一起走了。

范妮觉得自己以前从没震惊过。她完全不得安宁，晚上都沉浸在悲哀之中，夜里一时一刻也不能入睡。她忽而感觉恶心，忽而吓得颤抖；身上一阵阵地时而发热，时而发冷。这件事太骇人听闻了，她简直难以接受，有时甚至产生一种抗拒心理，觉得绝不可能。女的才结婚六个月，男的自称倾心于另一个女人，甚至还许身于她——而这另一个女人还是那个女人的近亲——整个家族，两家人亲上加亲地联系在一起，彼此都是朋友，亲亲密密地在一起！这种猥杂不堪的罪孽，这种龌龊透顶的罪恶，实在令人作呕。人只要不是处于极端野蛮的状态，是绝对做不出来这种事的！然而，她的理智告诉她，事实就是如此。男的感情飘忽不定，随着虚荣心摇摆，玛丽亚却对他一片痴情，加上双方都不十分讲究道德准则，于是就导致了事情的可能性——克劳福德小姐的来信印证了这一事实。

后果会怎么样呢？谁能不受到伤害呢？谁知道后能不为之震惊呢？谁能不为此而永远失去内心的平静呢？克劳福德小姐本人——埃德蒙。然而，照这个思路想下去也许是危险的。她限制自己，或者试图限制自己，去想那纯粹的、不容置疑的家庭不幸，如果这一罪孽得到证明，并且被公布于众，这种不幸必然把所有的人都席卷进去。姨妈的痛苦，姨父的痛苦——想到这里，她顿了顿。朱莉娅的痛苦，汤姆的痛苦，埃德蒙的痛苦——想到这里，她顿的时间更长。这件事对两个人的打击尤为惨重。托马斯爵士关心儿女，有着高度的荣誉感和道德观；埃德蒙为人正直，没有猜疑心，却有纯真强烈的感情，因而范妮觉得，在蒙受了这番耻辱之后，他们俩很难心安理得地生活下去。在她看来，仅就这个世界而言，对拉什沃思太太的亲人们来说，最大的福音就是立即毁灭。

第二天也好，第三天也好，都没发生任何事来缓解她的惊恐之情。来过两班邮车，都没带来辟谣性的消息，报上没有，私人信件上也没有。克劳福德小姐没有再来信解释清楚第一封信上的内容。曼斯菲尔德那里也杳无音信，虽说姨妈早该来信了。这是个不祥的征兆。她心里还真没有一丝可以感到欣慰的希望，整个人给折磨得情绪低落，面色苍白，浑身不住地发抖。这种状况，凡是做母亲的——除了普莱斯太太外，只要心肠不狠，是不会看不到的。就在这第三天，突然响起了令人揪心的敲门声，又一封信递到了她手里。信上盖着伦敦的邮戳，是埃德蒙写来的。

亲爱的范妮：

你知道我们目前的悲惨处境。愿上帝给你力量，使你能承受住你所分担的那份不幸。我们已经来了两天了，却一筹莫展。无法查到他们的去向。你可能还没听说最近的这次打击——朱莉娅私奔了。她和耶茨跑到苏格兰去了。我们到伦敦的时候，她离开伦敦才几个小时。假如这件事发生在别的什么时候，我们会感到非常可怕。现在，这种事似乎算不了什么，然而却等于火上浇油。我父亲还没有被气倒。这就算不错了。他还能考虑问题，还能行动。他要我写信叫你回家。他急于让你回家照顾我母亲。我将在你收到这封信的第二天上午赶到朴次茅斯，望你做好准备，我一到即动身去曼斯菲尔德。我父亲希望你邀请苏珊一起去，住上几个月。事情由你决定，你认为该怎么办就怎么办。他在这样的时刻提出这样的建议，我想你一定会感到他是一番好意！虽然我还弄不明白他的意思，但你要充分领会他的好意。我目前的状况你会想象到一二的。不幸的事情在源源不断地向我们袭来。我乘坐的邮车明天一早就会到达。

永远是你的

范妮从来没像现在这样需要借助什么来提提精神。她从没感到有什么能像这封信这样令她兴奋。明天！明天就要离开朴次茅斯啦！就在众人一片悲伤的时候，她却担心自己极有可能喜不自禁。一场灾祸却给她带来了这么大的好处！她担心自己会对这场灾祸麻木不仁起来。这么快就要走了，这么热情地来接她，接她回去安慰姨妈，还让她带上苏珊，这真是喜上加喜，令她心花怒放。一时间，种种痛苦似乎给抛到了脑后，连她最关心的那些人的痛苦，她也不能适当地加以分担了。朱莉娅的私奔相对来说，对她的影响不是很大。她为之惊愕，为之震撼，但并非总是萦绕心头、挥之不去。她不得不勉强自己去想，承认此事既可怕又可悲，不然，听说要她回去，光顾得激动、紧张、高兴，忙于做着动身的准备，也就会把它忘掉。

要想解除忧伤，最好的办法就是做事，主动地做些必须要做的事情。做事，甚至做不愉快的事，可以驱除忧郁，何况她要做的是令人高兴的事。她有许多事情要做，就连拉什沃思太太的私奔（现在已百分之百被证实了），也不像原先那样影响她的心情了。她没有时间悲伤。她希望在二十四小时之内离去。她得跟父母亲话别，得让苏珊有思想准备，样样都得准备好。事情一件接一件，一天的时间几乎不够用。她也把这消息告诉了家人。他们个个兴高采烈，信中先前提到的不幸并没冲淡这份喜悦之情。对于苏珊跟她走，父母亲欣然同意，弟弟妹妹热烈拥护，苏珊自己欣喜若狂，这一切使她难以抑制愉快的心情。

伯特伦家发生的不幸，在普莱斯家并没引起多少同情。普莱斯太太念叨了一阵她那可怜的姐姐——但她主要关心的是用什么东西来装苏珊的衣服，家里的箱子都给丽贝卡拿去弄坏了。至于苏珊，真没想到会遇到这样的大喜事，加上跟那些犯罪的、伤心的人都素不相识，在这种情况下，她若是能有所克制，不是始终喜笑颜开的话，这对于一个十四岁姑娘来说，已是够难得的了。

由于没有什么事情需要普莱斯太太拿主意，也没有什么事情需要丽贝卡帮忙，一切都按要求准备得差不多了，两位姑娘就等着明天起程了。动身之前本该好好睡一觉，但两人却无法入睡。正在前来迎接她们的表哥，一直在撞击着她们激动不已的心怀，一个是满怀高兴，另一个是变化不定、不可名状的心绪不宁。

早晨八点，埃德蒙来到了普莱斯家。姑娘们在楼上听到他进门的声音，范妮走下楼来。一想到相见在即，又知道他一定心里痛苦，她起初的悲伤又涌上了心头。埃德蒙近在眼前，满腹忧伤。她走进起居室时，眼看着要倒下去了。埃德蒙一个人在那里，立即迎上前来。范妮发觉他把自己紧紧抱在怀里，只听他断断续续地说：“我的范妮——我唯一的妹妹——我现在唯一的安慰。”范妮一句话也说不出来，埃德蒙也久久说不出话来。

埃德蒙转过身去，想使自己平静下来。接着他又说话了，虽然声音仍在颤抖，但他的神态表明他想克制自己，决心不再提发生的事情。“你们吃过早饭了吗？什么时候可以起程？苏珊去吗？”他一个紧接一个地问了几个问题。他的主要意图是尽快上路。一想到曼斯菲尔德，时间就宝贵起来了。他处于那样的心情，只有在行动中求得宽慰。大家说定，他去叫车，半小时后赶到门口。范妮负责大家的早饭问题，半小时内一切准备就绪。埃德蒙已经吃过饭了，不想待在屋里等他们吃饭。他要到大堤上去散散步，到时候跟着马车一块来接她们。他又走开了，甚至不惜离开范妮。

他气色很不好，显然忍受着剧大的痛苦，而又决心加以抑制。范妮知道他必定如此，但这又使她感到可怕。

车来了。与此同时，埃德蒙又进到屋里，刚好可以和这一家人待一会，好看一看——不过什么也没看见——一家人送别两位姑娘时是多么无动于衷。由于今天情况特殊，有许多不寻常的活动，他进来时一家人刚要围着早餐桌就座。马车从门口驶走时，早餐才摆放齐全。范妮在父亲家最后一餐吃的东西，跟刚到时第一餐吃的完全一样。家里人送她走时像迎接她时那样，态度也完全相同。

马车驶出朴次茅斯的关卡时，范妮如何满怀喜悦和感激之情，苏珊如何笑逐颜开，这都不难想象。不过，苏珊坐在前面，而且有帽子遮着脸，她的笑容是看不见的。

这可能要成为一次沉闷的旅行。范妮一直听到埃德蒙长吁短叹。假若只有他们两个人，他再怎么打定主意抑制自己，也会向她吐露苦衷的。但是，由于有苏珊在场，他不得不把自己的心事埋在心底，虽然也想讲点无关紧要的事情，可总也没有多少话好说。

范妮始终关切地注视着他，有时他也把目光投向她，深情地朝她微微一笑，使她颇感欣慰。但是，第一天的旅途结束了，他却只字没有提起让他心情沮丧的事情。第二天早晨，他稍微说了一点。就在从牛津出发之前，苏珊待在窗口，聚精会神地观看一大家人离店上路，埃德蒙和范妮站在火炉附近时。埃德蒙对范妮的面容变化深感不安。他不知道她父亲家里的日常生活多么艰苦，因此把她的变化主要归咎于，甚至完全归咎于最近发生的这件事。他抓住她的手，用很低的但意味深长的口气说道：“这也难怪——你一定会受到刺激——你一定会感到痛苦。一个曾经爱过你的人，怎么会抛弃你啊！不过，你的——你的感情投入比较起来时间还不算长——范妮，你想想我吧！”

他们的第一段路程走了整整一天，到达牛津的时候，几个人已经疲惫不堪。但是，第二天的行程结束得比头一天早得多。马车进入曼斯菲尔德郊野的时候，离平时吃正餐的时间还早着呢。随着渐渐临近那心爱的地方，姐妹俩的心情开始有点沉重。家里出了这样奇耻大辱的事，范妮害怕跟姨妈和汤姆相见。苏珊心里有些紧张，觉得自己的礼仪风度，新近学来的这里的规矩，现在可要经受实践的考验了。她脑子里闪现出有教养和没教养的行为，闪现出以往的粗俗表现和新学来的文雅举止。她不断默默地想着银餐叉、餐巾和涮指杯。范妮一路上处处看到乡下的景色已与二月份离开时大不相同。但是，进入庄园之后，她的感受尤为深刻，她的喜悦之情也尤为强烈。她离开庄园已经三个月了，足足三个月了，时节由冬天变成了夏天，触目皆是翠绿的草地和种植园，林木虽尚未浓叶蔽枝，却秀色可餐，更加绮丽的姿容指日可待。景色纵然悦目，却也更加赏心。不过，她只是自得其乐，埃德蒙不能与她共赏。她望着他，可他靠在座位上，比先前更加郁郁不乐。他双眼紧闭，好像不堪这明媚的景色，要把家乡的美景关在眼睑之外似的。

范妮心情又沉重起来。一想到家中的人们在忍受什么样的痛苦，就连这座时髦的、幽雅的、环境优美的大宅本身，也蒙上一层阴影。

家中愁苦的人们中间，有个人在望眼欲穿地等待他们，这是她未曾料到的。范妮刚从一本正经的仆人身边走过，伯特伦夫人就从客厅里走来迎接她。她一反平常懒洋洋的样子，赶上前来，搂住了她的脖子说：“亲爱的范妮呀！我这下可好受了。”