CHAPTER XVII
It was, indeed, a triumphant day to Mr. Bertram and Maria.
Such a victory over Edmund's discretion had been beyond
their hopes, and was most delightful. There was no
longer anything to disturb them in their darling project,
and they congratulated each other in private on the
jealous weakness to which they attributed the change,
with all the glee of feelings gratified in every way.
Edmund might still look grave, and say he did not like the
scheme in general, and must disapprove the play in particular;
their point was gained: he was to act, and he was
driven to it by the force of selfish inclinations only.
Edmund had descended from that moral elevation which he
had maintained before, and they were both as much the better
as the happier for the descent.
They behaved very well, however, to _him_ on the occasion,
betraying no exultation beyond the lines about the corners
of the mouth, and seemed to think it as great an escape
to be quit of the intrusion of Charles Maddox, as if they
had been forced into admitting him against their inclination.
"To have it quite in their own family circle was what
they had particularly wished. A stranger among them
would have been the destruction of all their comfort";
and when Edmund, pursuing that idea, gave a hint of his hope
as to the limitation of the audience, they were ready,
in the complaisance of the moment, to promise anything.
It was all good-humour and encouragement. Mrs. Norris
offered to contrive his dress, Mr. Yates assured him
that Anhalt's last scene with the Baron admitted a good
deal of action and emphasis, and Mr. Rushworth undertook
to count his speeches.
"Perhaps," said Tom, "Fanny may be more disposed to oblige
us now. Perhaps you may persuade _her_."
"No, she is quite determined. She certainly will not act."
"Oh! very well." And not another word was said; but Fanny
felt herself again in danger, and her indifference
to the danger was beginning to fail her already.
There were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage than at the Park
on this change in Edmund; Miss Crawford looked very lovely
in hers, and entered with such an instantaneous renewal
of cheerfulness into the whole affair as could have but
one effect on him. "He was certainly right in respecting
such feelings; he was glad he had determined on it."
And the morning wore away in satisfactions very sweet,
if not very sound. One advantage resulted from it
to Fanny: at the earnest request of Miss Crawford,
Mrs. Grant had, with her usual good-humour, agreed
to undertake the part for which Fanny had been wanted;
and this was all that occurred to gladden _her_ heart
during the day; and even this, when imparted by Edmund,
brought a pang with it, for it was Miss Crawford to
whom she was obliged--it was Miss Crawford whose kind
exertions were to excite her gratitude, and whose merit
in making them was spoken of with a glow of admiration.
She was safe; but peace and safety were unconnected here.
Her mind had been never farther from peace. She could
not feel that she had done wrong herself, but she was
disquieted in every other way. Her heart and her judgment
were equally against Edmund's decision: she could not
acquit his unsteadiness, and his happiness under it made
her wretched. She was full of jealousy and agitation.
Miss Crawford came with looks of gaiety which seemed
an insult, with friendly expressions towards herself
which she could hardly answer calmly. Everybody around
her was gay and busy, prosperous and important; each had
their object of interest, their part, their dress,
their favourite scene, their friends and confederates:
all were finding employment in consultations and comparisons,
or diversion in the playful conceits they suggested.
She alone was sad and insignificant: she had no share
in anything; she might go or stay; she might be in the
midst of their noise, or retreat from it to the solitude
of the East room, without being seen or missed. She could
almost think anything would have been preferable to this.
Mrs. Grant was of consequence: _her_ good-nature had
honourable mention; her taste and her time were considered;
her presence was wanted; she was sought for, and attended,
and praised; and Fanny was at first in some danger
of envying her the character she had accepted.
But reflection brought better feelings, and shewed her
that Mrs. Grant was entitled to respect, which could never
have belonged to _her_; and that, had she received even
the greatest, she could never have been easy in joining
a scheme which, considering only her uncle, she must
condemn altogether.
Fanny's heart was not absolutely the only saddened one
amongst them, as she soon began to acknowledge to herself.
Julia was a sufferer too, though not quite so blamelessly.
Henry Crawford had trifled with her feelings; but she
had very long allowed and even sought his attentions,
with a jealousy of her sister so reasonable as ought
to have been their cure; and now that the conviction
of his preference for Maria had been forced on her,
she submitted to it without any alarm for Maria's situation,
or any endeavour at rational tranquillity for herself.
She either sat in gloomy silence, wrapt in such gravity
as nothing could subdue, no curiosity touch, no wit amuse;
or allowing the attentions of Mr. Yates, was talking with
forced gaiety to him alone, and ridiculing the acting of
the others.
For a day or two after the affront was given,
Henry Crawford had endeavoured to do it away by the usual
attack of gallantry and compliment, but he had not cared
enough about it to persevere against a few repulses;
and becoming soon too busy with his play to have time
for more than one flirtation, he grew indifferent to
the quarrel, or rather thought it a lucky occurrence,
as quietly putting an end to what might ere long
have raised expectations in more than Mrs. Grant.
She was not pleased to see Julia excluded from the play,
and sitting by disregarded; but as it was not a matter
which really involved her happiness, as Henry must be the
best judge of his own, and as he did assure her, with a
most persuasive smile, that neither he nor Julia had ever
had a serious thought of each other, she could only renew
her former caution as to the elder sister, entreat him
not to risk his tranquillity by too much admiration there,
and then gladly take her share in anything that brought
cheerfulness to the young people in general, and that did
so particularly promote the pleasure of the two so dear to her.
"I rather wonder Julia is not in love with Henry,"
was her observation to Mary.
"I dare say she is," replied Mary coldly. "I imagine
both sisters are."
"Both! no, no, that must not be. Do not give him a hint
of it. Think of Mr. Rushworth!"
"You had better tell Miss Bertram to think of Mr. Rushworth.
It may do _her_ some good. I often think of Mr. Rushworth's
property and independence, and wish them in other hands;
but I never think of him. A man might represent the county
with such an estate; a man might escape a profession
and represent the county."
"I dare say he _will_ be in parliament soon. When Sir
Thomas comes, I dare say he will be in for some borough,
but there has been nobody to put him in the way of doing
anything yet."
"Sir Thomas is to achieve many mighty things when he
comes home," said Mary, after a pause. "Do you remember
Hawkins Browne's 'Address to Tobacco,' in imitation
of Pope?--
Blest leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense
To Templars modesty, to Parsons sense.
I will parody them--
Blest Knight! whose dictatorial looks dispense
To Children affluence, to Rushworth sense.
Will not that do, Mrs. Grant? Everything seems to depend
upon Sir Thomas's return."
"You will find his consequence very just and reasonable
when you see him in his family, I assure you. I do not think
we do so well without him. He has a fine dignified manner,
which suits the head of such a house, and keeps everybody
in their place. Lady Bertram seems more of a cipher
now than when he is at home; and nobody else can keep
Mrs. Norris in order. But, Mary, do not fancy that Maria
Bertram cares for Henry. I am sure _Julia_ does not,
or she would not have flirted as she did last night with
Mr. Yates; and though he and Maria are very good friends,
I think she likes Sotherton too well to be inconstant."
"I would not give much for Mr. Rushworth's chance if Henry
stept in before the articles were signed."
"If you have such a suspicion, something must be done;
and as soon as the play is all over, we will talk to him
seriously and make him know his own mind; and if he
means nothing, we will send him off, though he is Henry,
for a time."
Julia _did_ suffer, however, though Mrs. Grant discerned
it not, and though it escaped the notice of many of her
own family likewise. She had loved, she did love still,
and she had all the suffering which a warm temper and a
high spirit were likely to endure under the disappointment
of a dear, though irrational hope, with a strong sense
of ill-usage. Her heart was sore and angry, and she
was capable only of angry consolations. The sister
with whom she was used to be on easy terms was now become
her greatest enemy: they were alienated from each other;
and Julia was not superior to the hope of some distressing
end to the attentions which were still carrying on there,
some punishment to Maria for conduct so shameful towards
herself as well as towards Mr. Rushworth. With no material
fault of temper, or difference of opinion, to prevent
their being very good friends while their interests
were the same, the sisters, under such a trial as this,
had not affection or principle enough to make them merciful
or just, to give them honour or compassion. Maria felt
her triumph, and pursued her purpose, careless of Julia;
and Julia could never see Maria distinguished by Henry
Crawford without trusting that it would create jealousy,
and bring a public disturbance at last.
Fanny saw and pitied much of this in Julia; but there
was no outward fellowship between them. Julia made
no communication, and Fanny took no liberties. They were
two solitary sufferers, or connected only by Fanny's consciousness.
The inattention of the two brothers and the aunt to
Julia's discomposure, and their blindness to its true cause,
must be imputed to the fullness of their own minds.
They were totally preoccupied. Tom was engrossed by
the concerns of his theatre, and saw nothing that did
not immediately relate to it. Edmund, between his
theatrical and his real part, between Miss Crawford's
claims and his own conduct, between love and consistency,
was equally unobservant; and Mrs. Norris was too busy
in contriving and directing the general little matters
of the company, superintending their various dresses
with economical expedient, for which nobody thanked her,
and saving, with delighted integrity, half a crown here and
there to the absent Sir Thomas, to have leisure for watching
the behaviour, or guarding the happiness of his daughters.
CHAPTER XVIII
Everything was now in a regular train: theatre, actors,
actresses, and dresses, were all getting forward;
but though no other great impediments arose, Fanny found,
before many days were past, that it was not all uninterrupted
enjoyment to the party themselves, and that she had
not to witness the continuance of such unanimity and
delight as had been almost too much for her at first.
Everybody began to have their vexation. Edmund had many.
Entirely against _his_ judgment, a scene-painter arrived
from town, and was at work, much to the increase
of the expenses, and, what was worse, of the eclat of
their proceedings; and his brother, instead of being really
guided by him as to the privacy of the representation,
was giving an invitation to every family who came in his way.
Tom himself began to fret over the scene-painter's
slow progress, and to feel the miseries of waiting.
He had learned his part--all his parts, for he took
every trifling one that could be united with the Butler,
and began to be impatient to be acting; and every day
thus unemployed was tending to increase his sense of
the insignificance of all his parts together, and make
him more ready to regret that some other play had not been chosen.
Fanny, being always a very courteous listener, and often
the only listener at hand, came in for the complaints
and the distresses of most of them. _She_ knew that
Mr. Yates was in general thought to rant dreadfully;
that Mr. Yates was disappointed in Henry Crawford;
that Tom Bertram spoke so quick he would be unintelligible;
that Mrs. Grant spoiled everything by laughing; that Edmund
was behindhand with his part, and that it was misery
to have anything to do with Mr. Rushworth, who was wanting
a prompter through every speech. She knew, also, that poor
Mr. Rushworth could seldom get anybody to rehearse with him:
_his_ complaint came before her as well as the rest;
and so decided to her eye was her cousin Maria's
avoidance of him, and so needlessly often the rehearsal
of the first scene between her and Mr. Crawford, that she
had soon all the terror of other complaints from _him_.
So far from being all satisfied and all enjoying,
she found everybody requiring something they had not,
and giving occasion of discontent to the others.
Everybody had a part either too long or too short;
nobody would attend as they ought; nobody would remember on
which side they were to come in; nobody but the complainer
would observe any directions.
Fanny believed herself to derive as much innocent enjoyment
from the play as any of them; Henry Crawford acted well,
and it was a pleasure to _her_ to creep into the theatre,
and attend the rehearsal of the first act, in spite of the
feelings it excited in some speeches for Maria. Maria, she
also thought, acted well, too well; and after the first
rehearsal or two, Fanny began to be their only audience;
and sometimes as prompter, sometimes as spectator,
was often very useful. As far as she could judge,
Mr. Crawford was considerably the best actor of all:
he had more confidence than Edmund, more judgment than Tom,
more talent and taste than Mr. Yates. She did not like him
as a man, but she must admit him to be the best actor,
and on this point there were not many who differed from her.
Mr. Yates, indeed, exclaimed against his tameness
and insipidity; and the day came at last, when Mr. Rushworth
turned to her with a black look, and said, "Do you think
there is anything so very fine in all this? For the life
and soul of me, I cannot admire him; and, between ourselves,
to see such an undersized, little, mean-looking man,
set up for a fine actor, is very ridiculous in my opinion."
From this moment there was a return of his former jealousy,
which Maria, from increasing hopes of Crawford, was at
little pains to remove; and the chances of Mr. Rushworth's
ever attaining to the knowledge of his two-and-forty
speeches became much less. As to his ever making anything
_tolerable_ of them, nobody had the smallest idea of that
except his mother; _she_, indeed, regretted that his part
was not more considerable, and deferred coming over to
Mansfield till they were forward enough in their rehearsal
to comprehend all his scenes; but the others aspired at
nothing beyond his remembering the catchword, and the first
line of his speech, and being able to follow the prompter
through the rest. Fanny, in her pity and kindheartedness,
was at great pains to teach him how to learn, giving him
all the helps and directions in her power, trying to make
an artificial memory for him, and learning every word
of his part herself, but without his being much the forwarder.
Many uncomfortable, anxious, apprehensive feelings she
certainly had; but with all these, and other claims
on her time and attention, she was as far from finding
herself without employment or utility amongst them,
as without a companion in uneasiness; quite as far from
having no demand on her leisure as on her compassion.
The gloom of her first anticipations was proved to have
been unfounded. She was occasionally useful to all;
she was perhaps as much at peace as any.
There was a great deal of needlework to be done, moreover,
in which her help was wanted; and that Mrs. Norris
thought her quite as well off as the rest, was evident
by the manner in which she claimed it--"Come, Fanny,"
she cried, "these are fine times for you, but you must
not be always walking from one room to the other,
and doing the lookings-on at your ease, in this way;
I want you here. I have been slaving myself till I
can hardly stand, to contrive Mr. Rushworth's cloak
without sending for any more satin; and now I think
you may give me your help in putting it together.
There are but three seams; you may do them in a trice.
It would be lucky for me if I had nothing but the executive
part to do. _You_ are best off, I can tell you:
but if nobody did more than _you_, we should not get on
very fast"
Fanny took the work very quietly, without attempting
any defence; but her kinder aunt Bertram observed on her behalf--
"One cannot wonder, sister, that Fanny _should_ be delighted:
it is all new to her, you know; you and I used to be
very fond of a play ourselves, and so am I still;
and as soon as I am a little more at leisure, _I_ mean
to look in at their rehearsals too. What is the play about,
Fanny? you have never told me."
"Oh! sister, pray do not ask her now; for Fanny is not
one of those who can talk and work at the same time.
It is about Lovers' Vows."
"I believe," said Fanny to her aunt Bertram, "there will
be three acts rehearsed to-morrow evening, and that will
give you an opportunity of seeing all the actors at once."
"You had better stay till the curtain is hung," interposed
Mrs. Norris; "the curtain will be hung in a day or two--
there is very little sense in a play without a curtain--
and I am much mistaken if you do not find it draw up
into very handsome festoons."
Lady Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting. Fanny did
not share her aunt's composure: she thought of the morrow
a great deal, for if the three acts were rehearsed,
Edmund and Miss Crawford would then be acting together
for the first time; the third act would bring a scene
between them which interested her most particularly,
and which she was longing and dreading to see how they
would perform. The whole subject of it was love--
a marriage of love was to be described by the gentleman,
and very little short of a declaration of love be made by
the lady.
She had read and read the scene again with many painful,
many wondering emotions, and looked forward to their
representation of it as a circumstance almost too interesting.
She did not _believe_ they had yet rehearsed it,
even in private.
The morrow came, the plan for the evening continued,
and Fanny's consideration of it did not become less agitated.
She worked very diligently under her aunt's directions,
but her diligence and her silence concealed a very absent,
anxious mind; and about noon she made her escape with her
work to the East room, that she might have no concern
in another, and, as she deemed it, most unnecessary
rehearsal of the first act, which Henry Crawford was
just proposing, desirous at once of having her time
to herself, and of avoiding the sight of Mr. Rushworth.
A glimpse, as she passed through the hall, of the two
ladies walking up from the Parsonage made no change
in her wish of retreat, and she worked and meditated
in the East room, undisturbed, for a quarter of an hour,
when a gentle tap at the door was followed by the entrance
of Miss Crawford.
"Am I right? Yes; this is the East room. My dear
Miss Price, I beg your pardon, but I have made my way
to you on purpose to entreat your help."
Fanny, quite surprised, endeavoured to shew herself
mistress of the room by her civilities, and looked
at the bright bars of her empty grate with concern.
"Thank you; I am quite warm, very warm. Allow me to stay
here a little while, and do have the goodness to hear me
my third act. I have brought my book, and if you would
but rehearse it with me, I should be _so_ obliged!
I came here to-day intending to rehearse it with Edmund--
by ourselves--against the evening, but he is not in the way;
and if he _were_, I do not think I could go through
it with _him_, till I have hardened myself a little;
for really there is a speech or two. You will be so good,
won't you?"
Fanny was most civil in her assurances, though she could
not give them in a very steady voice.
"Have you ever happened to look at the part I mean?"
continued Miss Crawford, opening her book. "Here it is.
I did not think much of it at first--but, upon my word.
There, look at _that_ speech, and _that_, and _that_.
How am I ever to look him in the face and say such things?
Could you do it? But then he is your cousin, which makes
all the difference. You must rehearse it with me, that I
may fancy _you_ him, and get on by degrees. You _have_ a look
of _his_ sometimes."
"Have I? I will do my best with the greatest readiness;
but I must _read_ the part, for I can say very little
of it."
"_None_ of it, I suppose. You are to have the book,
of course. Now for it. We must have two chairs at hand
for you to bring forward to the front of the stage.
There--very good school-room chairs, not made for a theatre,
I dare say; much more fitted for little girls to sit and
kick their feet against when they are learning a lesson.
What would your governess and your uncle say to see them
used for such a purpose? Could Sir Thomas look in upon us
just now, he would bless himself, for we are rehearsing
all over the house. Yates is storming away in the
dining-room. I heard him as I came upstairs, and the theatre
is engaged of course by those indefatigable rehearsers,
Agatha and Frederick. If _they_ are not perfect,
I _shall_ be surprised. By the bye, I looked in upon
them five minutes ago, and it happened to be exactly at
one of the times when they were trying _not_ to embrace,
and Mr. Rushworth was with me. I thought he began to look
a little queer, so I turned it off as well as I could,
by whispering to him, 'We shall have an excellent Agatha;
there is something so _maternal_ in her manner,
so completely _maternal_ in her voice and countenance.'
Was not that well done of me? He brightened up directly.
Now for my soliloquy."
She began, and Fanny joined in with all the modest feeling
which the idea of representing Edmund was so strongly
calculated to inspire; but with looks and voice so truly
feminine as to be no very good picture of a man. With such
an Anhalt, however, Miss Crawford had courage enough;
and they had got through half the scene, when a tap at
the door brought a pause, and the entrance of Edmund,
the next moment, suspended it all.
Surprise, consciousness, and pleasure appeared in each
of the three on this unexpected meeting; and as Edmund
was come on the very same business that had brought
Miss Crawford, consciousness and pleasure were likely
to be more than momentary in _them_. He too had his book,
and was seeking Fanny, to ask her to rehearse with him,
and help him to prepare for the evening, without knowing
Miss Crawford to be in the house; and great was the joy and
animation of being thus thrown together, of comparing schemes,
and sympathising in praise of Fanny's kind offices.
_She_ could not equal them in their warmth. _Her_ spirits
sank under the glow of theirs, and she felt herself becoming
too nearly nothing to both to have any comfort in having
been sought by either. They must now rehearse together.
Edmund proposed, urged, entreated it, till the lady,
not very unwilling at first, could refuse no longer,
and Fanny was wanted only to prompt and observe them.
She was invested, indeed, with the office of judge and critic,
and earnestly desired to exercise it and tell them all
their faults; but from doing so every feeling within
her shrank--she could not, would not, dared not attempt it:
had she been otherwise qualified for criticism, her conscience
must have restrained her from venturing at disapprobation.
She believed herself to feel too much of it in the aggregate
for honesty or safety in particulars. To prompt them must
be enough for her; and it was sometimes _more_ than enough;
for she could not always pay attention to the book.
In watching them she forgot herself; and, agitated by the
increasing spirit of Edmund's manner, had once closed
the page and turned away exactly as he wanted help.
It was imputed to very reasonable weariness, and she was
thanked and pitied; but she deserved their pity more than
she hoped they would ever surmise. At last the scene
was over, and Fanny forced herself to add her praise to
the compliments each was giving the other; and when again
alone and able to recall the whole, she was inclined
to believe their performance would, indeed, have such
nature and feeling in it as must ensure their credit,
and make it a very suffering exhibition to herself.
Whatever might be its effect, however, she must stand
the brunt of it again that very day.
The first regular rehearsal of the three first acts
was certainly to take place in the evening: Mrs. Grant
and the Crawfords were engaged to return for that purpose
as soon as they could after dinner; and every one concerned
was looking forward with eagerness. There seemed
a general diffusion of cheerfulness on the occasion.
Tom was enjoying such an advance towards the end;
Edmund was in spirits from the morning's rehearsal,
and little vexations seemed everywhere smoothed away.
All were alert and impatient; the ladies moved soon,
the gentlemen soon followed them, and with the exception
of Lady Bertram, Mrs. Norris, and Julia, everybody was
in the theatre at an early hour; and having lighted it up
as well as its unfinished state admitted, were waiting only
the arrival of Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords to begin.
They did not wait long for the Crawfords, but there
was no Mrs. Grant. She could not come. Dr. Grant,
professing an indisposition, for which he had little credit
with his fair sister-in-law, could not spare his wife.
"Dr. Grant is ill," said she, with mock solemnity.
"He has been ill ever since he did not eat any of the
pheasant today. He fancied it tough, sent away his plate,
and has been suffering ever since".
Here was disappointment! Mrs. Grant's non-attendance
was sad indeed. Her pleasant manners and cheerful
conformity made her always valuable amongst them;
but _now_ she was absolutely necessary. They could not act,
they could not rehearse with any satisfaction without her.
The comfort of the whole evening was destroyed.
What was to be done? Tom, as Cottager, was in despair.
After a pause of perplexity, some eyes began to be
turned towards Fanny, and a voice or two to say,
"If Miss Price would be so good as to _read_ the part."
She was immediately surrounded by supplications;
everybody asked it; even Edmund said, "Do, Fanny, if it is
not _very_ disagreeable to you."
But Fanny still hung back. She could not endure the idea
of it. Why was not Miss Crawford to be applied to as well?
Or why had not she rather gone to her own room,
as she had felt to be safest, instead of attending
the rehearsal at all? She had known it would irritate
and distress her; she had known it her duty to keep away.
She was properly punished.
"You have only to _read_ the part," said Henry Crawford,
with renewed entreaty.
"And I do believe she can say every word of it,"
added Maria, "for she could put Mrs. Grant right the other
day in twenty places. Fanny, I am sure you know the part."
Fanny could not say she did _not_; and as they all persevered,
as Edmund repeated his wish, and with a look of even
fond dependence on her good-nature, she must yield.
She would do her best. Everybody was satisfied; and she
was left to the tremors of a most palpitating heart,
while the others prepared to begin.
They _did_ begin; and being too much engaged in their
own noise to be struck by an unusual noise in the other
part of the house, had proceeded some way when the door
of the room was thrown open, and Julia, appearing at it,
with a face all aghast, exclaimed, "My father is come!
He is in the hall at this moment."
CHAPTER XIX
How is the consternation of the party to be described?
To the greater number it was a moment of absolute horror.
Sir Thomas in the house! All felt the instantaneous conviction.
Not a hope of imposition or mistake was harboured anywhere.
Julia's looks were an evidence of the fact that made
it indisputable; and after the first starts and exclamations,
not a word was spoken for half a minute: each with
an altered countenance was looking at some other,
and almost each was feeling it a stroke the most unwelcome,
most ill-timed, most appalling! Mr. Yates might consider
it only as a vexatious interruption for the evening,
and Mr. Rushworth might imagine it a blessing; but every
other heart was sinking under some degree of self-condemnation
or undefined alarm, every other heart was suggesting,
"What will become of us? what is to be done now?"
It was a terrible pause; and terrible to every ear were the
corroborating sounds of opening doors and passing footsteps.
Julia was the first to move and speak again. Jealousy and
bitterness had been suspended: selfishness was lost
in the common cause; but at the moment of her appearance,
Frederick was listening with looks of devotion to
Agatha's narrative, and pressing her hand to his heart;
and as soon as she could notice this, and see that,
in spite of the shock of her words, he still kept his
station and retained her sister's hand, her wounded
heart swelled again with injury, and looking as red
as she had been white before, she turned out of the room,
saying, "_I_ need not be afraid of appearing before him."
Her going roused the rest; and at the same moment
the two brothers stepped forward, feeling the necessity
of doing something. A very few words between them
were sufficient. The case admitted no difference
of opinion: they must go to the drawing-room directly.
Maria joined them with the same intent, just then the
stoutest of the three; for the very circumstance which
had driven Julia away was to her the sweetest support.
Henry Crawford's retaining her hand at such a moment,
a moment of such peculiar proof and importance,
was worth ages of doubt and anxiety. She hailed it
as an earnest of the most serious determination, and was
equal even to encounter her father. They walked off,
utterly heedless of Mr. Rushworth's repeated question of,
"Shall I go too? Had not I better go too? Will not it
be right for me to go too?" but they were no sooner
through the door than Henry Crawford undertook to answer
the anxious inquiry, and, encouraging him by all means
to pay his respects to Sir Thomas without delay,
sent him after the others with delighted haste.
Fanny was left with only the Crawfords and Mr. Yates.
She had been quite overlooked by her cousins; and as her
own opinion of her claims on Sir Thomas's affection
was much too humble to give her any idea of classing
herself with his children, she was glad to remain
behind and gain a little breathing-time. Her agitation
and alarm exceeded all that was endured by the rest,
by the right of a disposition which not even innocence
could keep from suffering. She was nearly fainting:
all her former habitual dread of her uncle was returning,
and with it compassion for him and for almost every one
of the party on the development before him, with solicitude
on Edmund's account indescribable. She had found a seat,
where in excessive trembling she was enduring all these
fearful thoughts, while the other three, no longer under
any restraint, were giving vent to their feelings of vexation,
lamenting over such an unlooked-for premature arrival
as a most untoward event, and without mercy wishing
poor Sir Thomas had been twice as long on his passage,
or were still in Antigua.
The Crawfords were more warm on the subject than Mr. Yates,
from better understanding the family, and judging more
clearly of the mischief that must ensue. The ruin of
the play was to them a certainty: they felt the total
destruction of the scheme to be inevitably at hand;
while Mr. Yates considered it only as a temporary interruption,
a disaster for the evening, and could even suggest the
possibility of the rehearsal being renewed after tea,
when the bustle of receiving Sir Thomas were over,
and he might be at leisure to be amused by it.
The Crawfords laughed at the idea; and having soon
agreed on the propriety of their walking quietly home
and leaving the family to themselves, proposed Mr. Yates's
accompanying them and spending the evening at the Parsonage.
But Mr. Yates, having never been with those who thought much
of parental claims, or family confidence, could not perceive
that anything of the kind was necessary; and therefore,
thanking them, said, "he preferred remaining where he was,
that he might pay his respects to the old gentleman
handsomely since he _was_ come; and besides, he did not
think it would be fair by the others to have everybody run away."
Fanny was just beginning to collect herself,
and to feel that if she staid longer behind it might
seem disrespectful, when this point was settled, and being
commissioned with the brother and sister's apology,
saw them preparing to go as she quitted the room herself
to perform the dreadful duty of appearing before her uncle.
Too soon did she find herself at the drawing-room door;
and after pausing a moment for what she knew would not come,
for a courage which the outside of no door had ever supplied
to her, she turned the lock in desperation, and the lights
of the drawing-room, and all the collected family,
were before her. As she entered, her own name caught
her ear. Sir Thomas was at that moment looking round him,
and saying, "But where is Fanny? Why do not I see
my little Fanny?"--and on perceiving her, came forward
with a kindness which astonished and penetrated her,
calling her his dear Fanny, kissing her affectionately,
and observing with decided pleasure how much she was grown!
Fanny knew not how to feel, nor where to look. She was
quite oppressed. He had never been so kind, so _very_
kind to her in his life. His manner seemed changed,
his voice was quick from the agitation of joy; and all that
had been awful in his dignity seemed lost in tenderness.
He led her nearer the light and looked at her again--
inquired particularly after her health, and then,
correcting himself, observed that he need not inquire,
for her appearance spoke sufficiently on that point. A fine
blush having succeeded the previous paleness of her face,
he was justified in his belief of her equal improvement
in health and beauty. He inquired next after her family,
especially William: and his kindness altogether was such
as made her reproach herself for loving him so little,
and thinking his return a misfortune; and when, on having
courage to lift her eyes to his face, she saw that he
was grown thinner, and had the burnt, fagged, worn look
of fatigue and a hot climate, every tender feeling
was increased, and she was miserable in considering
how much unsuspected vexation was probably ready to burst
on him.
Sir Thomas was indeed the life of the party, who at
his suggestion now seated themselves round the fire.
He had the best right to be the talker; and the delight
of his sensations in being again in his own house,
in the centre of his family, after such a separation,
made him communicative and chatty in a very unusual degree;
and he was ready to give every information as to his voyage,
and answer every question of his two sons almost before
it was put. His business in Antigua had latterly been
prosperously rapid, and he came directly from Liverpool,
having had an opportunity of making his passage thither
in a private vessel, instead of waiting for the packet;
and all the little particulars of his proceedings and events,
his arrivals and departures, were most promptly delivered,
as he sat by Lady Bertram and looked with heartfelt
satisfaction on the faces around him--interrupting himself
more than once, however, to remark on his good fortune
in finding them all at home--coming unexpectedly as he did--
all collected together exactly as he could have wished,
but dared not depend on. Mr. Rushworth was not forgotten:
a most friendly reception and warmth of hand-shaking
had already met him, and with pointed attention he was
now included in the objects most intimately connected
with Mansfield. There was nothing disagreeable in
Mr. Rushworth's appearance, and Sir Thomas was liking
him already.
By not one of the circle was he listened to with such unbroken,
unalloyed enjoyment as by his wife, who was really
extremely happy to see him, and whose feelings were
so warmed by his sudden arrival as to place her nearer
agitation than she had been for the last twenty years.
She had been _almost_ fluttered for a few minutes,
and still remained so sensibly animated as to put away
her work, move Pug from her side, and give all her
attention and all the rest of her sofa to her husband.
She had no anxieties for anybody to cloud _her_ pleasure:
her own time had been irreproachably spent during his absence:
she had done a great deal of carpet-work, and made many
yards of fringe; and she would have answered as freely
for the good conduct and useful pursuits of all the young
people as for her own. It was so agreeable to her to see
him again, and hear him talk, to have her ear amused
and her whole comprehension filled by his narratives,
that she began particularly to feel how dreadfully she
must have missed him, and how impossible it would have
been for her to bear a lengthened absence.
Mrs. Norris was by no means to be compared in happiness
to her sister. Not that _she_ was incommoded by many
fears of Sir Thomas's disapprobation when the present
state of his house should be known, for her judgment
had been so blinded that, except by the instinctive
caution with which she had whisked away Mr. Rushworth's
pink satin cloak as her brother-in-law entered,
she could hardly be said to shew any sign of alarm;
but she was vexed by the _manner_ of his return.
It had left her nothing to do. Instead of being sent
for out of the room, and seeing him first, and having
to spread the happy news through the house, Sir Thomas,
with a very reasonable dependence, perhaps, on the nerves
of his wife and children, had sought no confidant but
the butler, and had been following him almost instantaneously
into the drawing-room. Mrs. Norris felt herself defrauded
of an office on which she had always depended, whether his
arrival or his death were to be the thing unfolded;
and was now trying to be in a bustle without having
anything to bustle about, and labouring to be important
where nothing was wanted but tranquillity and silence.
Would Sir Thomas have consented to eat, she might have gone
to the housekeeper with troublesome directions, and insulted
the footmen with injunctions of despatch; but Sir Thomas
resolutely declined all dinner: he would take nothing,
nothing till tea came--he would rather wait for tea.
Still Mrs. Norris was at intervals urging something different;
and in the most interesting moment of his passage to England,
when the alarm of a French privateer was at the height,
she burst through his recital with the proposal of soup.
"Sure, my dear Sir Thomas, a basin of soup would be
a much better thing for you than tea. Do have a basin
of soup."
Sir Thomas could not be provoked. "Still the same
anxiety for everybody's comfort, my dear Mrs. Norris,"
was his answer. "But indeed I would rather have nothing
but tea."
"Well, then, Lady Bertram, suppose you speak for
tea directly; suppose you hurry Baddeley a little;
he seems behindhand to-night." She carried this point,
and Sir Thomas's narrative proceeded.
At length there was a pause. His immediate communications
were exhausted, and it seemed enough to be looking joyfully
around him, now at one, now at another of the beloved circle;
but the pause was not long: in the elation of her
spirits Lady Bertram became talkative, and what were
the sensations of her children upon hearing her say,
"How do you think the young people have been amusing
themselves lately, Sir Thomas? They have been acting.
We have been all alive with acting."
"Indeed! and what have you been acting?"
"Oh! they'll tell you all about it."
"The _all_ will soon be told," cried Tom hastily,
and with affected unconcern; "but it is not worth
while to bore my father with it now. You will hear
enough of it to-morrow, sir. We have just been trying,
by way of doing something, and amusing my mother,
just within the last week, to get up a few scenes,
a mere trifle. We have had such incessant rains almost
since October began, that we have been nearly confined
to the house for days together. I have hardly taken out
a gun since the 3rd. Tolerable sport the first three days,
but there has been no attempting anything since.
The first day I went over Mansfield Wood, and Edmund took
the copses beyond Easton, and we brought home six brace
between us, and might each have killed six times as many,
but we respect your pheasants, sir, I assure you,
as much as you could desire. I do not think you will find
your woods by any means worse stocked than they were.
_I_ never saw Mansfield Wood so full of pheasants in my
life as this year. I hope you will take a day's sport
there yourself, sir, soon."
For the present the danger was over, and Fanny's sick
feelings subsided; but when tea was soon afterwards
brought in, and Sir Thomas, getting up, said that he found
that he could not be any longer in the house without
just looking into his own dear room, every agitation
was returning. He was gone before anything had been
said to prepare him for the change he must find there;
and a pause of alarm followed his disappearance.
Edmund was the first to speak--
"Something must be done," said he.
"It is time to think of our visitors," said Maria,
still feeling her hand pressed to Henry Crawford's heart,
and caring little for anything else. "Where did you leave
Miss Crawford, Fanny?"
Fanny told of their departure, and delivered their message.
"Then poor Yates is all alone," cried Tom. "I will go
and fetch him. He will be no bad assistant when it
all comes out."
To the theatre he went, and reached it just in time to
witness the first meeting of his father and his friend.
Sir Thomas had been a good deal surprised to find candles
burning in his room; and on casting his eye round it,
to see other symptoms of recent habitation and a general
air of confusion in the furniture. The removal of the
bookcase from before the billiard-room door struck
him especially, but he had scarcely more than time
to feel astonished at all this, before there were sounds
from the billiard-room to astonish him still farther.
Some one was talking there in a very loud accent; he did
not know the voice--more than talking--almost hallooing.
He stepped to the door, rejoicing at that moment in having
the means of immediate communication, and, opening it,
found himself on the stage of a theatre, and opposed
to a ranting young man, who appeared likely to knock him
down backwards. At the very moment of Yates perceiving
Sir Thomas, and giving perhaps the very best start he
had ever given in the whole course of his rehearsals,
Tom Bertram entered at the other end of the room;
and never had he found greater difficulty in keeping
his countenance. His father's looks of solemnity and
amazement on this his first appearance on any stage,
and the gradual metamorphosis of the impassioned Baron
Wildenheim into the well-bred and easy Mr. Yates,
making his bow and apology to Sir Thomas Bertram, was such
an exhibition, such a piece of true acting, as he would
not have lost upon any account. It would be the last--
in all probability--the last scene on that stage; but he
was sure there could not be a finer. The house would
close with the greatest eclat.
There was little time, however, for the indulgence
of any images of merriment. It was necessary for him
to step forward, too, and assist the introduction,
and with many awkward sensations he did his best.
Sir Thomas received Mr. Yates with all the appearance
of cordiality which was due to his own character,
but was really as far from pleased with the necessity of
the acquaintance as with the manner of its commencement.
Mr. Yates's family and connexions were sufficiently known
to him to render his introduction as the "particular friend,"
another of the hundred particular friends of his son,
exceedingly unwelcome; and it needed all the felicity of being
again at home, and all the forbearance it could supply,
to save Sir Thomas from anger on finding himself thus
bewildered in his own house, making part of a ridiculous
exhibition in the midst of theatrical nonsense, and forced
in so untoward a moment to admit the acquaintance of a young
man whom he felt sure of disapproving, and whose easy
indifference and volubility in the course of the first
five minutes seemed to mark him the most at home of the two.
Tom understood his father's thoughts, and heartily
wishing he might be always as well disposed to give them
but partial expression, began to see, more clearly than
he had ever done before, that there might be some ground
of offence, that there might be some reason for the glance
his father gave towards the ceiling and stucco of the room;
and that when he inquired with mild gravity after the fate
of the billiard-table, he was not proceeding beyond
a very allowable curiosity. A few minutes were enough
for such unsatisfactory sensations on each side; and Sir
Thomas having exerted himself so far as to speak a few
words of calm approbation in reply to an eager appeal
of Mr. Yates, as to the happiness of the arrangement,
the three gentlemen returned to the drawing-room together,
Sir Thomas with an increase of gravity which was not
lost on all.
"I come from your theatre," said he composedly, as he
sat down; "I found myself in it rather unexpectedly.
Its vicinity to my own room--but in every respect, indeed,
it took me by surprise, as I had not the smallest suspicion
of your acting having assumed so serious a character.
It appears a neat job, however, as far as I could judge
by candlelight, and does my friend Christopher Jackson credit."
And then he would have changed the subject, and sipped
his coffee in peace over domestic matters of a calmer hue;
but Mr. Yates, without discernment to catch Sir Thomas's meaning,
or diffidence, or delicacy, or discretion enough to allow
him to lead the discourse while he mingled among the others
with the least obtrusiveness himself, would keep him on
the topic of the theatre, would torment him with questions
and remarks relative to it, and finally would make him hear
the whole history of his disappointment at Ecclesford.
Sir Thomas listened most politely, but found much to
offend his ideas of decorum, and confirm his ill-opinion
of Mr. Yates's habits of thinking, from the beginning
to the end of the story; and when it was over, could give
him no other assurance of sympathy than what a slight bow conveyed.
"This was, in fact, the origin of _our_ acting," said Tom,
after a moment's thought. "My friend Yates brought the
infection from Ecclesford, and it spread--as those things
always spread, you know, sir--the faster, probably,
from _your_ having so often encouraged the sort of thing
in us formerly. It was like treading old ground again."
Mr. Yates took the subject from his friend as soon as possible,
and immediately gave Sir Thomas an account of what they
had done and were doing: told him of the gradual
increase of their views, the happy conclusion of their
first difficulties, and present promising state of affairs;
relating everything with so blind an interest as made him
not only totally unconscious of the uneasy movements of many
of his friends as they sat, the change of countenance,
the fidget, the hem! of unquietness, but prevented him
even from seeing the expression of the face on which his
own eyes were fixed--from seeing Sir Thomas's dark brow
contract as he looked with inquiring earnestness at his
daughters and Edmund, dwelling particularly on the latter,
and speaking a language, a remonstrance, a reproof,
which _he_ felt at his heart. Not less acutely was it
felt by Fanny, who had edged back her chair behind her
aunt's end of the sofa, and, screened from notice herself,
saw all that was passing before her. Such a look
of reproach at Edmund from his father she could never
have expected to witness; and to feel that it was in any
degree deserved was an aggravation indeed. Sir Thomas's
look implied, "On your judgment, Edmund, I depended;
what have you been about?" She knelt in spirit to her uncle,
and her bosom swelled to utter, "Oh, not to _him_!
Look so to all the others, but not to _him_!"
Mr. Yates was still talking. "To own the truth, Sir Thomas,
we were in the middle of a rehearsal when you arrived
this evening. We were going through the three first acts,
and not unsuccessfully upon the whole. Our company is
now so dispersed, from the Crawfords being gone home,
that nothing more can be done to-night; but if you will
give us the honour of your company to-morrow evening,
I should not be afraid of the result. We bespeak
your indulgence, you understand, as young performers;
we bespeak your indulgence."
"My indulgence shall be given, sir," replied Sir
Thomas gravely, "but without any other rehearsal."
And with a relenting smile, he added, "I come home
to be happy and indulgent." Then turning away towards
any or all of the rest, he tranquilly said, "Mr. and Miss
Crawford were mentioned in my last letters from Mansfield.
Do you find them agreeable acquaintance?"
Tom was the only one at all ready with an answer, but he
being entirely without particular regard for either,
without jealousy either in love or acting, could speak
very handsomely of both. "Mr. Crawford was a most pleasant,
gentleman-like man; his sister a sweet, pretty, elegant,
lively girl."
Mr. Rushworth could be silent no longer. "I do not say
he is not gentleman-like, considering; but you should
tell your father he is not above five feet eight,
or he will be expecting a well-looking man."
Sir Thomas did not quite understand this, and looked
with some surprise at the speaker.
"If I must say what I think," continued Mr. Rushworth, "in my
opinion it is very disagreeable to be always rehearsing.
It is having too much of a good thing. I am not so fond
of acting as I was at first. I think we are a great deal
better employed, sitting comfortably here among ourselves,
and doing nothing."
Sir Thomas looked again, and then replied with an approving
smile, "I am happy to find our sentiments on this subject
so much the same. It gives me sincere satisfaction.
That I should be cautious and quick-sighted, and feel many
scruples which my children do _not_ feel, is perfectly natural;
and equally so that my value for domestic tranquillity,
for a home which shuts out noisy pleasures, should much
exceed theirs. But at your time of life to feel all this,
is a most favourable circumstance for yourself,
and for everybody connected with you; and I am sensible
of the importance of having an ally of such weight."
Sir Thomas meant to be giving Mr. Rushworth's opinion
in better words than he could find himself. He was
aware that he must not expect a genius in Mr. Rushworth;
but as a well-judging, steady young man, with better notions
than his elocution would do justice to, he intended to value
him very highly. It was impossible for many of the others
not to smile. Mr. Rushworth hardly knew what to do
with so much meaning; but by looking, as he really felt,
most exceedingly pleased with Sir Thomas's good opinion,
and saying scarcely anything, he did his best towards
preserving that good opinion a little longer.
CHAPTER XX
Edmund's first object the next morning was to see his
father alone, and give him a fair statement of the whole
acting scheme, defending his own share in it as far only
as he could then, in a soberer moment, feel his motives
to deserve, and acknowledging, with perfect ingenuousness,
that his concession had been attended with such partial
good as to make his judgment in it very doubtful.
He was anxious, while vindicating himself, to say nothing
unkind of the others: but there was only one amongst them
whose conduct he could mention without some necessity
of defence or palliation. "We have all been more or less
to blame," said he, "every one of us, excepting Fanny.
Fanny is the only one who has judged rightly throughout;
who has been consistent. _Her_ feelings have been steadily
against it from first to last. She never ceased to think
of what was due to you. You will find Fanny everything you
could wish."
Sir Thomas saw all the impropriety of such a scheme among
such a party, and at such a time, as strongly as his son
had ever supposed he must; he felt it too much, indeed,
for many words; and having shaken hands with Edmund,
meant to try to lose the disagreeable impression,
and forget how much he had been forgotten himself as soon
as he could, after the house had been cleared of every
object enforcing the remembrance, and restored to its
proper state. He did not enter into any remonstrance with
his other children: he was more willing to believe they
felt their error than to run the risk of investigation.
The reproof of an immediate conclusion of everything,
the sweep of every preparation, would be sufficient.
There was one person, however, in the house, whom he could
not leave to learn his sentiments merely through his conduct.
He could not help giving Mrs. Norris a hint of his having
hoped that her advice might have been interposed to prevent
what her judgment must certainly have disapproved. The young
people had been very inconsiderate in forming the plan;
they ought to have been capable of a better decision themselves;
but they were young; and, excepting Edmund, he believed,
of unsteady characters; and with greater surprise, therefore,
he must regard her acquiescence in their wrong measures,
her countenance of their unsafe amusements, than that such
measures and such amusements should have been suggested.
Mrs. Norris was a little confounded and as nearly being
silenced as ever she had been in her life; for she
was ashamed to confess having never seen any of the
impropriety which was so glaring to Sir Thomas, and would
not have admitted that her influence was insufficient--
that she might have talked in vain. Her only resource
was to get out of the subject as fast as possible, and turn
the current of Sir Thomas's ideas into a happier channel.
She had a great deal to insinuate in her own praise
as to _general_ attention to the interest and comfort
of his family, much exertion and many sacrifices to glance
at in the form of hurried walks and sudden removals from
her own fireside, and many excellent hints of distrust
and economy to Lady Bertram and Edmund to detail,
whereby a most considerable saving had always arisen,
and more than one bad servant been detected. But her chief
strength lay in Sotherton. Her greatest support and glory
was in having formed the connexion with the Rushworths.
_There_ she was impregnable. She took to herself all
the credit of bringing Mr. Rushworth's admiration of Maria
to any effect. "If I had not been active," said she,
"and made a point of being introduced to his mother,
and then prevailed on my sister to pay the first visit,
I am as certain as I sit here that nothing would have
come of it; for Mr. Rushworth is the sort of amiable
modest young man who wants a great deal of encouragement,
and there were girls enough on the catch for him if we
had been idle. But I left no stone unturned. I was
ready to move heaven and earth to persuade my sister,
and at last I did persuade her. You know the distance
to Sotherton; it was in the middle of winter, and the roads
almost impassable, but I did persuade her."
"I know how great, how justly great, your influence
is with Lady Bertram and her children, and am the more
concerned that it should not have been."
"My dear Sir Thomas, if you had seen the state of the
roads _that_ day! I thought we should never have got
through them, though we had the four horses of course;
and poor old coachman would attend us, out of his great love
and kindness, though he was hardly able to sit the box
on account of the rheumatism which I had been doctoring
him for ever since Michaelmas. I cured him at last;
but he was very bad all the winter--and this was such a day,
I could not help going to him up in his room before we set
off to advise him not to venture: he was putting on his wig;
so I said, 'Coachman, you had much better not go; your Lady
and I shall be very safe; you know how steady Stephen is,
and Charles has been upon the leaders so often now,
that I am sure there is no fear.' But, however, I soon
found it would not do; he was bent upon going, and as I
hate to be worrying and officious, I said no more; but my
heart quite ached for him at every jolt, and when we got
into the rough lanes about Stoke, where, what with frost
and snow upon beds of stones, it was worse than anything
you can imagine, I was quite in an agony about him.
And then the poor horses too! To see them straining away!
You know how I always feel for the horses. And when we got
to the bottom of Sandcroft Hill, what do you think I did?
You will laugh at me; but I got out and walked up.
I did indeed. It might not be saving them much, but it
was something, and I could not bear to sit at my ease
and be dragged up at the expense of those noble animals.
I caught a dreadful cold, but _that_ I did not regard.
My object was accomplished in the visit."
"I hope we shall always think the acquaintance worth
any trouble that might be taken to establish it.
There is nothing very striking in Mr. Rushworth's manners,
but I was pleased last night with what appeared to be his
opinion on one subject: his decided preference of a quiet
family party to the bustle and confusion of acting.
He seemed to feel exactly as one could wish."
"Yes, indeed, and the more you know of him the better
you will like him. He is not a shining character,
but he has a thousand good qualities; and is so disposed
to look up to you, that I am quite laughed at about it,
for everybody considers it as my doing. 'Upon my word,
Mrs. Norris,' said Mrs. Grant the other day, 'if Mr. Rushworth
were a son of your own, he could not hold Sir Thomas
in greater respect.'"
Sir Thomas gave up the point, foiled by her evasions,
disarmed by her flattery; and was obliged to rest
satisfied with the conviction that where the present
pleasure of those she loved was at stake, her kindness
did sometimes overpower her judgment.
It was a busy morning with him. Conversation with any
of them occupied but a small part of it. He had to
reinstate himself in all the wonted concerns of his
Mansfield life: to see his steward and his bailiff;
to examine and compute, and, in the intervals
of business, to walk into his stables and his gardens,
and nearest plantations; but active and methodical,
he had not only done all this before he resumed his seat
as master of the house at dinner, he had also set the
carpenter to work in pulling down what had been so lately
put up in the billiard-room, and given the scene-painter
his dismissal long enough to justify the pleasing belief
of his being then at least as far off as Northampton.
The scene-painter was gone, having spoilt only the
floor of one room, ruined all the coachman's sponges,
and made five of the under-servants idle and dissatisfied;
and Sir Thomas was in hopes that another day or two would
suffice to wipe away every outward memento of what had been,
even to the destruction of every unbound copy of Lovers'
Vows in the house, for he was burning all that met his eye
Mr. Yates was beginning now to understand Sir Thomas's intentions,
though as far as ever from understanding their source.
He and his friend had been out with their guns the chief of
the morning, and Tom had taken the opportunity of explaining,
with proper apologies for his father's particularity,
what was to be expected. Mr. Yates felt it as acutely
as might be supposed. To be a second time disappointed
in the same way was an instance of very severe ill-luck;
and his indignation was such, that had it not been for delicacy
towards his friend, and his friend's youngest sister,
he believed he should certainly attack the baronet on
the absurdity of his proceedings, and argue him into a
little more rationality. He believed this very stoutly
while he was in Mansfield Wood, and all the way home;
but there was a something in Sir Thomas, when they sat
round the same table, which made Mr. Yates think it wiser
to let him pursue his own way, and feel the folly of it
without opposition. He had known many disagreeable
fathers before, and often been struck with the inconveniences
they occasioned, but never, in the whole course of his life,
had he seen one of that class so unintelligibly moral,
so infamously tyrannical as Sir Thomas. He was not a man
to be endured but for his children's sake, and he might
be thankful to his fair daughter Julia that Mr. Yates
did yet mean to stay a few days longer under his roof.
The evening passed with external smoothness, though almost
every mind was ruffled; and the music which Sir Thomas
called for from his daughters helped to conceal the want
of real harmony. Maria was in a good deal of agitation.
It was of the utmost consequence to her that Crawford
should now lose no time in declaring himself, and she
was disturbed that even a day should be gone by without
seeming to advance that point. She had been expecting
to see him the whole morning, and all the evening, too,
was still expecting him. Mr. Rushworth had set off early
with the great news for Sotherton; and she had fondly hoped
for such an immediate _eclaircissement_ as might save him
the trouble of ever coming back again. But they had seen
no one from the Parsonage, not a creature, and had heard
no tidings beyond a friendly note of congratulation
and inquiry from Mrs. Grant to Lady Bertram. It was
the first day for many, many weeks, in which the families
had been wholly divided. Four-and-twenty hours had never
passed before, since August began, without bringing them
together in some way or other. It was a sad, anxious day;
and the morrow, though differing in the sort of evil,
did by no means bring less. A few moments of feverish
enjoyment were followed by hours of acute suffering.
Henry Crawford was again in the house: he walked up
with Dr. Grant, who was anxious to pay his respects to
Sir Thomas, and at rather an early hour they were ushered
into the breakfast-room, where were most of the family.
Sir Thomas soon appeared, and Maria saw with delight
and agitation the introduction of the man she loved to
her father. Her sensations were indefinable, and so were
they a few minutes afterwards upon hearing Henry Crawford,
who had a chair between herself and Tom, ask the latter
in an undervoice whether there were any plans for resuming
the play after the present happy interruption (with
a courteous glance at Sir Thomas), because, in that case,
he should make a point of returning to Mansfield at any time
required by the party: he was going away immediately,
being to meet his uncle at Bath without delay; but if there
were any prospect of a renewal of Lovers' Vows, he should
hold himself positively engaged, he should break through
every other claim, he should absolutely condition with his
uncle for attending them whenever he might be wanted.
The play should not be lost by _his_ absence.
"From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be,"
said he; "I will attend you from any place in England,
at an hour's notice."
It was well at that moment that Tom had to speak, and not
his sister. He could immediately say with easy fluency,
"I am sorry you are going; but as to our play, _that_ is
all over--entirely at an end" (looking significantly
at his father). "The painter was sent off yesterday,
and very little will remain of the theatre to-morrow. I knew
how _that_ would be from the first. It is early for Bath.
You will find nobody there."
"It is about my uncle's usual time."
"When do you think of going?"
"I may, perhaps, get as far as Banbury to-day."
"Whose stables do you use at Bath?" was the next question;
and while this branch of the subject was under discussion,
Maria, who wanted neither pride nor resolution, was preparing
to encounter her share of it with tolerable calmness.
To her he soon turned, repeating much of what he had
already said, with only a softened air and stronger
expressions of regret. But what availed his expressions
or his air? He was going, and, if not voluntarily going,
voluntarily intending to stay away; for, excepting what might
be due to his uncle, his engagements were all self-imposed.
He might talk of necessity, but she knew his independence.
The hand which had so pressed hers to his heart! the hand
and the heart were alike motionless and passive now!
Her spirit supported her, but the agony of her mind was severe.
She had not long to endure what arose from listening
to language which his actions contradicted, or to bury
the tumult of her feelings under the restraint of society;
for general civilities soon called his notice from her,
and the farewell visit, as it then became openly acknowledged,
was a very short one. He was gone--he had touched her
hand for the last time, he had made his parting bow,
and she might seek directly all that solitude could do
for her. Henry Crawford was gone, gone from the house,
and within two hours afterwards from the parish;
and so ended all the hopes his selfish vanity had raised
in Maria and Julia Bertram.
Julia could rejoice that he was gone. His presence was
beginning to be odious to her; and if Maria gained him not,
she was now cool enough to dispense with any other revenge.
She did not want exposure to be added to desertion.
Henry Crawford gone, she could even pity her sister.
With a purer spirit did Fanny rejoice in the intelligence.
She heard it at dinner, and felt it a blessing.
By all the others it was mentioned with regret;
and his merits honoured with due gradation of feeling--
from the sincerity of Edmund's too partial regard,
to the unconcern of his mother speaking entirely by rote.
Mrs. Norris began to look about her, and wonder that
his falling in love with Julia had come to nothing;
and could almost fear that she had been remiss herself
in forwarding it; but with so many to care for, how was
it possible for even _her_ activity to keep pace with
her wishes?
Another day or two, and Mr. Yates was gone likewise.
In _his_ departure Sir Thomas felt the chief interest:
wanting to be alone with his family, the presence of a
stranger superior to Mr. Yates must have been irksome;
but of him, trifling and confident, idle and expensive,
it was every way vexatious. In himself he was wearisome,
but as the friend of Tom and the admirer of Julia he
became offensive. Sir Thomas had been quite indifferent
to Mr. Crawford's going or staying: but his good
wishes for Mr. Yates's having a pleasant journey,
as he walked with him to the hall-door, were given with
genuine satisfaction. Mr. Yates had staid to see the
destruction of every theatrical preparation at Mansfield,
the removal of everything appertaining to the play:
he left the house in all the soberness of its general
character; and Sir Thomas hoped, in seeing him out of it,
to be rid of the worst object connected with the scheme,
and the last that must be inevitably reminding him of
its existence.
Mrs. Norris contrived to remove one article from his sight
that might have distressed him. The curtain, over which
she had presided with such talent and such success,
went off with her to her cottage, where she happened
to be particularly in want of green baize.
CHAPTER XXI
Sir Thomas's return made a striking change in the ways of
the family, independent of Lovers' Vows. Under his government,
Mansfield was an altered place. Some members of their
society sent away, and the spirits of many others saddened--
it was all sameness and gloom compared with the past--
a sombre family party rarely enlivened. There was little
intercourse with the Parsonage. Sir Thomas, drawing back
from intimacies in general, was particularly disinclined,
at this time, for any engagements but in one quarter.
The Rushworths were the only addition to his own domestic
circle which he could solicit.
Edmund did not wonder that such should be his father's feelings,
nor could he regret anything but the exclusion of the Grants.
"But they," he observed to Fanny, "have a claim. They seem
to belong to us; they seem to be part of ourselves.
I could wish my father were more sensible of their very
great attention to my mother and sisters while he was away.
I am afraid they may feel themselves neglected.
But the truth is, that my father hardly knows them.
They had not been here a twelvemonth when he left England.
If he knew them better, he would value their society
as it deserves; for they are in fact exactly the sort
of people he would like. We are sometimes a little
in want of animation among ourselves: my sisters seem
out of spirits, and Tom is certainly not at his ease.
Dr. and Mrs. Grant would enliven us, and make our evenings
pass away with more enjoyment even to my father."
"Do you think so?" said Fanny: "in my opinion,
my uncle would not like _any_ addition. I think he
values the very quietness you speak of, and that the
repose of his own family circle is all he wants.
And it does not appear to me that we are more serious
than we used to be--I mean before my uncle went abroad.
As well as I can recollect, it was always much the same.
There was never much laughing in his presence; or,
if there is any difference, it is not more, I think,
than such an absence has a tendency to produce at first.
There must be a sort of shyness; but I cannot recollect
that our evenings formerly were ever merry, except when
my uncle was in town. No young people's are, I suppose,
when those they look up to are at home".
"I believe you are right, Fanny," was his reply, after a
short consideration. "I believe our evenings are rather
returned to what they were, than assuming a new character.
The novelty was in their being lively. Yet, how strong
the impression that only a few weeks will give!
I have been feeling as if we had never lived so before."
"I suppose I am graver than other people," said Fanny.
"The evenings do not appear long to me. I love to hear
my uncle talk of the West Indies. I could listen to him
for an hour together. It entertains _me_ more than many
other things have done; but then I am unlike other people,
I dare say."
"Why should you dare say _that_?" (smiling). "Do you
want to be told that you are only unlike other people
in being more wise and discreet? But when did you,
or anybody, ever get a compliment from me, Fanny?
Go to my father if you want to be complimented.
He will satisfy you. Ask your uncle what he thinks,
and you will hear compliments enough: and though they
may be chiefly on your person, you must put up with it,
and trust to his seeing as much beauty of mind in time."
Such language was so new to Fanny that it quite embarrassed her.
"Your uncle thinks you very pretty, dear Fanny--
and that is the long and the short of the matter.
Anybody but myself would have made something more of it,
and anybody but you would resent that you had not been
thought very pretty before; but the truth is, that your
uncle never did admire you till now--and now he does.
Your complexion is so improved!--and you have gained
so much countenance!--and your figure--nay, Fanny, do not
turn away about it--it is but an uncle. If you cannot
bear an uncle's admiration, what is to become of you?
You must really begin to harden yourself to the idea of
being worth looking at. You must try not to mind growing
up into a pretty woman."
"Oh! don't talk so, don't talk so," cried Fanny,
distressed by more feelings than he was aware of; but seeing
that she was distressed, he had done with the subject,
and only added more seriously--
"Your uncle is disposed to be pleased with you in
every respect; and I only wish you would talk to him more.
You are one of those who are too silent in the evening circle."
"But I do talk to him more than I used. I am sure I do.
Did not you hear me ask him about the slave-trade
last night?"
"I did--and was in hopes the question would be followed
up by others. It would have pleased your uncle to be
inquired of farther."
"And I longed to do it--but there was such a dead silence!
And while my cousins were sitting by without speaking a word,
or seeming at all interested in the subject, I did not like--
I thought it would appear as if I wanted to set myself
off at their expense, by shewing a curiosity and pleasure
in his information which he must wish his own daughters
to feel."
"Miss Crawford was very right in what she said of you
the other day: that you seemed almost as fearful of notice
and praise as other women were of neglect. We were talking
of you at the Parsonage, and those were her words.
She has great discernment. I know nobody who distinguishes
characters better. For so young a woman it is remarkable!
She certainly understands _you_ better than you are
understood by the greater part of those who have known you
so long; and with regard to some others, I can perceive,
from occasional lively hints, the unguarded expressions
of the moment, that she could define _many_ as accurately,
did not delicacy forbid it. I wonder what she thinks
of my father! She must admire him as a fine-looking man,
with most gentlemanlike, dignified, consistent manners;
but perhaps, having seen him so seldom, his reserve
may be a little repulsive. Could they be much together,
I feel sure of their liking each other. He would enjoy
her liveliness and she has talents to value his powers.
I wish they met more frequently! I hope she does not suppose
there is any dislike on his side."
"She must know herself too secure of the regard of all
the rest of you," said Fanny, with half a sigh, "to have
any such apprehension. And Sir Thomas's wishing just at
first to be only with his family, is so very natural,
that she can argue nothing from that. After a little while,
I dare say, we shall be meeting again in the same sort
of way, allowing for the difference of the time of year."
"This is the first October that she has passed in the country
since her infancy. I do not call Tunbridge or Cheltenham
the country; and November is a still more serious month,
and I can see that Mrs. Grant is very anxious for her
not finding Mansfield dull as winter comes on."
Fanny could have said a great deal, but it was safer to
say nothing, and leave untouched all Miss Crawford's resources--
her accomplishments, her spirits, her importance,
her friends, lest it should betray her into any observations
seemingly unhandsome. Miss Crawford's kind opinion
of herself deserved at least a grateful forbearance,
and she began to talk of something else.
"To-morrow, I think, my uncle dines at Sotherton, and you
and Mr. Bertram too. We shall be quite a small party at home.
I hope my uncle may continue to like Mr. Rushworth."
"That is impossible, Fanny. He must like him less
after to-morrow's visit, for we shall be five hours
in his company. I should dread the stupidity of the day,
if there were not a much greater evil to follow--
the impression it must leave on Sir Thomas. He cannot much
longer deceive himself. I am sorry for them all, and would
give something that Rushworth and Maria had never met."
In this quarter, indeed, disappointment was impending
over Sir Thomas. Not all his good-will for Mr. Rushworth,
not all Mr. Rushworth's deference for him, could prevent
him from soon discerning some part of the truth--
that Mr. Rushworth was an inferior young man, as ignorant
in business as in books, with opinions in general unfixed,
and without seeming much aware of it himself.
He had expected a very different son-in-law; and beginning
to feel grave on Maria's account, tried to understand
_her_ feelings. Little observation there was necessary
to tell him that indifference was the most favourable
state they could be in. Her behaviour to Mr. Rushworth
was careless and cold. She could not, did not like him.
Sir Thomas resolved to speak seriously to her.
Advantageous as would be the alliance, and long standing
and public as was the engagement, her happiness must not be
sacrificed to it. Mr. Rushworth had, perhaps, been accepted
on too short an acquaintance, and, on knowing him better,
she was repenting.
With solemn kindness Sir Thomas addressed her: told her
his fears, inquired into her wishes, entreated her to be
open and sincere, and assured her that every inconvenience
should be braved, and the connexion entirely given up,
if she felt herself unhappy in the prospect of it.
He would act for her and release her. Maria had a moment's
struggle as she listened, and only a moment's: when her
father ceased, she was able to give her answer immediately,
decidedly, and with no apparent agitation. She thanked
him for his great attention, his paternal kindness, but he
was quite mistaken in supposing she had the smallest desire
of breaking through her engagement, or was sensible of any
change of opinion or inclination since her forming it.
She had the highest esteem for Mr. Rushworth's character
and disposition, and could not have a doubt of her happiness with
him.
Sir Thomas was satisfied; too glad to be satisfied,
perhaps, to urge the matter quite so far as his judgment
might have dictated to others. It was an alliance which
he could not have relinquished without pain; and thus
he reasoned. Mr. Rushworth was young enough to improve.
Mr. Rushworth must and would improve in good society;
and if Maria could now speak so securely of her happiness
with him, speaking certainly without the prejudice,
the blindness of love, she ought to be believed.
Her feelings, probably, were not acute; he had never
supposed them to be so; but her comforts might not
be less on that account; and if she could dispense
with seeing her husband a leading, shining character,
there would certainly be everything else in her favour.
A well-disposed young woman, who did not marry for love,
was in general but the more attached to her own family;
and the nearness of Sotherton to Mansfield must naturally hold
out the greatest temptation, and would, in all probability,
be a continual supply of the most amiable and innocent enjoyments.
Such and such-like were the reasonings of Sir Thomas,
happy to escape the embarrassing evils of a rupture,
the wonder, the reflections, the reproach that must
attend it; happy to secure a marriage which would bring
him such an addition of respectability and influence,
and very happy to think anything of his daughter's
disposition that was most favourable for the purpose.
To her the conference closed as satisfactorily as to him.
She was in a state of mind to be glad that she had secured
her fate beyond recall: that she had pledged herself
anew to Sotherton; that she was safe from the possibility
of giving Crawford the triumph of governing her actions,
and destroying her prospects; and retired in proud resolve,
determined only to behave more cautiously to Mr. Rushworth
in future, that her father might not be again suspecting her.
Had Sir Thomas applied to his daughter within the first
three or four days after Henry Crawford's leaving Mansfield,
before her feelings were at all tranquillised, before she
had given up every hope of him, or absolutely resolved on
enduring his rival, her answer might have been different;
but after another three or four days, when there was no return,
no letter, no message, no symptom of a softened heart,
no hope of advantage from separation, her mind became
cool enough to seek all the comfort that pride and self
revenge could give.
Henry Crawford had destroyed her happiness, but he
should not know that he had done it; he should not
destroy her credit, her appearance, her prosperity, too.
He should not have to think of her as pining in the
retirement of Mansfield for _him_, rejecting Sotherton
and London, independence and splendour, for _his_ sake.
Independence was more needful than ever; the want of it
at Mansfield more sensibly felt. She was less and less
able to endure the restraint which her father imposed.
The liberty which his absence had given was now become
absolutely necessary. She must escape from him and Mansfield
as soon as possible, and find consolation in fortune
and consequence, bustle and the world, for a wounded spirit.
Her mind was quite determined, and varied not.
To such feelings delay, even the delay of much preparation,
would have been an evil, and Mr. Rushworth could hardly
be more impatient for the marriage than herself.
In all the important preparations of the mind she
was complete: being prepared for matrimony by an hatred
of home, restraint, and tranquillity; by the misery
of disappointed affection, and contempt of the man she
was to marry. The rest might wait. The preparations
of new carriages and furniture might wait for London
and spring, when her own taste could have fairer play.
The principals being all agreed in this respect, it soon
appeared that a very few weeks would be sufficient
for such arrangements as must precede the wedding.
Mrs. Rushworth was quite ready to retire, and make way for
the fortunate young woman whom her dear son had selected;
and very early in November removed herself, her maid,
her footman, and her chariot, with true dowager propriety,
to Bath, there to parade over the wonders of Sotherton
in her evening parties; enjoying them as thoroughly,
perhaps, in the animation of a card-table, as she had
ever done on the spot; and before the middle of the same
month the ceremony had taken place which gave Sotherton
another mistress.
It was a very proper wedding. The bride was elegantly dressed;
the two bridesmaids were duly inferior; her father gave
her away; her mother stood with salts in her hand,
expecting to be agitated; her aunt tried to cry;
and the service was impressively read by Dr. Grant.
Nothing could be objected to when it came under the
discussion of the neighbourhood, except that the carriage
which conveyed the bride and bridegroom and Julia
from the church-door to Sotherton was the same chaise
which Mr. Rushworth had used for a twelvemonth before.
In everything else the etiquette of the day might stand
the strictest investigation.
It was done, and they were gone. Sir Thomas felt as an
anxious father must feel, and was indeed experiencing much
of the agitation which his wife had been apprehensive
of for herself, but had fortunately escaped. Mrs. Norris,
most happy to assist in the duties of the day,
by spending it at the Park to support her sister's spirits,
and drinking the health of Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth in
a supernumerary glass or two, was all joyous delight;
for she had made the match; she had done everything;
and no one would have supposed, from her confident triumph,
that she had ever heard of conjugal infelicity in her life,
or could have the smallest insight into the disposition
of the niece who had been brought up under her eye.
The plan of the young couple was to proceed,
after a few days, to Brighton, and take a house there
for some weeks. Every public place was new to Maria,
and Brighton is almost as gay in winter as in summer.
When the novelty of amusement there was over, it would
be time for the wider range of London.
Julia was to go with them to Brighton. Since rivalry
between the sisters had ceased, they had been gradually
recovering much of their former good understanding;
and were at least sufficiently friends to make each of them
exceedingly glad to be with the other at such a time.
Some other companion than Mr. Rushworth was of the first
consequence to his lady; and Julia was quite as eager
for novelty and pleasure as Maria, though she might not
have struggled through so much to obtain them, and could
better bear a subordinate situation.
Their departure made another material change at Mansfield,
a chasm which required some time to fill up. The family
circle became greatly contracted; and though the Miss
Bertrams had latterly added little to its gaiety,
they could not but be missed. Even their mother missed them;
and how much more their tenderhearted cousin, who wandered
about the house, and thought of them, and felt for them,
with a degree of affectionate regret which they had never
done much to deserve!
CHAPTER XXII
Fanny's consequence increased on the departure of
her cousins. Becoming, as she then did, the only young
woman in the drawing-room, the only occupier of that
interesting division of a family in which she had hitherto
held so humble a third, it was impossible for her not
to be more looked at, more thought of and attended to,
than she had ever been before; and "Where is Fanny?"
became no uncommon question, even without her being
wanted for any one's convenience.
Not only at home did her value increase, but at the
Parsonage too. In that house, which she had hardly
entered twice a year since Mr. Norris's death, she became
a welcome, an invited guest, and in the gloom and dirt
of a November day, most acceptable to Mary Crawford.
Her visits there, beginning by chance, were continued
by solicitation. Mrs. Grant, really eager to get any
change for her sister, could, by the easiest self-deceit,
persuade herself that she was doing the kindest thing
by Fanny, and giving her the most important opportunities
of improvement in pressing her frequent calls.
Fanny, having been sent into the village on some errand
by her aunt Norris, was overtaken by a heavy shower close
to the Parsonage; and being descried from one of the
windows endeavouring to find shelter under the branches
and lingering leaves of an oak just beyond their premises,
was forced, though not without some modest reluctance on
her part, to come in. A civil servant she had withstood;
but when Dr. Grant himself went out with an umbrella,
there was nothing to be done but to be very much ashamed,
and to get into the house as fast as possible; and to poor
Miss Crawford, who had just been contemplating the dismal
rain in a very desponding state of mind, sighing over
the ruin of all her plan of exercise for that morning,
and of every chance of seeing a single creature beyond
themselves for the next twenty-four hours, the sound of
a little bustle at the front door, and the sight of Miss
Price dripping with wet in the vestibule, was delightful.
The value of an event on a wet day in the country was
most forcibly brought before her. She was all alive
again directly, and among the most active in being useful
to Fanny, in detecting her to be wetter than she would at
first allow, and providing her with dry clothes; and Fanny,
after being obliged to submit to all this attention,
and to being assisted and waited on by mistresses
and maids, being also obliged, on returning downstairs,
to be fixed in their drawing-room for an hour while
the rain continued, the blessing of something fresh
to see and think of was thus extended to Miss Crawford,
and might carry on her spirits to the period of dressing
and dinner.
The two sisters were so kind to her, and so pleasant,
that Fanny might have enjoyed her visit could she have
believed herself not in the way, and could she have
foreseen that the weather would certainly clear at the
end of the hour, and save her from the shame of having
Dr. Grant's carriage and horses out to take her home,
with which she was threatened. As to anxiety for any alarm
that her absence in such weather might occasion at home,
she had nothing to suffer on that score; for as her being
out was known only to her two aunts, she was perfectly
aware that none would be felt, and that in whatever cottage
aunt Norris might chuse to establish her during the rain,
her being in such cottage would be indubitable to aunt Bertram.
It was beginning to look brighter, when Fanny,
observing a harp in the room, asked some questions about it,
which soon led to an acknowledgment of her wishing very
much to hear it, and a confession, which could hardly
be believed, of her having never yet heard it since its
being in Mansfield. To Fanny herself it appeared a very
simple and natural circumstance. She had scarcely ever
been at the Parsonage since the instrument's arrival,
there had been no reason that she should; but Miss Crawford,
calling to mind an early expressed wish on the subject,
was concerned at her own neglect; and "Shall I play
to you now?" and "What will you have?" were questions
immediately following with the readiest good-humour.
She played accordingly; happy to have a new listener,
and a listener who seemed so much obliged, so full
of wonder at the performance, and who shewed herself
not wanting in taste. She played till Fanny's eyes,
straying to the window on the weather's being evidently fair,
spoke what she felt must be done.
"Another quarter of an hour," said Miss Crawford, "and we
shall see how it will be. Do not run away the first
moment of its holding up. Those clouds look alarming."
"But they are passed over," said Fanny. "I have been
watching them. This weather is all from the south."
"South or north, I know a black cloud when I see it;
and you must not set forward while it is so threatening.
And besides, I want to play something more to you--a very
pretty piece--and your cousin Edmund's prime favourite.
You must stay and hear your cousin's favourite."
Fanny felt that she must; and though she had not
waited for that sentence to be thinking of Edmund,
such a memento made her particularly awake to his idea,
and she fancied him sitting in that room again and again,
perhaps in the very spot where she sat now, listening with
constant delight to the favourite air, played, as it
appeared to her, with superior tone and expression;
and though pleased with it herself, and glad to like whatever
was liked by him, she was more sincerely impatient to go
away at the conclusion of it than she had been before;
and on this being evident, she was so kindly asked to
call again, to take them in her walk whenever she could,
to come and hear more of the harp, that she felt it
necessary to be done, if no objection arose at home.
Such was the origin of the sort of intimacy which took
place between them within the first fortnight after
the Miss Bertrams' going away--an intimacy resulting
principally from Miss Crawford's desire of something new,
and which had little reality in Fanny's feelings.
Fanny went to her every two or three days: it seemed a kind
of fascination: she could not be easy without going,
and yet it was without loving her, without ever thinking
like her, without any sense of obligation for being
sought after now when nobody else was to be had;
and deriving no higher pleasure from her conversation
than occasional amusement, and _that_ often at the expense
of her judgment, when it was raised by pleasantry on
people or subjects which she wished to be respected.
She went, however, and they sauntered about together
many an half-hour in Mrs. Grant's shrubbery, the weather
being unusually mild for the time of year, and venturing
sometimes even to sit down on one of the benches now
comparatively unsheltered, remaining there perhaps till,
in the midst of some tender ejaculation of Fanny's on
the sweets of so protracted an autumn, they were forced,
by the sudden swell of a cold gust shaking down the last few
yellow leaves about them, to jump up and walk for warmth.
"This is pretty, very pretty," said Fanny, looking around
her as they were thus sitting together one day; "every time
I come into this shrubbery I am more struck with its
growth and beauty. Three years ago, this was nothing
but a rough hedgerow along the upper side of the field,
never thought of as anything, or capable of becoming anything;
and now it is converted into a walk, and it would be
difficult to say whether most valuable as a convenience
or an ornament; and perhaps, in another three years,
we may be forgetting--almost forgetting what it was before.
How wonderful, how very wonderful the operations of time,
and the changes of the human mind!" And following
the latter train of thought, she soon afterwards added:
"If any one faculty of our nature may be called _more_
wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory.
There seems something more speakingly incomprehensible
in the powers, the failures, the inequalities
of memory, than in any other of our intelligences.
The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable,
so obedient; at others, so bewildered and so weak;
and at others again, so tyrannic, so beyond control!
We are, to be sure, a miracle every way; but our powers
of recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly past
finding out."
Miss Crawford, untouched and inattentive, had nothing
to say; and Fanny, perceiving it, brought back her own
mind to what she thought must interest.
"It may seem impertinent in _me_ to praise, but I must
admire the taste Mrs. Grant has shewn in all this.
There is such a quiet simplicity in the plan of the walk!
Not too much attempted!"
"Yes," replied Miss Crawford carelessly, "it does
very well for a place of this sort. One does not think
of extent _here_; and between ourselves, till I came
to Mansfield, I had not imagined a country parson
ever aspired to a shrubbery, or anything of the kind."
"I am so glad to see the evergreens thrive!" said Fanny,
in reply. "My uncle's gardener always says the soil here
is better than his own, and so it appears from the growth
of the laurels and evergreens in general. The evergreen!
How beautiful, how welcome, how wonderful the evergreen!
When one thinks of it, how astonishing a variety of nature!
In some countries we know the tree that sheds its leaf
is the variety, but that does not make it less amazing
that the same soil and the same sun should nurture plants
differing in the first rule and law of their existence.
You will think me rhapsodising; but when I am out of doors,
especially when I am sitting out of doors, I am very apt
to get into this sort of wondering strain. One cannot fix
one's eyes on the commonest natural production without
finding food for a rambling fancy."
"To say the truth," replied Miss Crawford, "I am something
like the famous Doge at the court of Lewis XIV.;
and may declare that I see no wonder in this shrubbery
equal to seeing myself in it. If anybody had told
me a year ago that this place would be my home,
that I should be spending month after month here, as I
have done, I certainly should not have believed them.
I have now been here nearly five months; and, moreover,
the quietest five months I ever passed."
"_Too_ quiet for you, I believe."
"I should have thought so _theoretically_ myself, but,"
and her eyes brightened as she spoke, "take it all
and all, I never spent so happy a summer. But then,"
with a more thoughtful air and lowered voice, "there is
no saying what it may lead to."
Fanny's heart beat quick, and she felt quite unequal
to surmising or soliciting anything more. Miss Crawford,
however, with renewed animation, soon went on--
"I am conscious of being far better reconciled to a country
residence than I had ever expected to be. I can even
suppose it pleasant to spend _half_ the year in the country,
under certain circumstances, very pleasant. An elegant,
moderate-sized house in the centre of family connexions;
continual engagements among them; commanding the first society
in the neighbourhood; looked up to, perhaps, as leading
it even more than those of larger fortune, and turning
from the cheerful round of such amusements to nothing
worse than a _tete-a-tete_ with the person one feels
most agreeable in the world. There is nothing frightful
in such a picture, is there, Miss Price? One need not
envy the new Mrs. Rushworth with such a home as _that_."
"Envy Mrs. Rushworth!" was all that Fanny attempted to say.
"Come, come, it would be very un-handsome in us to be
severe on Mrs. Rushworth, for I look forward to our owing
her a great many gay, brilliant, happy hours. I expect
we shall be all very much at Sotherton another year.
Such a match as Miss Bertram has made is a public blessing;
for the first pleasures of Mr. Rushworth's wife must be to
fill her house, and give the best balls in the country."
Fanny was silent, and Miss Crawford relapsed into
thoughtfulness, till suddenly looking up at the end
of a few minutes, she exclaimed, "Ah! here he is."
It was not Mr. Rushworth, however, but Edmund,
who then appeared walking towards them with Mrs. Grant.
"My sister and Mr. Bertram. I am so glad your eldest
cousin is gone, that he may be Mr. Bertram again. There is
something in the sound of Mr. _Edmund_ Bertram so formal,
so pitiful, so younger-brother-like, that I detest it."
"How differently we feel!" cried Fanny. "To me,
the sound of _Mr._ Bertram is so cold and nothing-meaning,
so entirely without warmth or character! It just stands
for a gentleman, and that's all. But there is nobleness
in the name of Edmund. It is a name of heroism and renown;
of kings, princes, and knights; and seems to breathe
the spirit of chivalry and warm affections."
"I grant you the name is good in itself, and _Lord_ Edmund
or _Sir_ Edmund sound delightfully; but sink it under the chill,
the annihilation of a Mr., and Mr. Edmund is no more than
Mr. John or Mr. Thomas. Well, shall we join and disappoint
them of half their lecture upon sitting down out of doors
at this time of year, by being up before they can begin?"
Edmund met them with particular pleasure. It was the
first time of his seeing them together since the beginning
of that better acquaintance which he had been hearing
of with great satisfaction. A friendship between two so
very dear to him was exactly what he could have wished:
and to the credit of the lover's understanding, be it stated,
that he did not by any means consider Fanny as the only,
or even as the greater gainer by such a friendship.
"Well," said Miss Crawford, "and do you not scold us for
our imprudence? What do you think we have been sitting
down for but to be talked to about it, and entreated
and supplicated never to do so again?"
"Perhaps I might have scolded," said Edmund, "if either
of you had been sitting down alone; but while you
do wrong together, I can overlook a great deal."
"They cannot have been sitting long," cried Mrs. Grant,
"for when I went up for my shawl I saw them from the
staircase window, and then they were walking."
"And really," added Edmund, "the day is so mild,
that your sitting down for a few minutes can be hardly
thought imprudent. Our weather must not always be judged
by the calendar. We may sometimes take greater liberties
in November than in May."
"Upon my word," cried Miss Crawford, "you are two of the most
disappointing and unfeeling kind friends I ever met with!
There is no giving you a moment's uneasiness. You do not
know how much we have been suffering, nor what chills
we have felt! But I have long thought Mr. Bertram one
of the worst subjects to work on, in any little manoeuvre
against common sense, that a woman could be plagued with.
I had very little hope of _him_ from the first; but you,
Mrs. Grant, my sister, my own sister, I think I had a right
to alarm you a little."
"Do not flatter yourself, my dearest Mary. You have not
the smallest chance of moving me. I have my alarms,
but they are quite in a different quarter; and if I could
have altered the weather, you would have had a good sharp
east wind blowing on you the whole time--for here are
some of my plants which Robert _will_ leave out because
the nights are so mild, and I know the end of it will be,
that we shall have a sudden change of weather, a hard frost
setting in all at once, taking everybody (at least Robert)
by surprise, and I shall lose every one; and what is worse,
cook has just been telling me that the turkey, which I
particularly wished not to be dressed till Sunday,
because I know how much more Dr. Grant would enjoy it
on Sunday after the fatigues of the day, will not keep
beyond to-morrow. These are something like grievances,
and make me think the weather most unseasonably close."
"The sweets of housekeeping in a country village!"
said Miss Crawford archly. "Commend me to the nurseryman
and the poulterer."
"My dear child, commend Dr. Grant to the deanery
of Westminster or St. Paul's, and I should be as glad
of your nurseryman and poulterer as you could be. But we
have no such people in Mansfield. What would you have me do?"
"Oh! you can do nothing but what you do already:
be plagued very often, and never lose your temper."
"Thank you; but there is no escaping these little vexations,
Mary, live where we may; and when you are settled in town
and I come to see you, I dare say I shall find you
with yours, in spite of the nurseryman and the poulterer,
perhaps on their very account. Their remoteness
and unpunctuality, or their exorbitant charges and frauds,
will be drawing forth bitter lamentations."
"I mean to be too rich to lament or to feel anything
of the sort. A large income is the best recipe for
happiness I ever heard of. It certainly may secure
all the myrtle and turkey part of it."
"You intend to be very rich?" said Edmund, with a look which,
to Fanny's eye, had a great deal of serious meaning.
"To be sure. Do not you? Do not we all?"
"I cannot intend anything which it must be so completely
beyond my power to command. Miss Crawford may chuse her
degree of wealth. She has only to fix on her number of
thousands a year, and there can be no doubt of their coming.
My intentions are only not to be poor."
"By moderation and economy, and bringing down your wants
to your income, and all that. I understand you--and a
very proper plan it is for a person at your time of life,
with such limited means and indifferent connexions.
What can _you_ want but a decent maintenance? You have
not much time before you; and your relations are in no
situation to do anything for you, or to mortify you
by the contrast of their own wealth and consequence.
Be honest and poor, by all means--but I shall not
envy you; I do not much think I shall even respect you.
I have a much greater respect for those that are honest
and rich."
"Your degree of respect for honesty, rich or poor,
is precisely what I have no manner of concern with.
I do not mean to be poor. Poverty is exactly what I have
determined against. Honesty, in the something between,
in the middle state of worldly circumstances, is all that I
am anxious for your not looking down on."
"But I do look down upon it, if it might have been higher.
I must look down upon anything contented with obscurity
when it might rise to distinction."
"But how may it rise? How may my honesty at least rise
to any distinction?"
This was not so very easy a question to answer,
and occasioned an "Oh!" of some length from the fair lady
before she could add, "You ought to be in parliament,
or you should have gone into the army ten years ago."
"_That_ is not much to the purpose now; and as to my being
in parliament, I believe I must wait till there is an
especial assembly for the representation of younger sons
who have little to live on. No, Miss Crawford," he added,
in a more serious tone, "there _are_ distinctions which I
should be miserable if I thought myself without any chance--
absolutely without chance or possibility of obtaining--
but they are of a different character."
A look of consciousness as he spoke, and what seemed
a consciousness of manner on Miss Crawford's side
as she made some laughing answer, was sorrowfull food
for Fanny's observation; and finding herself quite
unable to attend as she ought to Mrs. Grant, by whose
side she was now following the others, she had nearly
resolved on going home immediately, and only waited
for courage to say so, when the sound of the great clock
at Mansfield Park, striking three, made her feel that she
had really been much longer absent than usual, and brought
the previous self-inquiry of whether she should take
leave or not just then, and how, to a very speedy issue.
With undoubting decision she directly began her adieus;
and Edmund began at the same time to recollect that
his mother had been inquiring for her, and that he
had walked down to the Parsonage on purpose to bring her back.
Fanny's hurry increased; and without in the least expecting
Edmund's attendance, she would have hastened away alone;
but the general pace was quickened, and they all accompanied
her into the house, through which it was necessary to pass.
Dr. Grant was in the vestibule, and as they stopt to
speak to him she found, from Edmund's manner, that he
_did_ mean to go with her. He too was taking leave.
She could not but be thankful. In the moment of parting,
Edmund was invited by Dr. Grant to eat his mutton
with him the next day; and Fanny had barely time for an
unpleasant feeling on the occasion, when Mrs. Grant,
with sudden recollection, turned to her and asked for the
pleasure of her company too. This was so new an attention,
so perfectly new a circumstance in the events of
Fanny's life, that she was all surprise and embarrassment;
and while stammering out her great obligation, and her
"but she did not suppose it would be in her power,"
was looking at Edmund for his opinion and help. But Edmund,
delighted with her having such an happiness offered,
and ascertaining with half a look, and half a sentence,
that she had no objection but on her aunt's account,
could not imagine that his mother would make any difficulty
of sparing her, and therefore gave his decided open advice
that the invitation should be accepted; and though Fanny
would not venture, even on his encouragement, to such
a flight of audacious independence, it was soon settled,
that if nothing were heard to the contrary, Mrs. Grant
might expect her.
"And you know what your dinner will be,"
said Mrs. Grant, smiling--"the turkey, and I assure you
a very fine one; for, my dear," turning to her husband,
"cook insists upon the turkey's being dressed to-morrow."
"Very well, very well," cried Dr. Grant, "all the better;
I am glad to hear you have anything so good in the house.
But Miss Price and Mr. Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take
their chance. We none of us want to hear the bill of fare.
A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner, is all we
have in view. A turkey, or a goose, or a leg of mutton,
or whatever you and your cook chuse to give us."
The two cousins walked home together; and, except in the
immediate discussion of this engagement, which Edmund
spoke of with the warmest satisfaction, as so particularly
desirable for her in the intimacy which he saw with
so much pleasure established, it was a silent walk;
for having finished that subject, he grew thoughtful
and indisposed for any other.
CHAPTER XXIII
"But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?" said Lady Bertram.
"How came she to think of asking Fanny? Fanny never
dines there, you know, in this sort of way. I cannot
spare her, and I am sure she does not want to go.
Fanny, you do not want to go, do you?"
"If you put such a question to her," cried Edmund,
preventing his cousin's speaking, "Fanny will immediately
say No; but I am sure, my dear mother, she would like to go;
and I can see no reason why she should not."
"I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her?
She never did before. She used to ask your sisters now
and then, but she never asked Fanny."
"If you cannot do without me, ma'am--" said Fanny,
in a self-denying tone.
"But my mother will have my father with her all the evening."
"To be sure, so I shall."
"Suppose you take my father's opinion, ma'am."
"That's well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will
ask Sir Thomas, as soon as he comes in, whether I can
do without her."
"As you please, ma'am, on that head; but I meant my
father's opinion as to the _propriety_ of the invitation's
being accepted or not; and I think he will consider
it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by Fanny,
that being the _first_ invitation it should be accepted."
"I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very
much surprised that Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all."
There was nothing more to be said, or that could be
said to any purpose, till Sir Thomas were present;
but the subject involving, as it did, her own evening's
comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in Lady
Bertram's mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his
looking in for a minute in his way from his plantation
to his dressing-room, she called him back again,
when he had almost closed the door, with "Sir Thomas,
stop a moment--I have something to say to you."
Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble
of raising her voice, was always heard and attended to;
and Sir Thomas came back. Her story began; and Fanny
immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear herself
the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more
than her nerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew--
more anxious perhaps than she ought to be--for what was
it after all whether she went or staid? but if her uncle
were to be a great while considering and deciding,
and with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed
to her, and at last decide against her, she might not
be able to appear properly submissive and indifferent.
Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It began, on Lady
Bertram's part, with--"I have something to tell you
that will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny
to dinner."
"Well," said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish
the surprise.
"Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?"
"She will be late," said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch;
"but what is your difficulty?"
Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up
the blanks in his mother's story. He told the whole;
and she had only to add, "So strange! for Mrs. Grant
never used to ask her."
"But is it not very natural," observed Edmund,
"that Mrs. Grant should wish to procure so agreeable
a visitor for her sister?"
"Nothing can be more natural," said Sir Thomas, after a
short deliberation; "nor, were there no sister in the case,
could anything, in my opinion, be more natural.
Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss Price, to Lady
Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only
surprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_
time of its being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in
giving only a conditional answer. She appears to feel
as she ought. But as I conclude that she must wish to go,
since all young people like to be together, I can see
no reason why she should be denied the indulgence."
"But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?"
"Indeed I think you may."
"She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here."
"Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend
the day with us, and I shall certainly be at home."
"Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund."
The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her
door in his way to his own.
"Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without
the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side.
He had but one opinion. You are to go."
"Thank you, I am _so_ glad," was Fanny's instinctive reply;
though when she had turned from him and shut the door,
she could not help feeling, "And yet why should I be glad?
for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there
to pain me?"
In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad.
Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes,
it had novelty and importance in hers, for excepting the
day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined out before;
and though now going only half a mile, and only to
three people, still it was dining out, and all the little
interests of preparation were enjoyments in themselves.
She had neither sympathy nor assistance from those who ought
to have entered into her feelings and directed her taste;
for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to anybody,
and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence
of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in
a very ill humour, and seemed intent only on lessening
her niece's pleasure, both present and future, as much
as possible.
"Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet
with such attention and indulgence! You ought to be
very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for thinking of you,
and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to look
upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are
aware that there is no real occasion for your going into
company in this sort of way, or ever dining out at all;
and it is what you must not depend upon ever being repeated.
Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is meant
as any particular compliment to _you_; the compliment
is intended to your uncle and aunt and me. Mrs. Grant
thinks it a civility due to _us_ to take a little notice
of you, or else it would never have come into her head,
and you may be very certain that, if your cousin Julia
had been at home, you would not have been asked at all."
Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all
Mrs. Grant's part of the favour, that Fanny, who found
herself expected to speak, could only say that she was
very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her,
and that she was endeavouring to put her aunt's evening
work in such a state as to prevent her being missed.
"Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you,
or you would not be allowed to go. _I_ shall be here, so you
may be quite easy about your aunt. And I hope you will have
a very _agreeable_ day, and find it all mighty _delightful_.
But I must observe that five is the very awkwardest of
all possible numbers to sit down to table; and I cannot
but be surprised that such an _elegant_ lady as Mrs. Grant
should not contrive better! And round their enormous great
wide table, too, which fills up the room so dreadfully!
Had the doctor been contented to take my dining-table when I
came away, as anybody in their senses would have done,
instead of having that absurd new one of his own,
which is wider, literally wider than the dinner-table here,
how infinitely better it would have been! and how much
more he would have been respected! for people are never
respected when they step out of their proper sphere.
Remember that, Fanny. Five--only five to be sitting
round that table. However, you will have dinner enough
on it for ten, I dare say."
Mrs. Norris fetched breath, and went on again.
"The nonsense and folly of people's stepping out of their
rank and trying to appear above themselves, makes me
think it right to give _you_ a hint, Fanny, now that you
are going into company without any of us; and I do beseech
and entreat you not to be putting yourself forward,
and talking and giving your opinion as if you were one of
your cousins--as if you were dear Mrs. Rushworth or Julia.
_That_ will never do, believe me. Remember, wherever you are,
you must be the lowest and last; and though Miss Crawford
is in a manner at home at the Parsonage, you are not to
be taking place of her. And as to coming away at night,
you are to stay just as long as Edmund chuses.
Leave him to settle _that_."
"Yes, ma'am, I should not think of anything else."
"And if it should rain, which I think exceedingly likely,
for I never saw it more threatening for a wet evening
in my life, you must manage as well as you can, and not be
expecting the carriage to be sent for you. I certainly
do not go home to-night, and, therefore, the carriage will
not be out on my account; so you must make up your mind
to what may happen, and take your things accordingly."
Her niece thought it perfectly reasonable. She rated her
own claims to comfort as low even as Mrs. Norris could;
and when Sir Thomas soon afterwards, just opening
the door, said, "Fanny, at what time would you have the
carriage come round?" she felt a degree of astonishment
which made it impossible for her to speak.
"My dear Sir Thomas!" cried Mrs. Norris, red with anger,
"Fanny can walk."
"Walk!" repeated Sir Thomas, in a tone of most unanswerable
dignity, and coming farther into the room. "My niece
walk to a dinner engagement at this time of the year!
Will twenty minutes after four suit you?"
"Yes, sir," was Fanny's humble answer, given with the
feelings almost of a criminal towards Mrs. Norris;
and not bearing to remain with her in what might seem
a state of triumph, she followed her uncle out of the room,
having staid behind him only long enough to hear these
words spoken in angry agitation--
"Quite unnecessary! a great deal too kind!
But Edmund goes; true, it is upon Edmund's account.
I observed he was hoarse on Thursday night."
But this could not impose on Fanny. She felt that
the carriage was for herself, and herself alone:
and her uncle's consideration of her, coming immediately
after such representations from her aunt, cost her
some tears of gratitude when she was alone.
The coachman drove round to a minute; another minute
brought down the gentleman; and as the lady had, with a
most scrupulous fear of being late, been many minutes
seated in the drawing-room, Sir Thomas saw them off
in as good time as his own correctly punctual habits required.
"Now I must look at you, Fanny," said Edmund, with the
kind smile of an affectionate brother, "and tell you
how I like you; and as well as I can judge by this light,
you look very nicely indeed. What have you got on?"
"The new dress that my uncle was so good as to give me
on my cousin's marriage. I hope it is not too fine; but I
thought I ought to wear it as soon as I could, and that I
might not have such another opportunity all the winter.
I hope you do not think me too fine."
"A woman can never be too fine while she is all in white. No,
I
see
no finery about you; nothing but what is perfectly proper.
Your gown seems very pretty. I like these glossy spots.
Has not Miss Crawford a gown something the same?"
In approaching the Parsonage they passed close by the
stable-yard and coach-house.
"Heyday!" said Edmund, "here's company, here's a carriage!
who have they got to meet us?" And letting down the side-glass
to distinguish, "'Tis Crawford's, Crawford's barouche,
I protest! There are his own two men pushing it back
into its old quarters. He is here, of course. This is
quite a surprise, Fanny. I shall be very glad to see him."
There was no occasion, there was no time for Fanny
to say how very differently she felt; but the idea
of having such another to observe her was a great
increase of the trepidation with which she performed
the very awful ceremony of walking into the drawing-room.
In the drawing-room Mr. Crawford certainly was, having been
just long enough arrived to be ready for dinner; and the
smiles and pleased looks of the three others standing
round him, shewed how welcome was his sudden resolution
of coming to them for a few days on leaving Bath.
A very cordial meeting passed between him and Edmund;
and with the exception of Fanny, the pleasure was general;
and even to _her_ there might be some advantage in
his presence, since every addition to the party must
rather forward her favourite indulgence of being suffered
to sit silent and unattended to. She was soon aware
of this herself; for though she must submit, as her
own propriety of mind directed, in spite of her aunt
Norris's opinion, to being the principal lady in company,
and to all the little distinctions consequent thereon,
she found, while they were at table, such a happy flow
of conversation prevailing, in which she was not required
to take any part--there was so much to be said between
the brother and sister about Bath, so much between
the two young men about hunting, so much of politics
between Mr. Crawford and Dr. Grant, and of everything
and all together between Mr. Crawford and Mrs. Grant,
as to leave her the fairest prospect of having only to
listen in quiet, and of passing a very agreeable day.
She could not compliment the newly arrived gentleman,
however, with any appearance of interest, in a scheme
for extending his stay at Mansfield, and sending for his
hunters from Norfolk, which, suggested by Dr. Grant,
advised by Edmund, and warmly urged by the two sisters,
was soon in possession of his mind, and which he seemed
to want to be encouraged even by her to resolve on.
Her opinion was sought as to the probable continuance
of the open weather, but her answers were as short
and indifferent as civility allowed. She could not wish
him to stay, and would much rather not have him speak
to her.
Her two absent cousins, especially Maria, were much in her
thoughts on seeing him; but no embarrassing remembrance
affected _his_ spirits. Here he was again on the same
ground where all had passed before, and apparently as
willing to stay and be happy without the Miss Bertrams,
as if he had never known Mansfield in any other state.
She heard them spoken of by him only in a general way,
till they were all re-assembled in the drawing-room,
when Edmund, being engaged apart in some matter of business
with Dr. Grant, which seemed entirely to engross them,
and Mrs. Grant occupied at the tea-table, he began talking
of them with more particularity to his other sister.
With a significant smile, which made Fanny quite hate him,
he said, "So! Rushworth and his fair bride are at Brighton,
I understand; happy man!"
"Yes, they have been there about a fortnight, Miss Price,
have they not? And Julia is with them."
"And Mr. Yates, I presume, is not far off."
"Mr. Yates! Oh! we hear nothing of Mr. Yates. I do not
imagine he figures much in the letters to Mansfield Park;
do you, Miss Price? I think my friend Julia knows better
than to entertain her father with Mr. Yates."
"Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty speeches!"
continued Crawford. "Nobody can ever forget them.
Poor fellow! I see him now--his toil and his despair.
Well, I am much mistaken if his lovely Maria will ever
want him to make two-and-forty speeches to her"; adding,
with a momentary seriousness, "She is too good for him--
much too good." And then changing his tone again to one
of gentle gallantry, and addressing Fanny, he said,
"You were Mr. Rushworth's best friend. Your kindness and
patience can never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience
in trying to make it possible for him to learn his part--
in trying to give him a brain which nature had denied--
to mix up an understanding for him out of the superfluity
of your own! _He_ might not have sense enough himself
to estimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it
had honour from all the rest of the party."
Fanny coloured, and said nothing.
"It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!" he exclaimed,
breaking forth again, after a few minutes' musing. "I shall
always look back on our theatricals with exquisite pleasure.
There was such an interest, such an animation, such a
spirit diffused. Everybody felt it. We were all alive.
There was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every
hour of the day. Always some little objection,
some little doubt, some little anxiety to be got over.
I never was happier."
With silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself,
"Never happier!--never happier than when doing what
you must know was not justifiable!--never happier
than when behaving so dishonourably and unfeelingly!
Oh! what a corrupted mind!"
"We were unlucky, Miss Price," he continued, in a lower tone,
to avoid the possibility of being heard by Edmund,
and not at all aware of her feelings, "we certainly
were very unlucky. Another week, only one other week,
would have been enough for us. I think if we had had the
disposal of events--if Mansfield Park had had the government
of the winds just for a week or two, about the equinox,
there would have been a difference. Not that we would
have endangered his safety by any tremendous weather--
but only by a steady contrary wind, or a calm. I think,
Miss Price, we would have indulged ourselves with a week's
calm in the Atlantic at that season."
He seemed determined to be answered; and Fanny,
averting her face, said, with a firmer tone than usual,
"As far as _I_ am concerned, sir, I would not have
delayed his return for a day. My uncle disapproved it
all so entirely when he did arrive, that in my opinion
everything had gone quite far enough."
She had never spoken so much at once to him in her life before,
and never so angrily to any one; and when her speech was over,
she trembled and blushed at her own daring. He was surprised;
but after a few moments' silent consideration of her,
replied in a calmer, graver tone, and as if the candid
result of conviction, "I believe you are right. It was
more pleasant than prudent. We were getting too noisy."
And then turning the conversation, he would have engaged
her on some other subject, but her answers were so shy
and reluctant that he could not advance in any.
Miss Crawford, who had been repeatedly eyeing Dr. Grant
and Edmund, now observed, "Those gentlemen must have
some very interesting point to discuss."
"The most interesting in the world," replied her brother--
"how to make money; how to turn a good income into a better.
Dr. Grant is giving Bertram instructions about the living
he is to step into so soon. I find he takes orders
in a few weeks. They were at it in the dining-parlour.
I am glad to hear Bertram will be so well off. He will
have a very pretty income to make ducks and drakes with,
and earned without much trouble. I apprehend he will
not have less than seven hundred a year. Seven hundred
a year is a fine thing for a younger brother; and as of
course he will still live at home, it will be all for his
_menus_ _plaisirs_; and a sermon at Christmas and Easter,
I suppose, will be the sum total of sacrifice."
His sister tried to laugh off her feelings by saying,
"Nothing amuses me more than the easy manner with which everybody
settles the abundance of those who have a great deal less
than themselves. You would look rather blank, Henry, if your
_menus_ _plaisirs_ were to be limited to seven hundred a year."
"Perhaps I might; but all _that_ you know is
entirely comparative. Birthright and habit must settle
the business. Bertram is certainly well off for a cadet
of even a baronet's family. By the time he is four or five
and twenty he will have seven hundred a year, and nothing to do for
it."
Miss Crawford _could_ have said that there would
be a something to do and to suffer for it, which she
could not think lightly of; but she checked herself
and let it pass; and tried to look calm and unconcerned
when the two gentlemen shortly afterwards joined them.
"Bertram," said Henry Crawford, "I shall make a point of
coming to Mansfield to hear you preach your first sermon.
I shall come on purpose to encourage a young beginner.
When is it to be? Miss Price, will not you join me in
encouraging your cousin? Will not you engage to attend
with your eyes steadily fixed on him the whole time--
as I shall do--not to lose a word; or only looking off
just to note down any sentence preeminently beautiful?
We will provide ourselves with tablets and a pencil.
When will it be? You must preach at Mansfield, you know,
that Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram may hear you."
"I shall keep clear of you, Crawford, as long as I can,"
said Edmund; "for you would be more likely to disconcert me,
and I should be more sorry to see you trying at it than
almost any other man."
"Will he not feel this?" thought Fanny. "No, he can feel
nothing as he ought."
The party being now all united, and the chief talkers
attracting each other, she remained in tranquillity;
and as a whist-table was formed after tea--formed really
for the amusement of Dr. Grant, by his attentive wife,
though it was not to be supposed so--and Miss Crawford
took her harp, she had nothing to do but to listen;
and her tranquillity remained undisturbed the rest
of the evening, except when Mr. Crawford now and then
addressed to her a question or observation, which she
could not avoid answering. Miss Crawford was too much
vexed by what had passed to be in a humour for anything
but music. With that she soothed herself and amused
her friend.
The assurance of Edmund's being so soon to take orders,
coming upon her like a blow that had been suspended,
and still hoped uncertain and at a distance, was felt
with resentment and mortification. She was very angry
with him. She had thought her influence more.
She _had_ begun to think of him; she felt that she had,
with great regard, with almost decided intentions;
but she would now meet him with his own cool feelings.
It was plain that he could have no serious views, no true
attachment, by fixing himself in a situation which he must
know she would never stoop to. She would learn to match
him in his indifference. She would henceforth admit his
attentions without any idea beyond immediate amusement.
If _he_ could so command his affections, _hers_ should do her
no harm.
CHAPTER XXIV
Henry Crawford had quite made up his mind by the
next morning to give another fortnight to Mansfield,
and having sent for his hunters, and written a few
lines of explanation to the Admiral, he looked round at
his sister as he sealed and threw the letter from him,
and seeing the coast clear of the rest of the family,
said, with a smile, "And how do you think I mean to
amuse myself, Mary, on the days that I do not hunt?
I am grown too old to go out more than three times a week;
but I have a plan for the intermediate days, and what do you think
it is?"
"To walk and ride with me, to be sure."
"Not exactly, though I shall be happy to do both, but _that_
would be exercise only to my body, and I must take care
of my mind. Besides, _that_ would be all recreation
and indulgence, without the wholesome alloy of labour,
and I do not like to eat the bread of idleness. No, my plan
is to make Fanny Price in love with me."
"Fanny Price! Nonsense! No, no. You ought to be
satisfied with her two cousins."
"But I cannot be satisfied without Fanny Price,
without making a small hole in Fanny Price's heart.
You do not seem properly aware of her claims to notice.
When we talked of her last night, you none of you
seemed sensible of the wonderful improvement that has
taken place in her looks within the last six weeks.
You see her every day, and therefore do not notice it;
but I assure you she is quite a different creature
from what she was in the autumn. She was then merely
a quiet, modest, not plain-looking girl, but she is now
absolutely pretty. I used to think she had neither
complexion nor countenance; but in that soft skin of hers,
so frequently tinged with a blush as it was yesterday,
there is decided beauty; and from what I observed of her
eyes and mouth, I do not despair of their being capable
of expression enough when she has anything to express.
And then, her air, her manner, her _tout_ _ensemble_,
is so indescribably improved! She must be grown two inches,
at least, since October."
"Phoo! phoo! This is only because there were no tall women
to compare her with, and because she has got a new gown,
and you never saw her so well dressed before. She is
just what she was in October, believe me. The truth is,
that she was the only girl in company for you to notice,
and you must have a somebody. I have always thought
her pretty--not strikingly pretty--but 'pretty enough,'
as people say; a sort of beauty that grows on one.
Her eyes should be darker, but she has a sweet smile;
but as for this wonderful degree of improvement, I am
sure it may all be resolved into a better style of dress,
and your having nobody else to look at; and therefore,
if you do set about a flirtation with her, you never
will persuade me that it is in compliment to her beauty,
or that it proceeds from anything but your own idleness
and folly."
Her brother gave only a smile to this accusation,
and soon afterwards said, "I do not quite know what to make
of Miss Fanny. I do not understand her. I could not tell
what she would be at yesterday. What is her character?
Is she solemn? Is she queer? Is she prudish? Why did
she draw back and look so grave at me? I could hardly get
her to speak. I never was so long in company with a girl
in my life, trying to entertain her, and succeed so ill!
Never met with a girl who looked so grave on me!
I must try to get the better of this. Her looks say,
'I will not like you, I am determined not to like you';
and I say she shall."
"Foolish fellow! And so this is her attraction after all!
This it is, her not caring about you, which gives
her such a soft skin, and makes her so much taller,
and produces all these charms and graces! I do desire
that you will not be making her really unhappy;
a _little_ love, perhaps, may animate and do her good,
but I will not have you plunge her deep, for she is as
good a little creature as ever lived, and has a great
deal of feeling."
"It can be but for a fortnight," said Henry; "and if a
fortnight can kill her, she must have a constitution
which nothing could save. No, I will not do her any harm,
dear little soul! only want her to look kindly on me,
to give me smiles as well as blushes, to keep a chair
for me by herself wherever we are, and be all animation
when I take it and talk to her; to think as I think,
be interested in all my possessions and pleasures,
try to keep me longer at Mansfield, and feel when I
go away that she shall be never happy again. I want
nothing more."
"Moderation itself!" said Mary. "I can have no scruples now.
Well, you will have opportunities enough of endeavouring
to recommend yourself, for we are a great deal together."
And without attempting any farther remonstrance, she left
Fanny to her fate, a fate which, had not Fanny's heart
been guarded in a way unsuspected by Miss Crawford,
might have been a little harder than she deserved;
for although there doubtless are such unconquerable young
ladies of eighteen (or one should not read about them)
as are never to be persuaded into love against their judgment
by all that talent, manner, attention, and flattery can do,
I have no inclination to believe Fanny one of them,
or to think that with so much tenderness of disposition,
and so much taste as belonged to her, she could have
escaped heart-whole from the courtship (though the
courtship only of a fortnight) of such a man as Crawford,
in spite of there being some previous ill opinion of him
to be overcome, had not her affection been engaged elsewhere.
With all the security which love of another and disesteem
of him could give to the peace of mind he was attacking,
his continued attentions--continued, but not obtrusive,
and adapting themselves more and more to the gentleness
and delicacy of her character--obliged her very soon
to dislike him less than formerly. She had by no means
forgotten the past, and she thought as ill of him as ever;
but she felt his powers: he was entertaining; and his
manners were so improved, so polite, so seriously and
blamelessly polite, that it was impossible not to be civil
to him in return.
A very few days were enough to effect this; and at the end
of those few days, circumstances arose which had a tendency
rather to forward his views of pleasing her, inasmuch as
they gave her a degree of happiness which must dispose
her to be pleased with everybody. William, her brother,
the so long absent and dearly loved brother, was in
England again. She had a letter from him herself, a few
hurried happy lines, written as the ship came up Channel,
and sent into Portsmouth with the first boat that left
the Antwerp at anchor in Spithead; and when Crawford walked
up with the newspaper in his hand, which he had hoped
would bring the first tidings, he found her trembling
with joy over this letter, and listening with a glowing,
grateful countenance to the kind invitation which her
uncle was most collectedly dictating in reply.
It was but the day before that Crawford had made himself
thoroughly master of the subject, or had in fact become
at all aware of her having such a brother, or his being
in such a ship, but the interest then excited had been
very properly lively, determining him on his return to
town to apply for information as to the probable period
of the Antwerp's return from the Mediterranean, etc.;
and the good luck which attended his early examination
of ship news the next morning seemed the reward of his
ingenuity in finding out such a method of pleasing her,
as well as of his dutiful attention to the Admiral,
in having for many years taken in the paper esteemed
to have the earliest naval intelligence. He proved,
however, to be too late. All those fine first feelings,
of which he had hoped to be the exciter, were already given.
But his intention, the kindness of his intention,
was thankfully acknowledged: quite thankfully and warmly,
for she was elevated beyond the common timidity of her
mind by the flow of her love for William.
This dear William would soon be amongst them. There could
be no doubt of his obtaining leave of absence immediately,
for he was still only a midshipman; and as his parents,
from living on the spot, must already have seen him,
and be seeing him perhaps daily, his direct holidays
might with justice be instantly given to the sister,
who had been his best correspondent through a period of
seven years, and the uncle who had done most for his support
and advancement; and accordingly the reply to her reply,
fixing a very early day for his arrival, came as soon
as possible; and scarcely ten days had passed since Fanny
had been in the agitation of her first dinner-visit,
when she found herself in an agitation of a higher nature,
watching in the hall, in the lobby, on the stairs,
for the first sound of the carriage which was to bring her
a brother.
It came happily while she was thus waiting; and there
being neither ceremony nor fearfulness to delay the moment
of meeting, she was with him as he entered the house,
and the first minutes of exquisite feeling had no interruption
and no witnesses, unless the servants chiefly intent
upon opening the proper doors could be called such.
This was exactly what Sir Thomas and Edmund had been
separately conniving at, as each proved to the other
by the sympathetic alacrity with which they both advised
Mrs. Norris's continuing where she was, instead of rushing
out into the hall as soon as the noises of the arrival
reached them.
William and Fanny soon shewed themselves; and Sir Thomas
had the pleasure of receiving, in his protege, certainly a
very different person from the one he had equipped seven
years ago, but a young man of an open, pleasant countenance,
and frank, unstudied, but feeling and respectful manners,
and such as confirmed him his friend.
It was long before Fanny could recover from the agitating
happiness of such an hour as was formed by the last
thirty minutes of expectation, and the first of fruition;
it was some time even before her happiness could be said
to make her happy, before the disappointment inseparable
from the alteration of person had vanished, and she could
see in him the same William as before, and talk to him,
as her heart had been yearning to do through many
a past year. That time, however, did gradually come,
forwarded by an affection on his side as warm as her own,
and much less encumbered by refinement or self-distrust.
She was the first object of his love, but it was a love
which his stronger spirits, and bolder temper, made it
as natural for him to express as to feel. On the morrow
they were walking about together with true enjoyment,
and every succeeding morrow renewed a _tete-a-tete_
which Sir Thomas could not but observe with complacency,
even before Edmund had pointed it out to him.
Excepting the moments of peculiar delight, which any marked
or unlooked-for instance of Edmund's consideration of her
in the last few months had excited, Fanny had never known
so much felicity in her life, as in this unchecked, equal,
fearless intercourse with the brother and friend who was opening
all his heart to her, telling her all his hopes and fears,
plans, and solicitudes respecting that long thought of,
dearly earned, and justly valued blessing of promotion;
who could give her direct and minute information of the
father and mother, brothers and sisters, of whom she
very seldom heard; who was interested in all the comforts
and all the little hardships of her home at Mansfield;
ready to think of every member of that home as she directed,
or differing only by a less scrupulous opinion, and more
noisy abuse of their aunt Norris, and with whom (perhaps
the dearest indulgence of the whole) all the evil and
good of their earliest years could be gone over again,
and every former united pain and pleasure retraced
with the fondest recollection. An advantage this,
a strengthener of love, in which even the conjugal tie
is beneath the fraternal. Children of the same family,
the same blood, with the same first associations and habits,
have some means of enjoyment in their power, which no
subsequent connexions can supply; and it must be by a
long and unnatural estrangement, by a divorce which no
subsequent connexion can justify, if such precious remains
of the earliest attachments are ever entirely outlived.
Too often, alas! it is so. Fraternal love, sometimes
almost everything, is at others worse than nothing.
But with William and Fanny Price it was still a sentiment
in all its prime and freshness, wounded by no opposition
of interest, cooled by no separate attachment, and feeling
the influence of time and absence only in its increase.
An affection so amiable was advancing each in the opinion
of all who had hearts to value anything good. Henry Crawford
was as much struck with it as any. He honoured the
warm-hearted, blunt fondness of the young sailor, which led
him to say, with his hands stretched towards Fanny's head,
"Do you know, I begin to like that queer fashion already,
though when I first heard of such things being done
in England, I could not believe it; and when Mrs. Brown,
and the other women at the Commissioner's at Gibraltar,
appeared in the same trim, I thought they were mad; but Fanny
can reconcile me to anything"; and saw, with lively admiration,
the glow of Fanny's cheek, the brightness of her eye,
the deep interest, the absorbed attention, while her
brother was describing any of the imminent hazards,
or terrific scenes, which such a period at sea must supply.
It was a picture which Henry Crawford had moral taste enough
to value. Fanny's attractions increased--increased twofold;
for the sensibility which beautified her complexion and
illumined her countenance was an attraction in itself.
He was no longer in doubt of the capabilities of her heart.
She had feeling, genuine feeling. It would be something
to be loved by such a girl, to excite the first ardours
of her young unsophisticated mind! She interested him
more than he had foreseen. A fortnight was not enough.
His stay became indefinite.
William was often called on by his uncle to be the talker.
His recitals were amusing in themselves to Sir Thomas,
but the chief object in seeking them was to understand
the reciter, to know the young man by his histories;
and he listened to his clear, simple, spirited details with
full satisfaction, seeing in them the proof of good principles,
professional knowledge, energy, courage, and cheerfulness,
everything that could deserve or promise well.
Young as he was, William had already seen a great deal.
He had been in the Mediterranean; in the West Indies;
in the Mediterranean again; had been often taken on shore
by the favour of his captain, and in the course of seven
years had known every variety of danger which sea and war
together could offer. With such means in his power he
had a right to be listened to; and though Mrs. Norris could
fidget about the room, and disturb everybody in quest
of two needlefuls of thread or a second-hand shirt button,
in the midst of her nephew's account of a shipwreck
or an engagement, everybody else was attentive; and even
Lady Bertram could not hear of such horrors unmoved,
or without sometimes lifting her eyes from her work to say,
"Dear me! how disagreeable! I wonder anybody can ever go
to sea."
To Henry Crawford they gave a different feeling. He longed
to have been at sea, and seen and done and suffered as much.
His heart was warmed, his fancy fired, and he felt
the highest respect for a lad who, before he was twenty,
had gone through such bodily hardships and given such
proofs of mind. The glory of heroism, of usefulness,
of exertion, of endurance, made his own habits of selfish
indulgence appear in shameful contrast; and he wished
he had been a William Price, distinguishing himself and
working his way to fortune and consequence with so much
self-respect and happy ardour, instead of what he was!
The wish was rather eager than lasting. He was roused from
the reverie of retrospection and regret produced by it,
by some inquiry from Edmund as to his plans for the next
day's hunting; and he found it was as well to be a man
of fortune at once with horses and grooms at his command.
In one respect it was better, as it gave him the means
of conferring a kindness where he wished to oblige.
With spirits, courage, and curiosity up to anything,
William expressed an inclination to hunt; and Crawford could
mount him without the slightest inconvenience to himself,
and with only some scruples to obviate in Sir Thomas,
who knew better than his nephew the value of such a loan,
and some alarms to reason away in Fanny. She feared
for William; by no means convinced by all that he could
relate of his own horsemanship in various countries,
of the scrambling parties in which he had been engaged,
the rough horses and mules he had ridden, or his many narrow
escapes from dreadful falls, that he was at all equal to the
management of a high-fed hunter in an English fox-chase;
nor till he returned safe and well, without accident
or discredit, could she be reconciled to the risk,
or feel any of that obligation to Mr. Crawford for lending
the horse which he had fully intended it should produce.
When it was proved, however, to have done William no harm,
she could allow it to be a kindness, and even reward
the owner with a smile when the animal was one minute
tendered to his use again; and the next, with the
greatest cordiality, and in a manner not to be resisted,
made over to his use entirely so long as he remained
in Northamptonshire.
(End of Volume One)
CHAPTER XXV
The intercourse of the two families was at this period
more nearly restored to what it had been in the autumn,
than any member of the old intimacy had thought ever
likely to be again. The return of Henry Crawford,
and the arrival of William Price, had much to do with it,
but much was still owing to Sir Thomas's more than toleration
of the neighbourly attempts at the Parsonage. His mind,
now disengaged from the cares which had pressed on him
at first, was at leisure to find the Grants and their
young inmates really worth visiting; and though infinitely
above scheming or contriving for any the most advantageous
matrimonial establishment that could be among the apparent
possibilities of any one most dear to him, and disdaining
even as a littleness the being quick-sighted on such points,
he could not avoid perceiving, in a grand and careless way,
that Mr. Crawford was somewhat distinguishing his niece--
nor perhaps refrain (though unconsciously) from giving a
more willing assent to invitations on that account.
His readiness, however, in agreeing to dine at the Parsonage,
when the general invitation was at last hazarded,
after many debates and many doubts as to whether it were
worth while, "because Sir Thomas seemed so ill inclined,
and Lady Bertram was so indolent!" proceeded from
good-breeding and goodwill alone, and had nothing to do
with Mr. Crawford, but as being one in an agreeable group:
for it was in the course of that very visit that he first
began to think that any one in the habit of such idle
observations _would_ _have_ _thought_ that Mr. Crawford
was the admirer of Fanny Price.
The meeting was generally felt to be a pleasant one,
being composed in a good proportion of those who would talk
and those who would listen; and the dinner itself was elegant
and plentiful, according to the usual style of the Grants,
and too much according to the usual habits of all to raise
any emotion except in Mrs. Norris, who could never behold
either the wide table or the number of dishes on it
with patience, and who did always contrive to experience
some evil from the passing of the servants behind her chair,
and to bring away some fresh conviction of its being
impossible among so many dishes but that some must be cold.
In the evening it was found, according to the predetermination
of Mrs. Grant and her sister, that after making up
the whist-table there would remain sufficient for a
round game, and everybody being as perfectly complying
and without a choice as on such occasions they always are,
speculation was decided on almost as soon as whist;
and Lady Bertram soon found herself in the critical situation
of being applied to for her own choice between the games,
and being required either to draw a card for whist or not.
She hesitated. Luckily Sir Thomas was at hand.
"What shall I do, Sir Thomas? Whist and speculation;
which will amuse me most?"
Sir Thomas, after a moment's thought, recommended speculation.
He was a whist player himself, and perhaps might feel
that it would not much amuse him to have her for a partner.
"Very well," was her ladyship's contented answer;
"then speculation, if you please, Mrs. Grant. I know
nothing about it, but Fanny must teach me."
Here Fanny interposed, however, with anxious protestations
of her own equal ignorance; she had never played the
game nor seen it played in her life; and Lady Bertram
felt a moment's indecision again; but upon everybody's
assuring her that nothing could be so easy, that it
was the easiest game on the cards, and Henry Crawford's
stepping forward with a most earnest request to be allowed
to sit between her ladyship and Miss Price, and teach
them both, it was so settled; and Sir Thomas, Mrs. Norris,
and Dr. and Mrs. Grant being seated at the table of prime
intellectual state and dignity, the remaining six,
under Miss Crawford's direction, were arranged round
the other. It was a fine arrangement for Henry Crawford,
who was close to Fanny, and with his hands full of business,
having two persons' cards to manage as well as his own;
for though it was impossible for Fanny not to feel herself
mistress of the rules of the game in three minutes,
he had yet to inspirit her play, sharpen her avarice,
and harden her heart, which, especially in any competition
with William, was a work of some difficulty; and as for
Lady Bertram, he must continue in charge of all her fame
and fortune through the whole evening; and if quick enough
to keep her from looking at her cards when the deal began,
must direct her in whatever was to be done with them
to the end of it.
He was in high spirits, doing everything with happy ease,
and preeminent in all the lively turns, quick resources,
and playful impudence that could do honour to the game;
and the round table was altogether a very comfortable
contrast to the steady sobriety and orderly silence of
the other.
Twice had Sir Thomas inquired into the enjoyment and
success of his lady, but in vain; no pause was long enough
for the time his measured manner needed; and very little
of her state could be known till Mrs. Grant was able,
at the end of the first rubber, to go to her and pay
her compliments.
"I hope your ladyship is pleased with the game."
"Oh dear, yes! very entertaining indeed. A very odd game.
I do not know what it is all about. I am never to see
my cards; and Mr. Crawford does all the rest."
"Bertram," said Crawford, some time afterwards, taking the
opportunity of a little languor in the game, "I have never
told you what happened to me yesterday in my ride home."
They had been hunting together, and were in the midst of a
good run, and at some distance from Mansfield, when his horse
being found to have flung a shoe, Henry Crawford had been
obliged to give up, and make the best of his way back.
"I told you I lost my way after passing that old farmhouse
with the yew-trees, because I can never bear to ask;
but I have not told you that, with my usual luck--for I
never do wrong without gaining by it--I found myself in due
time in the very place which I had a curiosity to see.
I was suddenly, upon turning the corner of a steepish
downy field, in the midst of a retired little village
between gently rising hills; a small stream before me to
be forded, a church standing on a sort of knoll to my right--
which church was strikingly large and handsome for
the place, and not a gentleman or half a gentleman's house
to be seen excepting one--to be presumed the Parsonage--
within a stone's throw of the said knoll and church.
I found myself, in short, in Thornton Lacey."
"It sounds like it," said Edmund; "but which way did you
turn after passing Sewell's farm?"
"I answer no such irrelevant and insidious questions;
though were I to answer all that you could put in the course
of an hour, you would never be able to prove that it
was _not_ Thornton Lacey--for such it certainly was."
"You inquired, then?"
"No, I never inquire. But I _told_ a man mending a hedge
that it was Thornton Lacey, and he agreed to it."
"You have a good memory. I had forgotten having ever
told you half so much of the place."
Thornton Lacey was the name of his impending living,
as Miss Crawford well knew; and her interest in a negotiation
for William Price's knave increased.
"Well," continued Edmund, "and how did you like what
you saw?"
"Very much indeed. You are a lucky fellow. There will be
work for five summers at least before the place is liveable."
"No, no, not so bad as that. The farmyard must be moved,
I grant you; but I am not aware of anything else.
The house is by no means bad, and when the yard is removed,
there may be a very tolerable approach to it."
"The farmyard must be cleared away entirely, and planted
up to shut out the blacksmith's shop. The house must
be turned to front the east instead of the north--
the entrance and principal rooms, I mean, must be on
that side, where the view is really very pretty; I am
sure it may be done. And _there_ must be your approach,
through what is at present the garden. You must make
a new garden at what is now the back of the house;
which will be giving it the best aspect in the world,
sloping to the south-east. The ground seems precisely
formed for it. I rode fifty yards up the lane,
between the church and the house, in order to look about me;
and saw how it might all be. Nothing can be easier.
The meadows beyond what _will_ _be_ the garden, as well
as what now _is_, sweeping round from the lane I stood
in to the north-east, that is, to the principal road
through the village, must be all laid together, of course;
very pretty meadows they are, finely sprinkled with timber.
They belong to the living, I suppose; if not, you must
purchase them. Then the stream--something must be done
with the stream; but I could not quite determine what.
I had two or three ideas."
"And I have two or three ideas also," said Edmund,
"and one of them is, that very little of your plan
for Thornton Lacey will ever be put in practice.
I must be satisfied with rather less ornament and beauty.
I think the house and premises may be made comfortable,
and given the air of a gentleman's residence, without any
very heavy expense, and that must suffice me; and, I hope,
may suffice all who care about me."
Miss Crawford, a little suspicious and resentful of a
certain tone of voice, and a certain half-look attending
the last expression of his hope, made a hasty finish
of her dealings with William Price; and securing his knave
at an exorbitant rate, exclaimed, "There, I will stake
my last like a woman of spirit. No cold prudence for me.
I am not born to sit still and do nothing. If I lose
the game, it shall not be from not striving for it."
The game was hers, and only did not pay her for what
she had given to secure it. Another deal proceeded,
and Crawford began again about Thornton Lacey.
"My plan may not be the best possible: I had not many
minutes to form it in; but you must do a good deal.
The place deserves it, and you will find yourself not
satisfied with much less than it is capable of. (Excuse me,
your ladyship must not see your cards. There, let them
lie just before you.) The place deserves it, Bertram.
You talk of giving it the air of a gentleman's residence.
_That_ will be done by the removal of the farmyard;
for, independent of that terrible nuisance, I never saw
a house of the kind which had in itself so much the air
of a gentleman's residence, so much the look of a something
above a mere parsonage-house--above the expenditure of a few
hundreds a year. It is not a scrambling collection of low
single rooms, with as many roofs as windows; it is not
cramped into the vulgar compactness of a square farmhouse:
it is a solid, roomy, mansion-like looking house, such as one
might suppose a respectable old country family had lived
in from generation to generation, through two centuries
at least, and were now spending from two to three thousand
a year in." Miss Crawford listened, and Edmund agreed
to this. "The air of a gentleman's residence, therefore,
you cannot but give it, if you do anything. But it is
capable of much more. (Let me see, Mary; Lady Bertram
bids a dozen for that queen; no, no, a dozen is more
than it is worth. Lady Bertram does not bid a dozen.
She will have nothing to say to it. Go on, go on.)
By some such improvements as I have suggested (I do not really
require you to proceed upon my plan, though, by the bye,
I doubt anybody's striking out a better) you may give it
a higher character. You may raise it into a _place_.
From being the mere gentleman's residence, it becomes,
by judicious improvement, the residence of a man
of education, taste, modern manners, good connexions.
All this may be stamped on it; and that house receive
such an air as to make its owner be set down as the great
landholder of the parish by every creature travelling
the road; especially as there is no real squire's house
to dispute the point--a circumstance, between ourselves,
to enhance the value of such a situation in point
of privilege and independence beyond all calculation.
_You_ think with me, I hope" (turning with a softened
voice to Fanny). "Have you ever seen the place?"
Fanny gave a quick negative, and tried to hide her interest
in the subject by an eager attention to her brother,
who was driving as hard a bargain, and imposing on her
as much as he could; but Crawford pursued with "No, no,
you must not part with the queen. You have bought
her too dearly, and your brother does not offer half
her value. No, no, sir, hands off, hands off. Your sister
does not part with the queen. She is quite determined.
The game will be yours," turning to her again; "it will
certainly be yours."
"And Fanny had much rather it were William's," said Edmund,
smiling at her. "Poor Fanny! not allowed to cheat herself
as she wishes!"
"Mr. Bertram," said Miss Crawford, a few minutes afterwards,
"you know Henry to be such a capital improver, that you
cannot possibly engage in anything of the sort at Thornton
Lacey without accepting his help. Only think how useful
he was at Sotherton! Only think what grand things were
produced there by our all going with him one hot day
in August to drive about the grounds, and see his genius
take fire. There we went, and there we came home again;
and what was done there is not to be told!"
Fanny's eyes were turned on Crawford for a moment
with an expression more than grave--even reproachful;
but on catching his, were instantly withdrawn.
With something of consciousness he shook his head at
his sister, and laughingly replied, "I cannot say there
was much done at Sotherton; but it was a hot day, and we
were all walking after each other, and bewildered."
As soon as a general buzz gave him shelter, he added,
in a low voice, directed solely at Fanny, "I should be
sorry to have my powers of _planning_ judged of by the
day at Sotherton. I see things very differently now.
Do not think of me as I appeared then."
Sotherton was a word to catch Mrs. Norris, and being
just then in the happy leisure which followed securing
the odd trick by Sir Thomas's capital play and her own
against Dr. and Mrs. Grant's great hands, she called out,
in high good-humour, "Sotherton! Yes, that is a place,
indeed, and we had a charming day there. William, you are
quite out of luck; but the next time you come, I hope dear
Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth will be at home, and I am sure
I can answer for your being kindly received by both.
Your cousins are not of a sort to forget their relations,
and Mr. Rushworth is a most amiable man. They are at
Brighton now, you know; in one of the best houses there,
as Mr. Rushworth's fine fortune gives them a right to be.
I do not exactly know the distance, but when you get back
to Portsmouth, if it is not very far off, you ought to go
over and pay your respects to them; and I could send
a little parcel by you that I want to get conveyed to
your cousins."
"I should be very happy, aunt; but Brighton is almost
by Beachey Head; and if I could get so far, I could
not expect to be welcome in such a smart place as that--
poor scrubby midshipman as I am."
Mrs. Norris was beginning an eager assurance of the
affability he might depend on, when she was stopped
by Sir Thomas's saying with authority, "I do not advise
your going to Brighton, William, as I trust you may soon
have more convenient opportunities of meeting; but my
daughters would be happy to see their cousins anywhere;
and you will find Mr. Rushworth most sincerely disposed
to regard all the connexions of our family as his own."
"I would rather find him private secretary to the First
Lord than anything else," was William's only answer,
in an undervoice, not meant to reach far, and the
subject dropped.
As yet Sir Thomas had seen nothing to remark in Mr. Crawford's
behaviour; but when the whist-table broke up at the end
of the second rubber, and leaving Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris
to dispute over their last play, he became a looker-on
at the other, he found his niece the object of attentions,
or rather of professions, of a somewhat pointed character.
Henry Crawford was in the first glow of another scheme
about Thornton Lacey; and not being able to catch
Edmund's ear, was detailing it to his fair neighbour
with a look of considerable earnestness. His scheme
was to rent the house himself the following winter,
that he might have a home of his own in that neighbourhood;
and it was not merely for the use of it in the hunting-season
(as he was then telling her), though _that_ consideration
had certainly some weight, feeling as he did that,
in spite of all Dr. Grant's very great kindness, it was
impossible for him and his horses to be accommodated
where they now were without material inconvenience;
but his attachment to that neighbourhood did not depend
upon one amusement or one season of the year: he had set
his heart upon having a something there that he could
come to at any time, a little homestall at his command,
where all the holidays of his year might be spent, and he
might find himself continuing, improving, and _perfecting_
that friendship and intimacy with the Mansfield Park
family which was increasing in value to him every day.
Sir Thomas heard and was not offended. There was no want
of respect in the young man's address; and Fanny's reception
of it was so proper and modest, so calm and uninviting,
that he had nothing to censure in her. She said little,
assented only here and there, and betrayed no inclination
either of appropriating any part of the compliment to herself,
or of strengthening his views in favour of Northamptonshire.
Finding by whom he was observed, Henry Crawford addressed
himself on the same subject to Sir Thomas, in a more
everyday tone, but still with feeling.
"I want to be your neighbour, Sir Thomas, as you have,
perhaps, heard me telling Miss Price. May I hope
for your acquiescence, and for your not influencing
your son against such a tenant?"
Sir Thomas, politely bowing, replied, "It is the only way,
sir, in which I could _not_ wish you established as a
permanent neighbour; but I hope, and believe, that Edmund will
occupy his own house at Thornton Lacey. Edmund, am I saying too
much?"
Edmund, on this appeal, had first to hear what was going on;
but, on understanding the question, was at no loss for an answer.
"Certainly, sir, I have no idea but of residence.
But, Crawford, though I refuse you as a tenant,
come to me as a friend. Consider the house as half
your own every winter, and we will add to the stables
on your own improved plan, and with all the improvements
of your improved plan that may occur to you this spring."
"We shall be the losers," continued Sir Thomas.
"His going, though only eight miles, will be an unwelcome
contraction of our family circle; but I should have been
deeply mortified if any son of mine could reconcile
himself to doing less. It is perfectly natural that you
should not have thought much on the subject, Mr. Crawford.
But a parish has wants and claims which can be known
only by a clergyman constantly resident, and which no
proxy can be capable of satisfying to the same extent.
Edmund might, in the common phrase, do the duty of Thornton,
that is, he might read prayers and preach, without giving
up Mansfield Park: he might ride over every Sunday, to a
house nominally inhabited, and go through divine service;
he might be the clergyman of Thornton Lacey every seventh day,
for three or four hours, if that would content him.
But it will not. He knows that human nature needs more
lessons than a weekly sermon can convey; and that if he
does not live among his parishioners, and prove himself,
by constant attention, their well-wisher and friend, he does
very little either for their good or his own."
Mr. Crawford bowed his acquiescence.
"I repeat again," added Sir Thomas, "that Thornton Lacey
is the only house in the neighbourhood in which I should
_not_ be happy to wait on Mr. Crawford as occupier."
Mr. Crawford bowed his thanks.
"Sir Thomas," said Edmund, "undoubtedly understands
the duty of a parish priest. We must hope his son
may prove that _he_ knows it too."
Whatever effect Sir Thomas's little harangue might really
produce on Mr. Crawford, it raised some awkward sensations
in two of the others, two of his most attentive listeners--
Miss Crawford and Fanny. One of whom, having never before
understood that Thornton was so soon and so completely
to be his home, was pondering with downcast eyes on what it
would be _not_ to see Edmund every day; and the other,
startled from the agreeable fancies she had been previously
indulging on the strength of her brother's description,
no longer able, in the picture she had been forming of a
future Thornton, to shut out the church, sink the clergyman,
and see only the respectable, elegant, modernised,
and occasional residence of a man of independent fortune,
was considering Sir Thomas, with decided ill-will,
as the destroyer of all this, and suffering the more
from that involuntary forbearance which his character
and manner commanded, and from not daring to relieve
herself by a single attempt at throwing ridicule on his cause.
All the agreeable of _her_ speculation was over for that hour.
It was time to have done with cards, if sermons prevailed;
and she was glad to find it necessary to come to a conclusion,
and be able to refresh her spirits by a change of place
and neighbour.
The chief of the party were now collected irregularly
round the fire, and waiting the final break-up. William
and Fanny were the most detached. They remained
together at the otherwise deserted card-table, talking
very comfortably, and not thinking of the rest, till some
of the rest began to think of them. Henry Crawford's
chair was the first to be given a direction towards them,
and he sat silently observing them for a few minutes;
himself, in the meanwhile, observed by Sir Thomas,
who was standing in chat with Dr. Grant.
"This is the assembly night," said William. "If I were
at Portsmouth I should be at it, perhaps."
"But you do not wish yourself at Portsmouth, William?"
"No, Fanny, that I do not. I shall have enough of Portsmouth
and of dancing too, when I cannot have you. And I do not
know that there would be any good in going to the assembly,
for I might not get a partner. The Portsmouth girls turn
up their noses at anybody who has not a commission.
One might as well be nothing as a midshipman.
One _is_ nothing, indeed. You remember the Gregorys;
they are grown up amazing fine girls, but they will hardly
speak to _me_, because Lucy is courted by a lieutenant."
"Oh! shame, shame! But never mind it, William" (her own
cheeks in a glow of indignation as she spoke). "It is not
worth minding. It is no reflection on _you_; it is no
more than what the greatest admirals have all experienced,
more or less, in their time. You must think of that,
you must try to make up your mind to it as one of the
hardships which fall to every sailor's share, like bad
weather and hard living, only with this advantage,
that there will be an end to it, that there will come
a time when you will have nothing of that sort to endure.
When you are a lieutenant! only think, William, when you
are a lieutenant, how little you will care for any nonsense
of this kind."
"I begin to think I shall never be a lieutenant, Fanny.
Everybody gets made but me."
"Oh! my dear William, do not talk so; do not be so desponding.
My uncle says nothing, but I am sure he will do everything
in his power to get you made. He knows, as well as you do,
of what consequence it is."
She was checked by the sight of her uncle much nearer
to them than she had any suspicion of, and each found
it necessary to talk of something else.
"Are you fond of dancing, Fanny?"
"Yes, very; only I am soon tired."
"I should like to go to a ball with you and see
you dance. Have you never any balls at Northampton?
I should like to see you dance, and I'd dance with you
if you _would_, for nobody would know who I was here,
and I should like to be your partner once more.
We used to jump about together many a time, did not we?
when the hand-organ was in the street? I am a pretty
good dancer in my way, but I dare say you are a better."
And turning to his uncle, who was now close to them,
"Is not Fanny a very good dancer, sir?"
Fanny, in dismay at such an unprecedented question,
did not know which way to look, or how to be prepared
for the answer. Some very grave reproof, or at least
the coldest expression of indifference, must be coming
to distress her brother, and sink her to the ground.
But, on the contrary, it was no worse than, "I am sorry
to say that I am unable to answer your question.
I have never seen Fanny dance since she was a little girl;
but I trust we shall both think she acquits herself like
a gentlewoman when we do see her, which, perhaps, we may
have an opportunity of doing ere long."
"I have had the pleasure of seeing your sister dance,
Mr. Price," said Henry Crawford, leaning forward,
"and will engage to answer every inquiry which you can
make on the subject, to your entire satisfaction.
But I believe" (seeing Fanny looked distressed) "it must
be at some other time. There is _one_ person in company
who does not like to have Miss Price spoken of."
True enough, he had once seen Fanny dance; and it was
equally true that he would now have answered for her gliding
about with quiet, light elegance, and in admirable time;
but, in fact, he could not for the life of him recall
what her dancing had been, and rather took it for granted
that she had been present than remembered anything about her.
He passed, however, for an admirer of her dancing;
and Sir Thomas, by no means displeased, prolonged the
conversation on dancing in general, and was so well
engaged in describing the balls of Antigua, and listening
to what his nephew could relate of the different modes
of dancing which had fallen within his observation,
that he had not heard his carriage announced, and was first
called to the knowledge of it by the bustle of Mrs. Norris.
"Come, Fanny, Fanny, what are you about? We are going.
Do not you see your aunt is going? Quick, quick! I cannot
bear to keep good old Wilcox waiting. You should always
remember the coachman and horses. My dear Sir Thomas,
we have settled it that the carriage should come back for you,
and Edmund and William."
Sir Thomas could not dissent, as it had been his
own arrangement, previously communicated to his wife
and sister; but _that_ seemed forgotten by Mrs. Norris,
who must fancy that she settled it all herself.
Fanny's last feeling in the visit was disappointment:
for the shawl which Edmund was quietly taking from the
servant to bring and put round her shoulders was seized
by Mr. Crawford's quicker hand, and she was obliged to be
indebted to his more prominent attention.
CHAPTER XXVI
William's desire of seeing Fanny dance made more than a
momentary impression on his uncle. The hope of an opportunity,
which Sir Thomas had then given, was not given to be thought
of no more. He remained steadily inclined to gratify
so amiable a feeling; to gratify anybody else who might
wish to see Fanny dance, and to give pleasure to the young
people in general; and having thought the matter over,
and taken his resolution in quiet independence,
the result of it appeared the next morning at breakfast,
when, after recalling and commending what his nephew
had said, he added, "I do not like, William, that you
should leave Northamptonshire without this indulgence.
It would give me pleasure to see you both dance.
You spoke of the balls at Northampton. Your cousins have
occasionally attended them; but they would not altogether
suit us now. The fatigue would be too much for your aunt.
I believe we must not think of a Northampton ball.
A dance at home would be more eligible; and if--"
"Ah, my dear Sir Thomas!" interrupted Mrs. Norris, "I knew
what was coming. I knew what you were going to say. If dear
Julia were at home, or dearest Mrs. Rushworth at Sotherton,
to afford a reason, an occasion for such a thing, you would
be tempted to give the young people a dance at Mansfield.
I know you would. If _they_ were at home to grace
the ball, a ball you would have this very Christmas.
Thank your uncle, William, thank your uncle!"
"My daughters," replied Sir Thomas, gravely interposing,
"have their pleasures at Brighton, and I hope are very happy;
but the dance which I think of giving at Mansfield
will be for their cousins. Could we be all assembled,
our satisfaction would undoubtedly be more complete,
but the absence of some is not to debar the others
of amusement."
Mrs. Norris had not another word to say. She saw decision
in his looks, and her surprise and vexation required
some minutes' silence to be settled into composure.
A ball at such a time! His daughters absent and herself
not consulted! There was comfort, however, soon at hand.
_She_ must be the doer of everything: Lady Bertram
would of course be spared all thought and exertion,
and it would all fall upon _her_. She should have to do
the honours of the evening; and this reflection quickly
restored so much of her good-humour as enabled her to join
in with the others, before their happiness and thanks were
all expressed.
Edmund, William, and Fanny did, in their different ways,
look and speak as much grateful pleasure in the promised
ball as Sir Thomas could desire. Edmund's feelings
were for the other two. His father had never conferred
a favour or shewn a kindness more to his satisfaction.
Lady Bertram was perfectly quiescent and contented,
and had no objections to make. Sir Thomas engaged
for its giving her very little trouble; and she assured
him "that she was not at all afraid of the trouble;
indeed, she could not imagine there would be any."
Mrs. Norris was ready with her suggestions as to the rooms he
would think fittest to be used, but found it all prearranged;
and when she would have conjectured and hinted about
the day, it appeared that the day was settled too.
Sir Thomas had been amusing himself with shaping a very
complete outline of the business; and as soon as she
would listen quietly, could read his list of the families
to be invited, from whom he calculated, with all necessary
allowance for the shortness of the notice, to collect
young people enough to form twelve or fourteen couple:
and could detail the considerations which had induced
him to fix on the 22nd as the most eligible day.
William was required to be at Portsmouth on the 24th;
the 22nd would therefore be the last day of his visit;
but where the days were so few it would be unwise to fix
on any earlier. Mrs. Norris was obliged to be satisfied
with thinking just the same, and with having been on the
point of proposing the 22nd herself, as by far the best day
for the purpose.
The ball was now a settled thing, and before the evening
a proclaimed thing to all whom it concerned. Invitations were
sent with despatch, and many a young lady went to bed that
night with her head full of happy cares as well as Fanny.
To her the cares were sometimes almost beyond the happiness;
for young and inexperienced, with small means of choice
and no confidence in her own taste, the "how she
should be dressed" was a point of painful solicitude;
and the almost solitary ornament in her possession,
a very pretty amber cross which William had brought
her from Sicily, was the greatest distress of all,
for she had nothing but a bit of ribbon to fasten it to;
and though she had worn it in that manner once, would it
be allowable at such a time in the midst of all the rich
ornaments which she supposed all the other young ladies
would appear in? And yet not to wear it! William had
wanted to buy her a gold chain too, but the purchase had
been beyond his means, and therefore not to wear the cross
might be mortifying him. These were anxious considerations;
enough to sober her spirits even under the prospect
of a ball given principally for her gratification.
The preparations meanwhile went on, and Lady Bertram continued
to sit on her sofa without any inconvenience from them.
She had some extra visits from the housekeeper, and her
maid was rather hurried in making up a new dress for her:
Sir Thomas gave orders, and Mrs. Norris ran about;
but all this gave _her_ no trouble, and as she had foreseen,
"there was, in fact, no trouble in the business."
Edmund was at this time particularly full of cares:
his mind being deeply occupied in the consideration of two
important events now at hand, which were to fix his fate
in life--ordination and matrimony--events of such a serious
character as to make the ball, which would be very quickly
followed by one of them, appear of less moment in his
eyes than in those of any other person in the house.
On the 23rd he was going to a friend near Peterborough,
in the same situation as himself, and they were to
receive ordination in the course of the Christmas week.
Half his destiny would then be determined, but the other
half might not be so very smoothly wooed. His duties would
be established, but the wife who was to share, and animate,
and reward those duties, might yet be unattainable.
He knew his own mind, but he was not always perfectly assured
of knowing Miss Crawford's. There were points on which they
did not quite agree; there were moments in which she did
not seem propitious; and though trusting altogether to
her affection, so far as to be resolved--almost resolved--
on bringing it to a decision within a very short time,
as soon as the variety of business before him were arranged,
and he knew what he had to offer her, he had many
anxious feelings, many doubting hours as to the result.
His conviction of her regard for him was sometimes very strong;
he could look back on a long course of encouragement,
and she was as perfect in disinterested attachment as
in everything else. But at other times doubt and alarm
intermingled with his hopes; and when he thought of her
acknowledged disinclination for privacy and retirement,
her decided preference of a London life, what could he expect
but a determined rejection? unless it were an acceptance
even more to be deprecated, demanding such sacrifices
of situation and employment on his side as conscience
must forbid.
The issue of all depended on one question. Did she
love him well enough to forego what had used to be
essential points? Did she love him well enough to make
them no longer essential? And this question, which he
was continually repeating to himself, though oftenest
answered with a "Yes," had sometimes its "No."
Miss Crawford was soon to leave Mansfield, and on this
circumstance the "no" and the "yes" had been very recently
in alternation. He had seen her eyes sparkle as she spoke
of the dear friend's letter, which claimed a long visit from
her in London, and of the kindness of Henry, in engaging
to remain where he was till January, that he might convey
her thither; he had heard her speak of the pleasure of such
a journey with an animation which had "no" in every tone.
But this had occurred on the first day of its being settled,
within the first hour of the burst of such enjoyment,
when nothing but the friends she was to visit was before her.
He had since heard her express herself differently,
with other feelings, more chequered feelings: he had heard
her tell Mrs. Grant that she should leave her with regret;
that she began to believe neither the friends nor
the pleasures she was going to were worth those she
left behind; and that though she felt she must go,
and knew she should enjoy herself when once away, she was
already looking forward to being at Mansfield again.
Was there not a "yes" in all this?
With such matters to ponder over, and arrange, and re-arrange,
Edmund could not, on his own account, think very much
of the evening which the rest of the family were looking
forward to with a more equal degree of strong interest.
Independent of his two cousins' enjoyment in it,
the evening was to him of no higher value than any
other appointed meeting of the two families might be.
In every meeting there was a hope of receiving farther
confirmation of Miss Crawford's attachment; but the whirl
of a ballroom, perhaps, was not particularly favourable
to the excitement or expression of serious feelings.
To engage her early for the two first dances was all the
command of individual happiness which he felt in his power,
and the only preparation for the ball which he could
enter into, in spite of all that was passing around him
on the subject, from morning till night.
Thursday was the day of the ball; and on Wednesday
morning Fanny, still unable to satisfy herself as to what
she ought to wear, determined to seek the counsel of the
more enlightened, and apply to Mrs. Grant and her sister,
whose acknowledged taste would certainly bear her blameless;
and as Edmund and William were gone to Northampton,
and she had reason to think Mr. Crawford likewise out,
she walked down to the Parsonage without much fear of wanting
an opportunity for private discussion; and the privacy of
such a discussion was a most important part of it to Fanny,
being more than half-ashamed of her own solicitude.
She met Miss Crawford within a few yards of the Parsonage,
just setting out to call on her, and as it seemed to her
that her friend, though obliged to insist on turning back,
was unwilling to lose her walk, she explained her business
at once, and observed, that if she would be so kind
as to give her opinion, it might be all talked over as
well without doors as within. Miss Crawford appeared
gratified by the application, and after a moment's thought,
urged Fanny's returning with her in a much more cordial
manner than before, and proposed their going up into
her room, where they might have a comfortable coze,
without disturbing Dr. and Mrs. Grant, who were together
in the drawing-room. It was just the plan to suit Fanny;
and with a great deal of gratitude on her side for such ready
and kind attention, they proceeded indoors, and upstairs,
and were soon deep in the interesting subject. Miss Crawford,
pleased with the appeal, gave her all her best judgment
and taste, made everything easy by her suggestions,
and tried to make everything agreeable by her encouragement.
The dress being settled in all its grander parts--
"But what shall you have by way of necklace?" said Miss
Crawford. "Shall not you wear your brother's cross?"
And as she spoke she was undoing a small parcel,
which Fanny had observed in her hand when they met.
Fanny acknowledged her wishes and doubts on this point:
she did not know how either to wear the cross, or to
refrain from wearing it. She was answered by having
a small trinket-box placed before her, and being requested
to chuse from among several gold chains and necklaces.
Such had been the parcel with which Miss Crawford
was provided, and such the object of her intended visit:
and in the kindest manner she now urged Fanny's taking one
for the cross and to keep for her sake, saying everything
she could think of to obviate the scruples which were
making Fanny start back at first with a look of horror at
the proposal.
"You see what a collection I have," said she; "more by half
than I ever use or think of. I do not offer them as new.
I offer nothing but an old necklace. You must forgive
the liberty, and oblige me."
Fanny still resisted, and from her heart. The gift was
too valuable. But Miss Crawford persevered, and argued
the case with so much affectionate earnestness through
all the heads of William and the cross, and the ball,
and herself, as to be finally successful. Fanny found
herself obliged to yield, that she might not be accused
of pride or indifference, or some other littleness;
and having with modest reluctance given her consent,
proceeded to make the selection. She looked and looked,
longing to know which might be least valuable; and was
determined in her choice at last, by fancying there was
one necklace more frequently placed before her eyes than
the rest. It was of gold, prettily worked; and though Fanny
would have preferred a longer and a plainer chain as more
adapted for her purpose, she hoped, in fixing on this,
to be chusing what Miss Crawford least wished to keep.
Miss Crawford smiled her perfect approbation; and hastened
to complete the gift by putting the necklace round her,
and making her see how well it looked. Fanny had not a
word to say against its becomingness, and, excepting what
remained of her scruples, was exceedingly pleased with an
acquisition so very apropos. She would rather, perhaps,
have been obliged to some other person. But this was
an unworthy feeling. Miss Crawford had anticipated her
wants with a kindness which proved her a real friend.
"When I wear this necklace I shall always think of you,"
said she, "and feel how very kind you were."
"You must think of somebody else too, when you wear
that necklace," replied Miss Crawford. "You must think
of Henry, for it was his choice in the first place.
He gave it to me, and with the necklace I make over
to you all the duty of remembering the original giver.
It is to be a family remembrancer. The sister is not to be
in your mind without bringing the brother too."
Fanny, in great astonishment and confusion, would have
returned the present instantly. To take what had
been the gift of another person, of a brother too,
impossible! it must not be! and with an eagerness and
embarrassment quite diverting to her companion, she laid
down the necklace again on its cotton, and seemed resolved
either to take another or none at all. Miss Crawford
thought she had never seen a prettier consciousness.
"My dear child," said she, laughing, "what are you afraid of?
Do you think Henry will claim the necklace as mine,
and fancy you did not come honestly by it? or are you
imagining he would be too much flattered by seeing
round your lovely throat an ornament which his money
purchased three years ago, before he knew there was such
a throat in the world? or perhaps"--looking archly--
"you suspect a confederacy between us, and that what
I am now doing is with his knowledge and at his desire?"
With the deepest blushes Fanny protested against such
a thought.
"Well, then," replied Miss Crawford more seriously,
but without at all believing her, "to convince me that you
suspect no trick, and are as unsuspicious of compliment
as I have always found you, take the necklace and say
no more about it. Its being a gift of my brother's need
not make the smallest difference in your accepting it,
as I assure you it makes none in my willingness to part
with it. He is always giving me something or other.
I have such innumerable presents from him that it is quite
impossible for me to value or for him to remember half.
And as for this necklace, I do not suppose I have worn it
six times: it is very pretty, but I never think of it;
and though you would be most heartily welcome to any
other in my trinket-box, you have happened to fix on
the very one which, if I have a choice, I would rather
part with and see in your possession than any other.
Say no more against it, I entreat you. Such a trifle is
not worth half so many words."
Fanny dared not make any farther opposition; and with
renewed but less happy thanks accepted the necklace again,
for there was an expression in Miss Crawford's eyes
which she could not be satisfied with.
It was impossible for her to be insensible of Mr. Crawford's
change of manners. She had long seen it. He evidently
tried to please her: he was gallant, he was attentive,
he was something like what he had been to her cousins:
he wanted, she supposed, to cheat her of her tranquillity
as he had cheated them; and whether he might not have some
concern in this necklace--she could not be convinced that
he had not, for Miss Crawford, complaisant as a sister,
was careless as a woman and a friend.
Reflecting and doubting, and feeling that the possession
of what she had so much wished for did not bring much
satisfaction, she now walked home again, with a change rather
than a diminution of cares since her treading that path before.
CHAPTER XXVII
On reaching home Fanny went immediately upstairs to
deposit this unexpected acquisition, this doubtful good
of a necklace, in some favourite box in the East room,
which held all her smaller treasures; but on opening
the door, what was her surprise to find her cousin Edmund
there writing at the table! Such a sight having never
occurred before, was almost as wonderful as it was welcome.
"Fanny," said he directly, leaving his seat and his pen,
and meeting her with something in his hand, "I beg
your pardon for being here. I came to look for you,
and after waiting a little while in hope of your coming in,
was making use of your inkstand to explain my errand.
You will find the beginning of a note to yourself;
but I can now speak my business, which is merely to beg
your acceptance of this little trifle--a chain for
William's cross. You ought to have had it a week ago,
but there has been a delay from my brother's not
being in town by several days so soon as I expected;
and I have only just now received it at Northampton.
I hope you will like the chain itself, Fanny. I endeavoured
to consult the simplicity of your taste; but, at any rate,
I know you will be kind to my intentions, and consider it,
as it really is, a token of the love of one of your
oldest friends."
And so saying, he was hurrying away, before Fanny,
overpowered by a thousand feelings of pain and pleasure,
could attempt to speak; but quickened by one sovereign wish,
she then called out, "Oh! cousin, stop a moment,
pray stop!"
He turned back.
"I cannot attempt to thank you," she continued, in a
very agitated manner; "thanks are out of the question.
I feel much more than I can possibly express.
Your goodness in thinking of me in such a way is beyond--
"
"If that is all you have to say, Fanny" smiling and turning
away again.
"No, no, it is not. I want to consult you."
Almost unconsciously she had now undone the parcel he
had just put into her hand, and seeing before her,
in all the niceness of jewellers' packing, a plain
gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she could not help
bursting forth again, "Oh, this is beautiful indeed!
This is the very thing, precisely what I wished for!
This is the only ornament I have ever had a desire to possess.
It will exactly suit my cross. They must and shall be
worn together. It comes, too, in such an acceptable moment.
Oh, cousin, you do not know how acceptable it is."
"My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too much.
I am most happy that you like the chain, and that it
should be here in time for to-morrow; but your thanks are
far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I have no pleasure
in the world superior to that of contributing to yours.
No, I can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete,
so unalloyed. It is without a drawback."
Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have
lived an hour without saying another word; but Edmund,
after waiting a moment, obliged her to bring down her
mind from its heavenly flight by saying, "But what is it
that you want to consult me about?"
It was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly
longing to return, and hoped to obtain his approbation
of her doing. She gave the history of her recent visit,
and now her raptures might well be over; for Edmund was so
struck with the circumstance, so delighted with what Miss
Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidence
of conduct between them, that Fanny could not but admit
the superior power of one pleasure over his own mind,
though it might have its drawback. It was some time
before she could get his attention to her plan, or any
answer to her demand of his opinion: he was in a reverie
of fond reflection, uttering only now and then a few
half-sentences of praise; but when he did awake and understand,
he was very decided in opposing what she wished.
"Return the necklace! No, my dear Fanny, upon no account.
It would be mortifying her severely. There can hardly
be a more unpleasant sensation than the having anything
returned on our hands which we have given with a reasonable
hope of its contributing to the comfort of a friend.
Why should she lose a pleasure which she has shewn herself
so deserving of?"
"If it had been given to me in the first instance,"
said Fanny, "I should not have thought of returning it;
but being her brother's present, is not it fair to suppose
that she would rather not part with it, when it is
not wanted?"
"She must not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable,
at least: and its having been originally her brother's
gift makes no difference; for as she was not prevented
from offering, nor you from taking it on that account,
it ought not to prevent you from keeping it. No doubt it
is handsomer than mine, and fitter for a ballroom."
"No, it is not handsomer, not at all handsomer
in its way, and, for my purpose, not half so fit.
The chain will agree with William's cross beyond
all comparison better than the necklace."
"For one night, Fanny, for only one night, if it _be_
a sacrifice; I am sure you will, upon consideration,
make that sacrifice rather than give pain to one who has been
so studious of your comfort. Miss Crawford's attentions
to you have been--not more than you were justly entitled to--
I am the last person to think that _could_ _be_,
but they have been invariable; and to be returning them
with what must have something the _air_ of ingratitude,
though I know it could never have the _meaning_, is not
in your nature, I am sure. Wear the necklace, as you
are engaged to do, to-morrow evening, and let the chain,
which was not ordered with any reference to the ball,
be kept for commoner occasions. This is my advice.
I would not have the shadow of a coolness between the two whose
intimacy I have been observing with the greatest pleasure,
and in whose characters there is so much general resemblance
in true generosity and natural delicacy as to make the few
slight differences, resulting principally from situation,
no reasonable hindrance to a perfect friendship. I would
not have the shadow of a coolness arise," he repeated,
his voice sinking a little, "between the two dearest objects
I have on earth."
He was gone as he spoke; and Fanny remained to tranquillise
herself as she could. She was one of his two dearest--
that must support her. But the other: the first!
She had never heard him speak so openly before, and though
it told her no more than what she had long perceived,
it was a stab, for it told of his own convictions and views.
They were decided. He would marry Miss Crawford.
It was a stab, in spite of every long-standing expectation;
and she was obliged to repeat again and again, that she
was one of his two dearest, before the words gave
her any sensation. Could she believe Miss Crawford to
deserve him, it would be--oh, how different would it be--
how far more tolerable! But he was deceived in her:
he gave her merits which she had not; her faults were
what they had ever been, but he saw them no longer.
Till she had shed many tears over this deception,
Fanny could not subdue her agitation; and the dejection
which followed could only be relieved by the influence of
fervent prayers for his happiness.
It was her intention, as she felt it to be her duty,
to try to overcome all that was excessive, all that
bordered on selfishness, in her affection for Edmund.
To call or to fancy it a loss, a disappointment, would be
a presumption for which she had not words strong enough to
satisfy her own humility. To think of him as Miss Crawford
might be justified in thinking, would in her be insanity.
To her he could be nothing under any circumstances;
nothing dearer than a friend. Why did such an idea occur
to her even enough to be reprobated and forbidden? It ought
not to have touched on the confines of her imagination.
She would endeavour to be rational, and to deserve
the right of judging of Miss Crawford's character,
and the privilege of true solicitude for him by a sound
intellect and an honest heart.
She had all the heroism of principle, and was determined
to do her duty; but having also many of the feelings of youth
and nature, let her not be much wondered at, if, after making
all these good resolutions on the side of self-government,
she seized the scrap of paper on which Edmund had begun
writing to her, as a treasure beyond all her hopes,
and reading with the tenderest emotion these words,
"My very dear Fanny, you must do me the favour to accept"
locked it up with the chain, as the dearest part of the gift.
It was the only thing approaching to a letter which she
had ever received from him; she might never receive another;
it was impossible that she ever should receive another
so perfectly gratifying in the occasion and the style.
Two lines more prized had never fallen from the pen
of the most distinguished author--never more completely
blessed the researches of the fondest biographer.
The enthusiasm of a woman's love is even beyond
the biographer's. To her, the handwriting itself,
independent of anything it may convey, is a blessedness.
Never were such characters cut by any other human being
as Edmund's commonest handwriting gave! This specimen,
written in haste as it was, had not a fault; and there
was a felicity in the flow of the first four words,
in the arrangement of "My very dear Fanny," which she
could have looked at for ever.
Having regulated her thoughts and comforted her feelings
by this happy mixture of reason and weakness, she was able
in due time to go down and resume her usual employments
near her aunt Bertram, and pay her the usual observances
without any apparent want of spirits.
Thursday, predestined to hope and enjoyment, came; and opened
with more kindness to Fanny than such self-willed,
unmanageable days often volunteer, for soon after breakfast
a very friendly note was brought from Mr. Crawford
to William, stating that as he found himself obliged
to go to London on the morrow for a few days, he could
not help trying to procure a companion; and therefore
hoped that if William could make up his mind to leave
Mansfield half a day earlier than had been proposed,
he would accept a place in his carriage. Mr. Crawford meant
to be in town by his uncle's accustomary late dinner-hour,
and William was invited to dine with him at the Admiral's.
The proposal was a very pleasant one to William himself,
who enjoyed the idea of travelling post with four horses,
and such a good-humoured, agreeable friend; and, in likening
it to going up with despatches, was saying at once everything
in favour of its happiness and dignity which his imagination
could suggest; and Fanny, from a different motive,
was exceedingly pleased; for the original plan was that
William should go up by the mail from Northampton the
following night, which would not have allowed him an hour's
rest before he must have got into a Portsmouth coach;
and though this offer of Mr. Crawford's would rob her
of many hours of his company, she was too happy in having
William spared from the fatigue of such a journey,
to think of anything else. Sir Thomas approved of it
for another reason. His nephew's introduction to Admiral
Crawford might be of service. The Admiral, he believed,
had interest. Upon the whole, it was a very joyous note.
Fanny's spirits lived on it half the morning, deriving
some accession of pleasure from its writer being himself to go
away.
As for the ball, so near at hand, she had too many
agitations and fears to have half the enjoyment in
anticipation which she ought to have had, or must have
been supposed to have by the many young ladies looking
forward to the same event in situations more at ease,
but under circumstances of less novelty, less interest,
less peculiar gratification, than would be attributed
to her. Miss Price, known only by name to half the
people invited, was now to make her first appearance,
and must be regarded as the queen of the evening.
Who could be happier than Miss Price? But Miss Price
had not been brought up to the trade of _coming_ _out_;
and had she known in what light this ball was, in general,
considered respecting her, it would very much have lessened
her comfort by increasing the fears she already had of doing
wrong and being looked at. To dance without much observation
or any extraordinary fatigue, to have strength and partners
for about half the evening, to dance a little with Edmund,
and not a great deal with Mr. Crawford, to see William
enjoy himself, and be able to keep away from her aunt Norris,
was the height of her ambition, and seemed to comprehend
her greatest possibility of happiness. As these were
the best of her hopes, they could not always prevail;
and in the course of a long morning, spent principally
with her two aunts, she was often under the influence
of much less sanguine views. William, determined to
make this last day a day of thorough enjoyment,
was out snipe-shooting; Edmund, she had too much reason
to suppose, was at the Parsonage; and left alone to bear
the worrying of Mrs. Norris, who was cross because the
housekeeper would have her own way with the supper,
and whom _she_ could not avoid though the housekeeper might,
Fanny was worn down at last to think everything an evil
belonging to the ball, and when sent off with a parting worry
to dress, moved as languidly towards her own room, and felt
as incapable of happiness as if she had been allowed no share in
it.
As she walked slowly upstairs she thought of yesterday;
it had been about the same hour that she had returned
from the Parsonage, and found Edmund in the East room.
"Suppose I were to find him there again to-day!" said she
to herself, in a fond indulgence of fancy.
"Fanny," said a voice at that moment near her.
Starting and looking up, she saw, across the lobby she
had just reached, Edmund himself, standing at the head
of a different staircase. He came towards her. "You look
tired and fagged, Fanny. You have been walking too far."
"No, I have not been out at all."
"Then you have had fatigues within doors, which are worse.
You had better have gone out."
Fanny, not liking to complain, found it easiest to make
no answer; and though he looked at her with his usual kindness,
she believed he had soon ceased to think of her countenance.
He did not appear in spirits: something unconnected with
her was probably amiss. They proceeded upstairs together,
their rooms being on the same floor above.
"I come from Dr. Grant's," said Edmund presently.
"You may guess my errand there, Fanny." And he looked
so conscious, that Fanny could think but of one errand,
which turned her too sick for speech. "I wished to
engage Miss Crawford for the two first dances," was the
explanation that followed, and brought Fanny to life again,
enabling her, as she found she was expected to speak,
to utter something like an inquiry as to the result.
"Yes," he answered, "she is engaged to me; but" (with a smile
that did not sit easy) "she says it is to be the last time
that she ever will dance with me. She is not serious.
I think, I hope, I am sure she is not serious; but I would
rather not hear it. She never has danced with a clergyman,
she says, and she never _will_. For my own sake, I could
wish there had been no ball just at--I mean not this
very week, this very day; to-morrow I leave home."
Fanny struggled for speech, and said, "I am very sorry
that anything has occurred to distress you. This ought
to be a day of pleasure. My uncle meant it so."
"Oh yes, yes! and it will be a day of pleasure.
It will all end right. I am only vexed for a moment.
In fact, it is not that I consider the ball as ill-timed;
what does it signify? But, Fanny," stopping her,
by taking her hand, and speaking low and seriously,
"you know what all this means. You see how it is;
and could tell me, perhaps better than I could tell you,
how and why I am vexed. Let me talk to you a little.
You are a kind, kind listener. I have been pained
by her manner this morning, and cannot get the better
of it. I know her disposition to be as sweet and
faultless as your own, but the influence of her former
companions makes her seem--gives to her conversation,
to her professed opinions, sometimes a tinge of wrong.
She does not _think_ evil, but she speaks it, speaks it
in playfulness; and though I know it to be playfulness,
it grieves me to the soul."
"The effect of education," said Fanny gently.
Edmund could not but agree to it. "Yes, that uncle and aunt!
They have injured the finest mind; for sometimes,
Fanny, I own to you, it does appear more than manner:
it appears as if the mind itself was tainted."
Fanny imagined this to be an appeal to her judgment,
and therefore, after a moment's consideration, said, "If you
only want me as a listener, cousin, I will be as useful
as I can; but I am not qualified for an adviser.
Do not ask advice of _me_. I am not competent."
"You are right, Fanny, to protest against such an office,
but you need not be afraid. It is a subject on which I
should never ask advice; it is the sort of subject on
which it had better never be asked; and few, I imagine,
do ask it, but when they want to be influenced against
their conscience. I only want to talk to you."
"One thing more. Excuse the liberty; but take care
_how_ you talk to me. Do not tell me anything now,
which hereafter you may be sorry for. The time may come--"
The colour rushed into her cheeks as she spoke.
"Dearest Fanny!" cried Edmund, pressing her hand to
his lips with almost as much warmth as if it had been
Miss Crawford's, "you are all considerate thought!
But it is unnecessary here. The time will never come.
No such time as you allude to will ever come. I begin to
think it most improbable: the chances grow less and less;
and even if it should, there will be nothing to be
remembered by either you or me that we need be afraid of,
for I can never be ashamed of my own scruples; and if they
are removed, it must be by changes that will only raise
her character the more by the recollection of the faults
she once had. You are the only being upon earth to whom
I should say what I have said; but you have always known
my opinion of her; you can bear me witness, Fanny, that I
have never been blinded. How many a time have we
talked over her little errors! You need not fear me;
I have almost given up every serious idea of her;
but I must be a blockhead indeed, if, whatever befell me,
I could think of your kindness and sympathy without the
sincerest gratitude."
He had said enough to shake the experience of eighteen.
He had said enough to give Fanny some happier feelings
than she had lately known, and with a brighter look,
she answered, "Yes, cousin, I am convinced that _you_
would be incapable of anything else, though perhaps some
might not. I cannot be afraid of hearing anything you
wish to say. Do not check yourself. Tell me whatever
you like."
They were now on the second floor, and the appearance
of a housemaid prevented any farther conversation.
For Fanny's present comfort it was concluded, perhaps,
at the happiest moment: had he been able to talk another
five minutes, there is no saying that he might not have talked
away all Miss Crawford's faults and his own despondence.
But as it was, they parted with looks on his side of
grateful affection, and with some very precious sensations
on hers. She had felt nothing like it for hours.
Since the first joy from Mr. Crawford's note to William had
worn away, she had been in a state absolutely the reverse;
there had been no comfort around, no hope within her.
Now everything was smiling. William's good fortune
returned again upon her mind, and seemed of greater
value than at first. The ball, too--such an evening
of pleasure before her! It was now a real animation;
and she began to dress for it with much of the happy
flutter which belongs to a ball. All went well:
she did not dislike her own looks; and when she came
to the necklaces again, her good fortune seemed complete,
for upon trial the one given her by Miss Crawford would
by no means go through the ring of the cross. She had,
to oblige Edmund, resolved to wear it; but it was too
large for the purpose. His, therefore, must be worn;
and having, with delightful feelings, joined the chain
and the cross--those memorials of the two most beloved
of her heart, those dearest tokens so formed for each
other by everything real and imaginary--and put them
round her neck, and seen and felt how full of William
and Edmund they were, she was able, without an effort,
to resolve on wearing Miss Crawford's necklace too.
She acknowledged it to be right. Miss Crawford had a claim;
and when it was no longer to encroach on, to interfere
with the stronger claims, the truer kindness of another,
she could do her justice even with pleasure to herself.
The necklace really looked very well; and Fanny left her
room at last, comfortably satisfied with herself and all
about her.
Her aunt Bertram had recollected her on this occasion with
an unusual degree of wakefulness. It had really occurred
to her, unprompted, that Fanny, preparing for a ball,
might be glad of better help than the upper housemaid's,
and when dressed herself, she actually sent her own maid
to assist her; too late, of course, to be of any use.
Mrs. Chapman had just reached the attic floor, when Miss
Price came out of her room completely dressed, and only
civilities were necessary; but Fanny felt her aunt's
attention almost as much as Lady Bertram or Mrs. Chapman
could do themselves.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Her uncle and both her aunts were in the drawing-room
when Fanny went down. To the former she was an interesting
object, and he saw with pleasure the general elegance
of her appearance, and her being in remarkably good looks.
The neatness and propriety of her dress was all that
he would allow himself to commend in her presence,
but upon her leaving the room again soon afterwards,
he spoke of her beauty with very decided praise.
"Yes," said Lady Bertram, "she looks very well.
I sent Chapman to her."
"Look well! Oh, yes!" cried Mrs. Norris, "she has
good reason to look well with all her advantages:
brought up in this family as she has been, with all
the benefit of her cousins' manners before her.
Only think, my dear Sir Thomas, what extraordinary
advantages you and I have been the means of giving her.
The very gown you have been taking notice of is your own
generous present to her when dear Mrs. Rushworth married.
What would she have been if we had not taken her by
the hand?"
Sir Thomas said no more; but when they sat down to table
the eyes of the two young men assured him that the subject
might be gently touched again, when the ladies withdrew,
with more success. Fanny saw that she was approved;
and the consciousness of looking well made her look
still better. From a variety of causes she was happy,
and she was soon made still happier; for in following her
aunts out of the room, Edmund, who was holding open the door,
said, as she passed him, "You must dance with me, Fanny;
you must keep two dances for me; any two that you like,
except the first." She had nothing more to wish for.
She had hardly ever been in a state so nearly approaching
high spirits in her life. Her cousins' former gaiety
on the day of a ball was no longer surprising to her;
she felt it to be indeed very charming, and was actually
practising her steps about the drawing-room as long as she
could be safe from the notice of her aunt Norris, who was
entirely taken up at first in fresh arranging and injuring
the noble fire which the butler had prepared.
Half an hour followed that would have been at least languid
under any other circumstances, but Fanny's happiness
still prevailed. It was but to think of her conversation
with Edmund, and what was the restlessness of Mrs. Norris?
What were the yawns of Lady Bertram?
The gentlemen joined them; and soon after began the sweet
expectation of a carriage, when a general spirit of ease
and enjoyment seemed diffused, and they all stood about
and talked and laughed, and every moment had its pleasure
and its hope. Fanny felt that there must be a struggle
in Edmund's cheerfulness, but it was delightful to see
the effort so successfully made.
When the carriages were really heard, when the guests began
really to assemble, her own gaiety of heart was much subdued:
the sight of so many strangers threw her back into herself;
and besides the gravity and formality of the first great circle,
which the manners of neither Sir Thomas nor Lady Bertram
were of a kind to do away, she found herself occasionally
called on to endure something worse. She was introduced
here and there by her uncle, and forced to be spoken to,
and to curtsey, and speak again. This was a hard duty,
and she was never summoned to it without looking at William,
as he walked about at his ease in the background of the scene,
and longing to be with him.
The entrance of the Grants and Crawfords was a favourable epoch.
The stiffness of the meeting soon gave way before their
popular manners and more diffused intimacies: little groups
were formed, and everybody grew comfortable. Fanny felt
the advantage; and, drawing back from the toils of civility,
would have been again most happy, could she have kept
her eyes from wandering between Edmund and Mary Crawford.
_She_ looked all loveliness--and what might not be
the end of it? Her own musings were brought to an end
on perceiving Mr. Crawford before her, and her thoughts
were put into another channel by his engaging her almost
instantly for the first two dances. Her happiness on this
occasion was very much _a_ _la_ _mortal_, finely chequered.
To be secure of a partner at first was a most essential good--
for the moment of beginning was now growing seriously near;
and she so little understood her own claims as to think
that if Mr. Crawford had not asked her, she must have been
the last to be sought after, and should have received
a partner only through a series of inquiry, and bustle,
and interference, which would have been terrible; but at
the same time there was a pointedness in his manner of asking
her which she did not like, and she saw his eye glancing
for a moment at her necklace, with a smile--she thought
there was a smile--which made her blush and feel wretched.
And though there was no second glance to disturb her,
though his object seemed then to be only quietly agreeable,
she could not get the better of her embarrassment,
heightened as it was by the idea of his perceiving it,
and had no composure till he turned away to some one else.
Then she could gradually rise up to the genuine satisfaction
of having a partner, a voluntary partner, secured against
the dancing began.
When the company were moving into the ballroom, she found
herself for the first time near Miss Crawford, whose eyes
and smiles were immediately and more unequivocally directed
as her brother's had been, and who was beginning to speak
on the subject, when Fanny, anxious to get the story over,
hastened to give the explanation of the second necklace:
the real chain. Miss Crawford listened; and all her intended
compliments and insinuations to Fanny were forgotten:
she felt only one thing; and her eyes, bright as they
had been before, shewing they could yet be brighter,
she exclaimed with eager pleasure, "Did he? Did Edmund?
That was like himself. No other man would have thought of it.
I honour him beyond expression." And she looked around
as if longing to tell him so. He was not near, he was
attending a party of ladies out of the room; and Mrs. Grant
coming up to the two girls, and taking an arm of each,
they followed with the rest.
Fanny's heart sunk, but there was no leisure for
thinking long even of Miss Crawford's feelings.
They were in the ballroom, the violins were playing,
and her mind was in a flutter that forbade its fixing on
anything serious. She must watch the general arrangements,
and see how everything was done.
In a few minutes Sir Thomas came to her, and asked if
she were engaged; and the "Yes, sir; to Mr. Crawford,"
was exactly what he had intended to hear. Mr. Crawford
was not far off; Sir Thomas brought him to her,
saying something which discovered to Fanny, that _she_
was to lead the way and open the ball; an idea that had
never occurred to her before. Whenever she had thought
of the minutiae of the evening, it had been as a matter
of course that Edmund would begin with Miss Crawford;
and the impression was so strong, that though _her_ _uncle_
spoke the contrary, she could not help an exclamation
of surprise, a hint of her unfitness, an entreaty even to
be excused. To be urging her opinion against Sir Thomas's
was a proof of the extremity of the case; but such was her
horror at the first suggestion, that she could actually
look him in the face and say that she hoped it might be
settled otherwise; in vain, however: Sir Thomas smiled,
tried to encourage her, and then looked too serious,
and said too decidedly, "It must be so, my dear," for her
to hazard another word; and she found herself the next
moment conducted by Mr. Crawford to the top of the room,
and standing there to be joined by the rest of the dancers,
couple after couple, as they were formed.
She could hardly believe it. To be placed above so many
elegant young women! The distinction was too great.
It was treating her like her cousins! And her thoughts
flew to those absent cousins with most unfeigned and truly
tender regret, that they were not at home to take their
own place in the room, and have their share of a pleasure
which would have been so very delightful to them.
So often as she had heard them wish for a ball at home
as the greatest of all felicities! And to have them away
when it was given--and for _her_ to be opening the ball--
and with Mr. Crawford too! She hoped they would not envy
her that distinction _now_; but when she looked back
to the state of things in the autumn, to what they had all
been to each other when once dancing in that house before,
the present arrangement was almost more than she could
understand herself.
The ball began. It was rather honour than happiness
to Fanny, for the first dance at least: her partner was
in excellent spirits, and tried to impart them to her;
but she was a great deal too much frightened to have
any enjoyment till she could suppose herself no longer
looked at. Young, pretty, and gentle, however, she had
no awkwardnesses that were not as good as graces,
and there were few persons present that were not disposed
to praise her. She was attractive, she was modest,
she was Sir Thomas's niece, and she was soon said
to be admired by Mr. Crawford. It was enough to give
her general favour. Sir Thomas himself was watching
her progress down the dance with much complacency;
he was proud of his niece; and without attributing
all her personal beauty, as Mrs. Norris seemed to do,
to her transplantation to Mansfield, he was pleased
with himself for having supplied everything else:
education and manners she owed to him.
Miss Crawford saw much of Sir Thomas's thoughts as he stood,
and having, in spite of all his wrongs towards her,
a general prevailing desire of recommending herself to him,
took an opportunity of stepping aside to say something
agreeable of Fanny. Her praise was warm, and he received
it as she could wish, joining in it as far as discretion,
and politeness, and slowness of speech would allow,
and certainly appearing to greater advantage on the subject
than his lady did soon afterwards, when Mary, perceiving her
on a sofa very near, turned round before she began to dance,
to compliment her on Miss Price's looks.
"Yes, she does look very well," was Lady Bertram's placid reply.
"Chapman helped her to dress. I sent Chapman to her."
Not but that she was really pleased to have Fanny admired;
but she was so much more struck with her own kindness
in sending Chapman to her, that she could not get it out
of her head.
Miss Crawford knew Mrs. Norris too well to think of
gratifying _her_ by commendation of Fanny; to her, it was
as the occasion offered--"Ah! ma'am, how much we want dear
Mrs. Rushworth and Julia to-night!" and Mrs. Norris paid
her with as many smiles and courteous words as she had
time for, amid so much occupation as she found for herself
in making up card-tables, giving hints to Sir Thomas,
and trying to move all the chaperons to a better part of the room.
Miss Crawford blundered most towards Fanny herself in her
intentions to please. She meant to be giving her little
heart a happy flutter, and filling her with sensations
of delightful self-consequence; and, misinterpreting Fanny's
blushes, still thought she must be doing so when she
went to her after the two first dances, and said, with a
significant look, "Perhaps _you_ can tell me why my brother
goes to town to-morrow? He says he has business there,
but will not tell me what. The first time he ever denied
me his confidence! But this is what we all come to.
All are supplanted sooner or later. Now, I must apply
to you for information. Pray, what is Henry going for?"
Fanny protested her ignorance as steadily as her
embarrassment allowed.
"Well, then," replied Miss Crawford, laughing, "I must
suppose it to be purely for the pleasure of conveying
your brother, and of talking of you by the way."
Fanny was confused, but it was the confusion of discontent;
while Miss Crawford wondered she did not smile, and thought
her over-anxious, or thought her odd, or thought her anything
rather than insensible of pleasure in Henry's attentions.
Fanny had a good deal of enjoyment in the course of the evening;
but Henry's attentions had very little to do with it.
She would much rather _not_ have been asked by him again
so very soon, and she wished she had not been obliged
to suspect that his previous inquiries of Mrs. Norris,
about the supper hour, were all for the sake of securing her
at that part of the evening. But it was not to be avoided:
he made her feel that she was the object of all; though she
could not say that it was unpleasantly done, that there
was indelicacy or ostentation in his manner; and sometimes,
when he talked of William, he was really not unagreeable,
and shewed even a warmth of heart which did him credit.
But still his attentions made no part of her satisfaction.
She was happy whenever she looked at William, and saw how
perfectly he was enjoying himself, in every five minutes
that she could walk about with him and hear his account
of his partners; she was happy in knowing herself admired;
and she was happy in having the two dances with Edmund still
to look forward to, during the greatest part of the evening,
her hand being so eagerly sought after that her indefinite
engagement with _him_ was in continual perspective.
She was happy even when they did take place; but not from
any flow of spirits on his side, or any such expressions
of tender gallantry as had blessed the morning.
His mind was fagged, and her happiness sprung from
being the friend with whom it could find repose.
"I am worn out with civility," said he. "I have been
talking incessantly all night, and with nothing to say.
But with _you_, Fanny, there may be peace. You will not
want to be talked to. Let us have the luxury of silence."
Fanny would hardly even speak her agreement. A weariness,
arising probably, in great measure, from the same feelings
which he had acknowledged in the morning, was peculiarly
to be respected, and they went down their two dances together
with such sober tranquillity as might satisfy any looker-on
that Sir Thomas had been bringing up no wife for his
younger son.
The evening had afforded Edmund little pleasure. Miss Crawford
had been in gay spirits when they first danced together,
but it was not her gaiety that could do him good:
it rather sank than raised his comfort; and afterwards,
for he found himself still impelled to seek her again,
she had absolutely pained him by her manner of speaking of the
profession to which he was now on the point of belonging.
They had talked, and they had been silent; he had reasoned,
she had ridiculed; and they had parted at last with
mutual vexation. Fanny, not able to refrain entirely from
observing them, had seen enough to be tolerably satisfied.
It was barbarous to be happy when Edmund was suffering.
Yet some happiness must and would arise from the very
conviction that he did suffer.
When her two dances with him were over, her inclination
and strength for more were pretty well at an end;
and Sir Thomas, having seen her walk rather than dance
down the shortening set, breathless, and with her hand at
her side, gave his orders for her sitting down entirely.
From that time Mr. Crawford sat down likewise.
"Poor Fanny!" cried William, coming for a moment to visit her,
and working away his partner's fan as if for life, "how soon
she is knocked up! Why, the sport is but just begun.
I hope we shall keep it up these two hours. How can you
be tired so soon?"
"So soon! my good friend," said Sir Thomas, producing his
watch with all necessary caution; "it is three o'clock,
and your sister is not used to these sort of hours."
"Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before
I go. Sleep as long as you can, and never mind me."
"Oh! William."
"What! Did she think of being up before you set off?"
"Oh! yes, sir," cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat
to be nearer her uncle; "I must get up and breakfast with him.
It will be the last time, you know; the last morning."
"You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be
gone by half-past nine. Mr. Crawford, I think you call
for him at half-past nine?"
Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her
eyes for denial; and it ended in a gracious "Well, well!"
which was permission.
"Yes, half-past nine," said Crawford to William as the
latter was leaving them, "and I shall be punctual,
for there will be no kind sister to get up for _me_."
And in a lower tone to Fanny, "I shall have only a desolate
house to hurry from. Your brother will find my ideas
of time and his own very different to-morrow."
After a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford
to join the early breakfast party in that house
instead of eating alone: he should himself be of it;
and the readiness with which his invitation was accepted
convinced him that the suspicions whence, he must confess
to himself, this very ball had in great measure sprung,
were well founded. Mr. Crawford was in love with Fanny.
He had a pleasing anticipation of what would be. His niece,
meanwhile, did not thank him for what he had just done.
She had hoped to have William all to herself the last morning.
It would have been an unspeakable indulgence. But though
her wishes were overthrown, there was no spirit of murmuring
within her. On the contrary, she was so totally unused
to have her pleasure consulted, or to have anything take
place at all in the way she could desire, that she was more
disposed to wonder and rejoice in having carried her point
so far, than to repine at the counteraction which followed.
Shortly afterward, Sir Thomas was again interfering
a little with her inclination, by advising her to go
immediately to bed. "Advise" was his word, but it
was the advice of absolute power, and she had only
to rise, and, with Mr. Crawford's very cordial adieus,
pass quietly away; stopping at the entrance-door, like
the Lady of Branxholm Hall, "one moment and no more,"
to view the happy scene, and take a last look at the five
or six determined couple who were still hard at work;
and then, creeping slowly up the principal staircase,
pursued by the ceaseless country-dance, feverish with hopes
and fears, soup and negus, sore-footed and fatigued,
restless and agitated, yet feeling, in spite of everything,
that a ball was indeed delightful.
In thus sending her away, Sir Thomas perhaps might not
be thinking merely of her health. It might occur to him
that Mr. Crawford had been sitting by her long enough,
or he might mean to recommend her as a wife by shewing
her persuadableness.
CHAPTER XXIX
The ball was over, and the breakfast was soon over too;
the last kiss was given, and William was gone.
Mr. Crawford had, as he foretold, been very punctual,
and short and pleasant had been the meal.
After seeing William to the last moment, Fanny walked
back to the breakfast-room with a very saddened heart
to grieve over the melancholy change; and there her uncle
kindly left her to cry in peace, conceiving, perhaps,
that the deserted chair of each young man might exercise
her tender enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold pork
bones and mustard in William's plate might but divide
her feelings with the broken egg-shells in Mr. Crawford's.
She sat and cried _con_ _amore_ as her uncle intended,
but it was _con_ _amore_ fraternal and no other.
William was gone, and she now felt as if she had wasted
half his visit in idle cares and selfish solicitudes
unconnected with him.
Fanny's disposition was such that she could never even think
of her aunt Norris in the meagreness and cheerlessness
of her own small house, without reproaching herself
for some little want of attention to her when they had
been last together; much less could her feelings acquit
her of having done and said and thought everything
by William that was due to him for a whole fortnight.
It was a heavy, melancholy day. Soon after the second
breakfast, Edmund bade them good-bye for a week, and mounted
his horse for Peterborough, and then all were gone.
Nothing remained of last night but remembrances, which she
had nobody to share in. She talked to her aunt Bertram--
she must talk to somebody of the ball; but her aunt had seen
so little of what had passed, and had so little curiosity,
that it was heavy work. Lady Bertram was not certain of
anybody's dress or anybody's place at supper but her own.
"She could not recollect what it was that she had heard
about one of the Miss Maddoxes, or what it was that Lady
Prescott had noticed in Fanny: she was not sure whether
Colonel Harrison had been talking of Mr. Crawford or of
William when he said he was the finest young man in the room--
somebody had whispered something to her; she had forgot
to ask Sir Thomas what it could be." And these were her
longest speeches and clearest communications: the rest
was only a languid "Yes, yes; very well; did you? did he?
I did not see _that_; I should not know one from the other."
This was very bad. It was only better than Mrs. Norris's
sharp answers would have been; but she being gone home
with all the supernumerary jellies to nurse a sick maid,
there was peace and good-humour in their little party,
though it could not boast much beside.
The evening was heavy like the day. "I cannot think
what is the matter with me," said Lady Bertram,
when the tea-things were removed. "I feel quite stupid.
It must be sitting up so late last night. Fanny, you must
do something to keep me awake. I cannot work.
Fetch the cards; I feel so very stupid."
The cards were brought, and Fanny played at cribbage
with her aunt till bedtime; and as Sir Thomas was reading
to himself, no sounds were heard in the room for the next
two hours beyond the reckonings of the game--"And _that_
makes thirty-one; four in hand and eight in crib.
You are to deal, ma'am; shall I deal for you?" Fanny thought
and thought again of the difference which twenty-four hours
had made in that room, and all that part of the house.
Last night it had been hope and smiles, bustle and motion,
noise and brilliancy, in the drawing-room, and out of
the drawing-room, and everywhere. Now it was languor,
and all but solitude.
A good night's rest improved her spirits. She could think
of William the next day more cheerfully; and as the morning
afforded her an opportunity of talking over Thursday night
with Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, in a very handsome style,
with all the heightenings of imagination, and all the
laughs of playfulness which are so essential to the shade
of a departed ball, she could afterwards bring her mind
without much effort into its everyday state, and easily
conform to the tranquillity of the present quiet week.
They were indeed a smaller party than she had ever
known there for a whole day together, and _he_ was gone
on whom the comfort and cheerfulness of every family
meeting and every meal chiefly depended. But this must
be learned to be endured. He would soon be always gone;
and she was thankful that she could now sit in the same room
with her uncle, hear his voice, receive his questions,
and even answer them, without such wretched feelings
as she had formerly known.
"We miss our two young men," was Sir Thomas's observation
on both the first and second day, as they formed their
very reduced circle after dinner; and in consideration
of Fanny's swimming eyes, nothing more was said
on the first day than to drink their good health;
but on the second it led to something farther.
William was kindly commended and his promotion hoped for.
"And there is no reason to suppose," added Sir Thomas,
"but that his visits to us may now be tolerably frequent.
As to Edmund, we must learn to do without him.
This will be the last winter of his belonging to us,
as he has done."
"Yes," said Lady Bertram, "but I wish he was not going away.
They are all going away, I think. I wish they would stay
at home."
This wish was levelled principally at Julia, who had
just applied for permission to go to town with Maria;
and as Sir Thomas thought it best for each daughter that the
permission should be granted, Lady Bertram, though in her own
good-nature she would not have prevented it, was lamenting
the change it made in the prospect of Julia's return,
which would otherwise have taken place about this time.
A great deal of good sense followed on Sir Thomas's side,
tending to reconcile his wife to the arrangement.
Everything that a considerate parent _ought_ to feel was
advanced for her use; and everything that an affectionate
mother _must_ feel in promoting her children's enjoyment
was attributed to her nature. Lady Bertram agreed to it
all with a calm "Yes"; and at the end of a quarter of
an hour's silent consideration spontaneously observed,
"Sir Thomas, I have been thinking--and I am very glad we
took Fanny as we did, for now the others are away we feel
the good of it."
Sir Thomas immediately improved this compliment by adding,
"Very true. We shew Fanny what a good girl we think
her by praising her to her face, she is now a very
valuable companion. If we have been kind to _her_,
she is now quite as necessary to _us_."
"Yes," said Lady Bertram presently; "and it is a comfort
to think that we shall always have _her_."
Sir Thomas paused, half smiled, glanced at his niece,
and then gravely replied, "She will never leave us, I hope,
till invited to some other home that may reasonably promise
her greater happiness than she knows here."
"And _that_ is not very likely to be, Sir Thomas.
Who should invite her? Maria might be very glad to see her
at Sotherton now and then, but she would not think of asking
her to live there; and I am sure she is better off here;
and besides, I cannot do without her."
The week which passed so quietly and peaceably at the
great house in Mansfield had a very different character at
the Parsonage. To the young lady, at least, in each family,
it brought very different feelings. What was tranquillity
and comfort to Fanny was tediousness and vexation to Mary.
Something arose from difference of disposition and habit:
one so easily satisfied, the other so unused to endure;
but still more might be imputed to difference
of circumstances. In some points of interest they
were exactly opposed to each other. To Fanny's mind,
Edmund's absence was really, in its cause and its tendency,
a relief. To Mary it was every way painful. She felt
the want of his society every day, almost every hour,
and was too much in want of it to derive anything but
irritation from considering the object for which he went.
He could not have devised anything more likely to raise
his consequence than this week's absence, occurring as
it did at the very time of her brother's going away,
of William Price's going too, and completing the sort
of general break-up of a party which had been so animated.
She felt it keenly. They were now a miserable trio,
confined within doors by a series of rain and snow,
with nothing to do and no variety to hope for. Angry as
she was with Edmund for adhering to his own notions,
and acting on them in defiance of her (and she had been
so angry that they had hardly parted friends at the ball),
she could not help thinking of him continually when absent,
dwelling on his merit and affection, and longing again
for the almost daily meetings they lately had. His absence
was unnecessarily long. He should not have planned such
an absence--he should not have left home for a week,
when her own departure from Mansfield was so near.
Then she began to blame herself. She wished she had not
spoken so warmly in their last conversation. She was afraid
she had used some strong, some contemptuous expressions
in speaking of the clergy, and that should not have been.
It was ill-bred; it was wrong. She wished such words unsaid
with all her heart.
Her vexation did not end with the week. All this was bad,
but she had still more to feel when Friday came round
again and brought no Edmund; when Saturday came and still
no Edmund; and when, through the slight communication
with the other family which Sunday produced, she learned
that he had actually written home to defer his return,
having promised to remain some days longer with his friend.
If she had felt impatience and regret before--if she had
been sorry for what she said, and feared its too strong
effect on him--she now felt and feared it all tenfold more.
She had, moreover, to contend with one disagreeable emotion
entirely new to her--jealousy. His friend Mr. Owen had sisters;
he might find them attractive. But, at any rate, his staying
away at a time when, according to all preceding plans,
she was to remove to London, meant something that she could
not bear. Had Henry returned, as he talked of doing,
at the end of three or four days, she should now have
been leaving Mansfield. It became absolutely necessary
for her to get to Fanny and try to learn something more.
She could not live any longer in such solitary wretchedness;
and she made her way to the Park, through difficulties
of walking which she had deemed unconquerable a week before,
for the chance of hearing a little in addition, for the
sake of at least hearing his name.
The first half-hour was lost, for Fanny and Lady Bertram
were together, and unless she had Fanny to herself she could
hope for nothing. But at last Lady Bertram left the room,
and then almost immediately Miss Crawford thus began,
with a voice as well regulated as she could--"And how do
_you_ like your cousin Edmund's staying away so long?
Being the only young person at home, I consider _you_
as the greatest sufferer. You must miss him. Does his
staying longer surprise you?"
"I do not know," said Fanny hesitatingly. "Yes; I had
not particularly expected it."
"Perhaps he will always stay longer than he talks of.
It is the general way all young men do."
"He did not, the only time he went to see Mr. Owen before."
"He finds the house more agreeable _now_. He is a very--
a very pleasing young man himself, and I cannot help
being rather concerned at not seeing him again before I
go to London, as will now undoubtedly be the case.
I am looking for Henry every day, and as soon as he
comes there will be nothing to detain me at Mansfield.
I should like to have seen him once more, I confess.
But you must give my compliments to him. Yes; I think it must
be compliments. Is not there a something wanted, Miss Price,
in our language--a something between compliments and--
and love--to suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have
had together? So many months' acquaintance! But compliments
may be sufficient here. Was his letter a long one?
Does he give you much account of what he is doing?
Is it Christmas gaieties that he is staying for?"
"I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle;
but I believe it was very short; indeed I am sure it was
but a few lines. All that I heard was that his friend
had pressed him to stay longer, and that he had agreed
to do so. A _few_ days longer, or _some_ days longer;
I am not quite sure which."
"Oh! if he wrote to his father; but I thought it might
have been to Lady Bertram or you. But if he wrote to
his father, no wonder he was concise. Who could write
chat to Sir Thomas? If he had written to you, there would
have been more particulars. You would have heard of
balls and parties. He would have sent you a description
of everything and everybody. How many Miss Owens are there?"
"Three grown up."
"Are they musical?"
"I do not at all know. I never heard."
"That is the first question, you know," said Miss Crawford,
trying to appear gay and unconcerned, "which every
woman who plays herself is sure to ask about another.
But it is very foolish to ask questions about any
young ladies--about any three sisters just grown up;
for one knows, without being told, exactly what they are:
all very accomplished and pleasing, and one very pretty.
There is a beauty in every family; it is a regular thing.
Two play on the pianoforte, and one on the harp;
and all sing, or would sing if they were taught,
or sing all the better for not being taught; or something
like it."
"I know nothing of the Miss Owens," said Fanny calmly.
"You know nothing and you care less, as people say.
Never did tone express indifference plainer. Indeed, how can
one care for those one has never seen? Well, when your
cousin comes back, he will find Mansfield very quiet;
all the noisy ones gone, your brother and mine and myself
I do not like the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant now the time
draws near. She does not like my going."
Fanny felt obliged to speak. "'You cannot doubt your being
missed by many," said she. "You will be very much missed."
Miss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if wanting to hear
or see more, and then laughingly said, "Oh yes! missed
as every noisy evil is missed when it is taken away;
that is, there is a great difference felt. But I am
not fishing; don't compliment me. If I _am_ missed,
it will appear. I may be discovered by those who want
to see me. I shall not be in any doubtful, or distant,
or unapproachable region."
Now Fanny could not bring herself to speak, and Miss
Crawford was disappointed; for she had hoped to hear
some pleasant assurance of her power from one who she
thought must know, and her spirits were clouded again.
"The Miss Owens," said she, soon afterwards; "suppose you
were to have one of the Miss Owens settled at Thornton Lacey;
how should you like it? Stranger things have happened.
I dare say they are trying for it. And they are quite
in the light, for it would be a very pretty establishment
for them. I do not at all wonder or blame them. It is
everybody's duty to do as well for themselves as they can.
Sir Thomas Bertram's son is somebody; and now he is in their
own line. Their father is a clergyman, and their brother
is a clergyman, and they are all clergymen together.
He is their lawful property; he fairly belongs to them.
You don't speak, Fanny; Miss Price, you don't speak.
But honestly now, do not you rather expect it than otherwise?"
"No," said Fanny stoutly, "I do not expect it at all."
"Not at all!" cried Miss Crawford with alacrity.
"I wonder at that. But I dare say you know exactly--
I always imagine you are--perhaps you do not think him
likely to marry at all--or not at present."
"No, I do not," said Fanny softly, hoping she did not err
either in the belief or the acknowledgment of it.
Her companion looked at her keenly; and gathering greater
spirit from the blush soon produced from such a look,
only said, "He is best off as he is," and turned the subject.
CHAPTER XXX
Miss Crawford's uneasiness was much lightened by
this conversation, and she walked home again in spirits
which might have defied almost another week of the same
small party in the same bad weather, had they been put
to the proof; but as that very evening brought her brother
down from London again in quite, or more than quite,
his usual cheerfulness, she had nothing farther to try
her own. His still refusing to tell her what he had gone
for was but the promotion of gaiety; a day before it
might have irritated, but now it was a pleasant joke--
suspected only of concealing something planned as a pleasant
surprise to herself. And the next day _did_ bring a
surprise to her. Henry had said he should just go and ask
the Bertrams how they did, and be back in ten minutes,
but he was gone above an hour; and when his sister,
who had been waiting for him to walk with her in the garden,
met him at last most impatiently in the sweep, and cried out,
"My dear Henry, where can you have been all this time?"
he had only to say that he had been sitting with Lady
Bertram and Fanny.
"Sitting with them an hour and a half!" exclaimed Mary.
But this was only the beginning of her surprise.
"Yes, Mary," said he, drawing her arm within his,
and walking along the sweep as if not knowing where he was:
"I could not get away sooner; Fanny looked so lovely!
I am quite determined, Mary. My mind is entirely made up.
Will it astonish you? No: you must be aware that I am quite
determined to marry Fanny Price."
The surprise was now complete; for, in spite of whatever
his consciousness might suggest, a suspicion of his having
any such views had never entered his sister's imagination;
and she looked so truly the astonishment she felt, that he
was obliged to repeat what he had said, and more fully
and more solemnly. The conviction of his determination
once admitted, it was not unwelcome. There was even
pleasure with the surprise. Mary was in a state of mind
to rejoice in a connexion with the Bertram family,
and to be not displeased with her brother's marrying
a little beneath him.
"Yes, Mary," was Henry's concluding assurance. "I am
fairly caught. You know with what idle designs I began;
but this is the end of them. I have, I flatter myself,
made no inconsiderable progress in her affections;
but my own are entirely fixed."
"Lucky, lucky girl!" cried Mary, as soon as she could speak;
"what a match for her! My dearest Henry, this must
be my _first_ feeling; but my _second_, which you shall
have as sincerely, is, that I approve your choice from
my soul, and foresee your happiness as heartily as I
wish and desire it. You will have a sweet little wife;
all gratitude and devotion. Exactly what you deserve.
What an amazing match for her! Mrs. Norris often talks
of her luck; what will she say now? The delight of all
the family, indeed! And she has some _true_ friends in it!
How _they_ will rejoice! But tell me all about it!
Talk to me for ever. When did you begin to think seriously
about her?"
Nothing could be more impossible than to answer such
a question, though nothing could be more agreeable than
to have it asked. "How the pleasing plague had stolen
on him" he could not say; and before he had expressed
the same sentiment with a little variation of words
three times over, his sister eagerly interrupted him with,
"Ah, my dear Henry, and this is what took you to London!
This was your business! You chose to consult the Admiral
before you made up your mind."
But this he stoutly denied. He knew his uncle too well
to consult him on any matrimonial scheme. The Admiral
hated marriage, and thought it never pardonable in a young
man of independent fortune.
"When Fanny is known to him," continued Henry, "he will doat
on her. She is exactly the woman to do away every prejudice
of such a man as the Admiral, for she he would describe,
if indeed he has now delicacy of language enough to embody
his own ideas. But till it is absolutely settled--
settled beyond all interference, he shall know nothing
of the matter. No, Mary, you are quite mistaken.
You have not discovered my business yet."
"Well, well, I am satisfied. I know now to whom
it must relate, and am in no hurry for the rest.
Fanny Price! wonderful, quite wonderful! That Mansfield
should have done so much for--that _you_ should have
found your fate in Mansfield! But you are quite right;
you could not have chosen better. There is not a better
girl in the world, and you do not want for fortune;
and as to her connexions, they are more than good.
The Bertrams are undoubtedly some of the first people
in this country. She is niece to Sir Thomas Bertram;
that will be enough for the world. But go on, go on.
Tell me more. What are your plans? Does she know her
own happiness?"
"No."
"What are you waiting for?"
"For--for very little more than opportunity. Mary, she is
not like her cousins; but I think I shall not ask in vain."
"Oh no! you cannot. Were you even less pleasing--
supposing her not to love you already (of which,
however, I can have little doubt)--you would be safe.
The gentleness and gratitude of her disposition would
secure her all your own immediately. From my soul I do
not think she would marry you _without_ love; that is,
if there is a girl in the world capable of being uninfluenced
by ambition, I can suppose it her; but ask her to love you,
and she will never have the heart to refuse."
As soon as her eagerness could rest in silence,
he was as happy to tell as she could be to listen;
and a conversation followed almost as deeply interesting
to her as to himself, though he had in fact nothing
to relate but his own sensations, nothing to dwell on
but Fanny's charms. Fanny's beauty of face and figure,
Fanny's graces of manner and goodness of heart, were the
exhaustless theme. The gentleness, modesty, and sweetness
of her character were warmly expatiated on; that sweetness
which makes so essential a part of every woman's worth
in the judgment of man, that though he sometimes loves
where it is not, he can never believe it absent.
Her temper he had good reason to depend on and to praise.
He had often seen it tried. Was there one of the family,
excepting Edmund, who had not in some way or other
continually exercised her patience and forbearance?
Her affections were evidently strong. To see her with
her brother! What could more delightfully prove that
the warmth of her heart was equal to its gentleness?
What could be more encouraging to a man who had her love
in view? Then, her understanding was beyond every suspicion,
quick and clear; and her manners were the mirror of
her own modest and elegant mind. Nor was this all.
Henry Crawford had too much sense not to feel the worth of good
principles in a wife, though he was too little accustomed
to serious reflection to know them by their proper name;
but when he talked of her having such a steadiness
and regularity of conduct, such a high notion of honour,
and such an observance of decorum as might warrant any man
in the fullest dependence on her faith and integrity,
he expressed what was inspired by the knowledge of her
being well principled and religious.
"I could so wholly and absolutely confide in her," said he;
"and _that_ is what I want."
Well might his sister, believing as she really did that his
opinion of Fanny Price was scarcely beyond her merits,
rejoice in her prospects.
"The more I think of it," she cried, "the more am I convinced
that you are doing quite right; and though I should never have
selected Fanny Price as the girl most likely to attach you,
I am now persuaded she is the very one to make you happy.
Your wicked project upon her peace turns out a clever
thought indeed. You will both find your good in it."
"It was bad, very bad in me against such a creature;
but I did not know her then; and she shall have no reason
to lament the hour that first put it into my head.
I will make her very happy, Mary; happier than she has ever
yet been herself, or ever seen anybody else. I will not
take her from Northamptonshire. I shall let Everingham,
and rent a place in this neighbourhood; perhaps Stanwix Lodge.
I shall let a seven years' lease of Everingham.
I am sure of an excellent tenant at half a word.
I could name three people now, who would give me my own
terms and thank me."
"Ha!" cried Mary; "settle in Northamptonshire!
That is pleasant! Then we shall be all together."
When she had spoken it, she recollected herself,
and wished it unsaid; but there was no need of confusion;
for her brother saw her only as the supposed inmate
of Mansfield parsonage, and replied but to invite her
in the kindest manner to his own house, and to claim
the best right in her.
"You must give us more than half your time," said he.
"I cannot admit Mrs. Grant to have an equal claim with
Fanny and myself, for we shall both have a right in you.
Fanny will be so truly your sister!"
Mary had only to be grateful and give general assurances;
but she was now very fully purposed to be the guest of
neither brother nor sister many months longer.
"You will divide your year between London and Northamptonshire?"
"Yes."
"That's right; and in London, of course, a house of
your own: no longer with the Admiral. My dearest Henry,
the advantage to you of getting away from the Admiral
before your manners are hurt by the contagion of his,
before you have contracted any of his foolish opinions,
or learned to sit over your dinner as if it were the best
blessing of life! _You_ are not sensible of the gain,
for your regard for him has blinded you; but, in my estimation,
your marrying early may be the saving of you. To have seen
you grow like the Admiral in word or deed, look or gesture,
would have broken my heart."
"Well, well, we do not think quite alike here.
The Admiral has his faults, but he is a very good man,
and has been more than a father to me. Few fathers would
have let me have my own way half so much. You must
not prejudice Fanny against him. I must have them love
one another."
Mary refrained from saying what she felt, that there could
not be two persons in existence whose characters and manners
were less accordant: time would discover it to him;
but she could not help _this_ reflection on the Admiral.
"Henry, I think so highly of Fanny Price, that if I could
suppose the next Mrs. Crawford would have half the reason
which my poor ill-used aunt had to abhor the very name,
I would prevent the marriage, if possible; but I know you:
I know that a wife you _loved_ would be the happiest
of women, and that even when you ceased to love, she would
yet find in you the liberality and good-breeding of
a gentleman."
The impossibility of not doing everything in the world to
make Fanny Price happy, or of ceasing to love Fanny Price,
was of course the groundwork of his eloquent answer.
"Had you seen her this morning, Mary," he continued,
"attending with such ineffable sweetness and patience to
all the demands of her aunt's stupidity, working with her,
and for her, her colour beautifully heightened as she
leant over the work, then returning to her seat to finish
a note which she was previously engaged in writing
for that stupid woman's service, and all this with such
unpretending gentleness, so much as if it were a matter
of course that she was not to have a moment at her
own command, her hair arranged as neatly as it always is,
and one little curl falling forward as she wrote, which she
now and then shook back, and in the midst of all this,
still speaking at intervals to _me_, or listening,
and as if she liked to listen, to what I said.
Had you seen her so, Mary, you would not have implied
the possibility of her power over my heart ever ceasing."
"My dearest Henry," cried Mary, stopping short, and smiling
in his face, "how glad I am to see you so much in love!
It quite delights me. But what will Mrs. Rushworth and
Julia say?"
"I care neither what they say nor what they feel.
They will now see what sort of woman it is that can attach me,
that can attach a man of sense. I wish the discovery
may do them any good. And they will now see their cousin
treated as she ought to be, and I wish they may be heartily
ashamed of their own abominable neglect and unkindness.
They will be angry," he added, after a moment's silence,
and in a cooler tone; "Mrs. Rushworth will be very angry.
It will be a bitter pill to her; that is, like other
bitter pills, it will have two moments' ill flavour, and then
be swallowed and forgotten; for I am not such a coxcomb
as to suppose her feelings more lasting than other women's,
though _I_ was the object of them. Yes, Mary, my Fanny
will feel a difference indeed: a daily, hourly difference,
in the behaviour of every being who approaches her;
and it will be the completion of my happiness to know
that I am the doer of it, that I am the person to give
the consequence so justly her due. Now she is dependent,
helpless, friendless, neglected, forgotten."
"Nay, Henry, not by all; not forgotten by all; not friendless
or forgotten. Her cousin Edmund never forgets her."
"Edmund! True, I believe he is, generally speaking,
kind to her, and so is Sir Thomas in his way; but it is
the way of a rich, superior, long-worded, arbitrary uncle.
What can Sir Thomas and Edmund together do, what do they
_do_ for her happiness, comfort, honour, and dignity in
the world, to what I _shall_ do?"
CHAPTER XXXI
Henry Crawford was at Mansfield Park again the next morning,
and at an earlier hour than common visiting warrants.
The two ladies were together in the breakfast-room, and,
fortunately for him, Lady Bertram was on the very point
of quitting it as he entered. She was almost at the door,
and not chusing by any means to take so much trouble in vain,
she still went on, after a civil reception, a short sentence
about being waited for, and a "Let Sir Thomas know"
to the servant.
Henry, overjoyed to have her go, bowed and watched her off,
and without losing another moment, turned instantly to Fanny,
and, taking out some letters, said, with a most animated look,
"I must acknowledge myself infinitely obliged to any creature
who gives me such an opportunity of seeing you alone:
I have been wishing it more than you can have any idea.
Knowing as I do what your feelings as a sister are, I could
hardly have borne that any one in the house should share
with you in the first knowledge of the news I now bring.
He is made. Your brother is a lieutenant. I have
the infinite satisfaction of congratulating you on your
brother's promotion. Here are the letters which announce it,
this moment come to hand. You will, perhaps, like to see them."
Fanny could not speak, but he did not want her to speak.
To see the expression of her eyes, the change
of her complexion, the progress of her feelings,
their doubt, confusion, and felicity, was enough.
She took the letters as he gave them. The first was
from the Admiral to inform his nephew, in a few words,
of his having succeeded in the object he had undertaken,
the promotion of young Price, and enclosing two more,
one from the Secretary of the First Lord to a friend,
whom the Admiral had set to work in the business,
the other from that friend to himself, by which it
appeared that his lordship had the very great happiness
of attending to the recommendation of Sir Charles;
that Sir Charles was much delighted in having such an
opportunity of proving his regard for Admiral Crawford,
and that the circumstance of Mr. William Price's commission
as Second Lieutenant of H.M. Sloop Thrush being made
out was spreading general joy through a wide circle
of great people.
While her hand was trembling under these letters,
her eye running from one to the other, and her heart
swelling with emotion, Crawford thus continued,
with unfeigned eagerness, to express his interest in the event--
"I will not talk of my own happiness," said he, "great as
it is, for I think only of yours. Compared with you,
who has a right to be happy? I have almost grudged myself
my own prior knowledge of what you ought to have known
before all the world. I have not lost a moment, however.
The post was late this morning, but there has not been
since a moment's delay. How impatient, how anxious,
how wild I have been on the subject, I will not attempt
to describe; how severely mortified, how cruelly disappointed,
in not having it finished while I was in London!
I was kept there from day to day in the hope of it,
for nothing less dear to me than such an object would
have detained me half the time from Mansfield.
But though my uncle entered into my wishes with all the
warmth I could desire, and exerted himself immediately,
there were difficulties from the absence of one friend,
and the engagements of another, which at last I could no longer
bear to stay the end of, and knowing in what good hands I
left the cause, I came away on Monday, trusting that many
posts would not pass before I should be followed by such
very letters as these. My uncle, who is the very best man
in the world, has exerted himself, as I knew he would,
after seeing your brother. He was delighted with him.
I would not allow myself yesterday to say how delighted,
or to repeat half that the Admiral said in his praise.
I deferred it all till his praise should be proved
the praise of a friend, as this day _does_ prove it.
_Now_ I may say that even I could not require William
Price to excite a greater interest, or be followed
by warmer wishes and higher commendation, than were most
voluntarily bestowed by my uncle after the evening they had
passed together."
"Has this been all _your_ doing, then?" cried Fanny.
"Good heaven! how very, very kind! Have you really--
was it by _your_ desire? I beg your pardon, but I
am bewildered. Did Admiral Crawford apply? How was it?
I am stupefied."
Henry was most happy to make it more intelligible,
by beginning at an earlier stage, and explaining very
particularly what he had done. His last journey to London
had been undertaken with no other view than that of
introducing her brother in Hill Street, and prevailing
on the Admiral to exert whatever interest he might
have for getting him on. This had been his business.
He had communicated it to no creature: he had not
breathed a syllable of it even to Mary; while uncertain
of the issue, he could not have borne any participation
of his feelings, but this had been his business; and he
spoke with such a glow of what his solicitude had been,
and used such strong expressions, was so abounding
in the _deepest_ _interest_, in _twofold_ _motives_,
in _views_ _and_ _wishes_ _more_ _than_ _could_ _be_ _told_,
that Fanny could not have remained insensible of his drift,
had she been able to attend; but her heart was so full
and her senses still so astonished, that she could listen
but imperfectly even to what he told her of William,
and saying only when he paused, "How kind! how very kind!
Oh, Mr. Crawford, we are infinitely obliged to you!
Dearest, dearest William!" She jumped up and moved in haste
towards the door, crying out, "I will go to my uncle.
My uncle ought to know it as soon as possible." But this
could not be suffered. The opportunity was too fair,
and his feelings too impatient. He was after her immediately.
"She must not go, she must allow him five minutes longer,"
and he took her hand and led her back to her seat,
and was in the middle of his farther explanation,
before she had suspected for what she was detained.
When she did understand it, however, and found herself
expected to believe that she had created sensations which
his heart had never known before, and that everything
he had done for William was to be placed to the account
of his excessive and unequalled attachment to her,
she was exceedingly distressed, and for some moments
unable to speak. She considered it all as nonsense,
as mere trifling and gallantry, which meant only to deceive
for the hour; she could not but feel that it was treating
her improperly and unworthily, and in such a way as she
had not deserved; but it was like himself, and entirely
of a piece with what she had seen before; and she would
not allow herself to shew half the displeasure she felt,
because he had been conferring an obligation, which no
want of delicacy on his part could make a trifle to her.
While her heart was still bounding with joy and gratitude
on William's behalf, she could not be severely resentful
of anything that injured only herself; and after having
twice drawn back her hand, and twice attempted in vain
to turn away from him, she got up, and said only,
with much agitation, "Don't, Mr. Crawford, pray don't! I
beg you would not. This is a sort of talking which is very
unpleasant to me. I must go away. I cannot bear it."
But he was still talking on, describing his affection,
soliciting a return, and, finally, in words so plain
as to bear but one meaning even to her, offering himself,
hand, fortune, everything, to her acceptance. It was so;
he had said it. Her astonishment and confusion increased;
and though still not knowing how to suppose him serious,
she could hardly stand. He pressed for an answer.
"No, no, no!" she cried, hiding her face. "This is all nonsense.
Do not distress me. I can hear no more of this.
Your kindness to William makes me more obliged to you
than words can express; but I do not want, I cannot bear,
I must not listen to such--No, no, don't think of me.
But you are _not_ thinking of me. I know it is all nothing."
She had burst away from him, and at that moment Sir Thomas
was heard speaking to a servant in his way towards the room
they were in. It was no time for farther assurances
or entreaty, though to part with her at a moment when her
modesty alone seemed, to his sanguine and preassured mind,
to stand in the way of the happiness he sought, was a
cruel necessity. She rushed out at an opposite door
from the one her uncle was approaching, and was walking
up and down the East room ill the utmost confusion
of contrary feeling, before Sir Thomas's politeness
or apologies were over, or he had reached the beginning
of the joyful intelligence which his visitor came to communicate.
She was feeling, thinking, trembling about everything;
agitated, happy, miserable, infinitely obliged,
absolutely angry. It was all beyond belief!
He was inexcusable, incomprehensible! But such were
his habits that he could do nothing without a mixture
of evil. He had previously made her the happiest
of human beings, and now he had insulted--she knew
not what to say, how to class, or how to regard it.
She would not have him be serious, and yet what could
excuse the use of such words and offers, if they meant but to
trifle?
But William was a lieutenant. _That_ was a fact beyond
a doubt, and without an alloy. She would think of it
for ever and forget all the rest. Mr. Crawford would
certainly never address her so again: he must have
seen how unwelcome it was to her; and in that case,
how gratefully she could esteem him for his friendship
to William!
She would not stir farther from the East room than
the head of the great staircase, till she had satisfied
herself of Mr. Crawford's having left the house;
but when convinced of his being gone, she was eager to go
down and be with her uncle, and have all the happiness
of his joy as well as her own, and all the benefit
of his information or his conjectures as to what would
now be William's destination. Sir Thomas was as joyful
as she could desire, and very kind and communicative;
and she had so comfortable a talk with him about William
as to make her feel as if nothing had occurred to vex her,
till she found, towards the close, that Mr. Crawford
was engaged to return and dine there that very day.
This was a most unwelcome hearing, for though he might
think nothing of what had passed, it would be quite
distressing to her to see him again so soon.
She tried to get the better of it; tried very hard,
as the dinner hour approached, to feel and appear as usual;
but it was quite impossible for her not to look most shy
and uncomfortable when their visitor entered the room.
She could not have supposed it in the power of any concurrence
of circumstances to give her so many painful sensations on
the first day of hearing of William's promotion.
Mr. Crawford was not only in the room--he was soon close
to her. He had a note to deliver from his sister.
Fanny could not look at him, but there was no consciousness
of past folly in his voice. She opened her note immediately,
glad to have anything to do, and happy, as she read it,
to feel that the fidgetings of her aunt Norris, who was
also to dine there, screened her a little from view.
"My dear Fanny,--for so I may now always call you,
to the infinite relief of a tongue that has been stumbling
at _Miss_ _Price_ for at least the last six weeks--
I cannot let my brother go without sending you a few lines
of general congratulation, and giving my most joyful consent
and approval. Go on, my dear Fanny, and without fear;
there can be no difficulties worth naming. I chuse to
suppose that the assurance of my consent will be something;
so you may smile upon him with your sweetest smiles
this afternoon, and send him back to me even happier
than he goes.--Yours affectionately, M. C."
These were not expressions to do Fanny any good;
for though she read in too much haste and confusion
to form the clearest judgment of Miss Crawford's meaning,
it was evident that she meant to compliment her on her
brother's attachment, and even to _appear_ to believe
it serious. She did not know what to do, or what to think.
There was wretchedness in the idea of its being serious;
there was perplexity and agitation every way.
She was distressed whenever Mr. Crawford spoke to her,
and he spoke to her much too often; and she was afraid
there was a something in his voice and manner in addressing
her very different from what they were when he talked
to the others. Her comfort in that day's dinner
was quite destroyed: she could hardly eat anything;
and when Sir Thomas good-humouredly observed that joy had
taken away her appetite, she was ready to sink with shame,
from the dread of Mr. Crawford's interpretation;
for though nothing could have tempted her to turn her eyes
to the right hand, where he sat, she felt that _his_
were immediately directed towards her.
She was more silent than ever. She would hardly join
even when William was the subject, for his commission
came all from the right hand too, and there was pain
in the connexion.
She thought Lady Bertram sat longer than ever, and began
to be in despair of ever getting away; but at last they
were in the drawing-room, and she was able to think
as she would, while her aunts finished the subject
of William's appointment in their own style.
Mrs. Norris seemed as much delighted with the saving
it would be to Sir Thomas as with any part of it.
"_Now_ William would be able to keep himself, which would
make a vast difference to his uncle, for it was unknown
how much he had cost his uncle; and, indeed, it would make
some difference in _her_ presents too. She was very glad
that she had given William what she did at parting,
very glad, indeed, that it had been in her power,
without material inconvenience, just at that time to give
him something rather considerable; that is, for_her_,
with _her_ limited means, for now it would all be useful
in helping to fit up his cabin. She knew he must be at
some expense, that he would have many things to buy,
though to be sure his father and mother would be able
to put him in the way of getting everything very cheap;
but she was very glad she had contributed her mite
towards it."
"I am glad you gave him something considerable,"
said Lady Bertram, with most unsuspicious calmness,
"for _I_ gave him only 10."
"Indeed!" cried Mrs. Norris, reddening. "Upon my word,
he must have gone off with his pockets 1 well lined,
and at no expense for his journey to London either!"
"Sir Thomas told me 10 would be enough."
Mrs. Norris, being not at all inclined to question
its sufficiency, began to take the matter in another point.
"It is amazing," said she, "how much young people cost
their friends, what with bringing them up and putting them
out in the world! They little think how much it comes to,
or what their parents, or their uncles and aunts, pay for
them in the course of the year. Now, here are my sister
Price's children; take them all together, I dare say nobody
would believe what a sum they cost Sir Thomas every year,
to say nothing of what _I_ do for them."
"Very true, sister, as you say. But, poor things!
they cannot help it; and you know it makes very little
difference to Sir Thomas. Fanny, William must not forget
my shawl if he goes to the East Indies; and I shall give
him a commission for anything else that is worth having.
I wish he may go to the East Indies, that I may have my shawl.
I think I will have two shawls, Fanny."
Fanny, meanwhile, speaking only when she could not help it,
was very earnestly trying to understand what Mr. and Miss
Crawford were at. There was everything in the world
_against_ their being serious but his words and manner.
Everything natural, probable, reasonable, was against it;
all their habits and ways of thinking, and all
her own demerits. How could _she_ have excited
serious attachment in a man who had seen so many,
and been admired by so many, and flirted with so many,
infinitely her superiors; who seemed so little open
to serious impressions, even where pains had been taken
to please him; who thought so slightly, so carelessly,
so unfeelingly on all such points; who was everything
to everybody, and seemed to find no one essential to him?
And farther, how could it be supposed that his sister,
with all her high and worldly notions of matrimony,
would be forwarding anything of a serious nature in such
a quarter? Nothing could be more unnatural in either.
Fanny was ashamed of her own doubts. Everything might
be possible rather than serious attachment, or serious
approbation of it toward her. She had quite convinced herself
of this before Sir Thomas and Mr. Crawford joined them.
The difficulty was in maintaining the conviction quite
so absolutely after Mr. Crawford was in the room;
for once or twice a look seemed forced on her which she
did not know how to class among the common meaning;
in any other man, at least, she would have said
that it meant something very earnest, very pointed.
But she still tried to believe it no more than what he
might often have expressed towards her cousins and fifty
other women.
She thought he was wishing to speak to her unheard
by the rest. She fancied he was trying for it the
whole evening at intervals, whenever Sir Thomas was
out of the room, or at all engaged with Mrs. Norris,
and she carefully refused him every opportunity.
At last--it seemed an at last to Fanny's nervousness,
though not remarkably late--he began to talk of going away;
but the comfort of the sound was impaired by his turning
to her the next moment, and saying, "Have you nothing to send
to Mary? No answer to her note? She will be disappointed
if she receives nothing from you. Pray write to her,
if it be only a line."
"Oh yes! certainly," cried Fanny, rising in haste,
the haste of embarrassment and of wanting to get away--
"I will write directly."
She went accordingly to the table, where she was in the
habit of writing for her aunt, and prepared her materials
without knowing what in the world to say. She had read
Miss Crawford's note only once, and how to reply to
anything so imperfectly understood was most distressing.
Quite unpractised in such sort of note-writing, had
there been time for scruples and fears as to style she
would have felt them in abundance: but something must
be instantly written; and with only one decided feeling,
that of wishing not to appear to think anything really intended,
she wrote thus, in great trembling both of spirits and hand--
"I am very much obliged to you, my dear Miss Crawford,
for your kind congratulations, as far as they relate to my
dearest William. The rest of your note I know means nothing;
but I am so unequal to anything of the sort, that I hope
you will excuse my begging you to take no farther notice.
I have seen too much of Mr. Crawford not to understand
his manners; if he understood me as well, he would,
I dare say, behave differently. I do not know what I write,
but it would be a great favour of you never to mention
the subject again. With thanks for the honour of your note,
I remain, dear Miss Crawford, etc., etc."
The conclusion was scarcely intelligible from increasing
fright, for she found that Mr. Crawford, under pretence
of receiving the note, was coming towards her.
"You cannot think I mean to hurry you," said he,
in an undervoice, perceiving the amazing trepidation
with which she made up the note, "you cannot think
I have any such object. Do not hurry yourself, I entreat."
"Oh! I thank you; I have quite done, just done; it will
be ready in a moment; I am very much obliged to you;
if you will be so good as to give _that_ to Miss Crawford."
The note was held out, and must be taken; and as she
instantly and with averted eyes walked towards the fireplace,
where sat the others, he had nothing to do but to go
in good earnest.
Fanny thought she had never known a day of greater agitation,
both of pain and pleasure; but happily the pleasure
was not of a sort to die with the day; for every day
would restore the knowledge of William's advancement,
whereas the pain, she hoped, would return no more.
She had no doubt that her note must appear excessively
ill-written, that the language would disgrace a child,
for her distress had allowed no arrangement; but at least
it would assure them both of her being neither imposed
on nor gratified by Mr. Crawford's attentions.
CHAPTER XXXII
Fanny had by no means forgotten Mr. Crawford when she
awoke the next morning; but she remembered the purport
of her note, and was not less sanguine as to its effect
than she had been the night before. If Mr. Crawford would
but go away! That was what she most earnestly desired:
go and take his sister with him, as he was to do,
and as he returned to Mansfield on purpose to do.
And why it was not done already she could not devise,
for Miss Crawford certainly wanted no delay. Fanny had hoped,
in the course of his yesterday's visit, to hear the day named;
but he had only spoken of their journey as what would take
place ere long.
Having so satisfactorily settled the conviction her note
would convey, she could not but be astonished to see
Mr. Crawford, as she accidentally did, coming up to the
house again, and at an hour as early as the day before.
His coming might have nothing to do with her, but she
must avoid seeing him if possible; and being then
on her way upstairs, she resolved there to remain,
during the whole of his visit, unless actually sent for;
and as Mrs. Norris was still in the house, there seemed
little danger of her being wanted.
She sat some time in a good deal of agitation, listening,
trembling, and fearing to be sent for every moment;
but as no footsteps approached the East room, she grew
gradually composed, could sit down, and be able to
employ herself, and able to hope that Mr. Crawford had come
and would go without her being obliged to know anything of the
matter.
Nearly half an hour had passed, and she was growing
very comfortable, when suddenly the sound of a step
in regular approach was heard; a heavy step, an unusual
step in that part of the house: it was her uncle's;
she knew it as well as his voice; she had trembled at it
as often, and began to tremble again, at the idea of his
coming up to speak to her, whatever might be the subject.
It was indeed Sir Thomas who opened the door and asked
if she were there, and if he might come in. The terror
of his former occasional visits to that room seemed
all renewed, and she felt as if he were going to examine
her again in French and English.
She was all attention, however, in placing a chair for him,
and trying to appear honoured; and, in her agitation,
had quite overlooked the deficiencies of her apartment, till he,
stopping short as he entered, said, with much surprise,
"Why have you no fire to-day?"
There was snow on the ground, and she was sitting in a shawl.
She hesitated.
"I am not cold, sir: I never sit here long at this time
of year."
"But you have a fire in general?"
"No, sir."
"How comes this about? Here must be some mistake.
I understood that you had the use of this room by way
of making you perfectly comfortable. In your bedchamber
I know you _cannot_ have a fire. Here is some great
misapprehension which must be rectified. It is highly
unfit for you to sit, be it only half an hour a day,
without a fire. You are not strong. You are chilly.
Your aunt cannot be aware of this."
Fanny would rather have been silent; but being obliged
to speak, she could not forbear, in justice to the aunt
she loved best, from saying something in which the words
"my aunt Norris" were distinguishable.
"I understand," cried her uncle, recollecting himself,
and not wanting to hear more: "I understand. Your aunt
Norris has always been an advocate, and very judiciously,
for young people's being brought up without unnecessary
indulgences; but there should be moderation in everything.
She is also very hardy herself, which of course will
influence her in her opinion of the wants of others.
And on another account, too, I can perfectly comprehend.
I know what her sentiments have always been.
The principle was good in itself, but it may have been,
and I believe _has_ _been_, carried too far in your case.
I am aware that there has been sometimes, in some points,
a misplaced distinction; but I think too well of you, Fanny,
to suppose you will ever harbour resentment on that account.
You have an understanding which will prevent you from
receiving things only in part, and judging partially
by the event. You will take in the whole of the past,
you will consider times, persons, and probabilities,
and you will feel that _they_ were not least your
friends who were educating and preparing you for that
mediocrity of condition which _seemed_ to be your lot.
Though their caution may prove eventually unnecessary,
it was kindly meant; and of this you may be assured,
that every advantage of affluence will be doubled by the little
privations and restrictions that may have been imposed.
I am sure you will not disappoint my opinion of you,
by failing at any time to treat your aunt Norris
with the respect and attention that are due to her.
But enough of this. Sit down, my dear. I must speak
to you for a few minutes, but I will not detain
you long."
Fanny obeyed, with eyes cast down and colour rising.
After a moment's pause, Sir Thomas, trying to suppress
a smile, went on.
"You are not aware, perhaps, that I have had a visitor
this morning. I had not been long in my own room,
after breakfast, when Mr. Crawford was shewn in.
His errand you may probably conjecture."
Fanny's colour grew deeper and deeper; and her uncle,
perceiving that she was embarrassed to a degree that
made either speaking or looking up quite impossible,
turned away his own eyes, and without any farther pause
proceeded in his account of Mr. Crawford's visit.
Mr. Crawford's business had been to declare himself
the lover of Fanny, make decided proposals for her,
and entreat the sanction of the uncle, who seemed to stand
in the place of her parents; and he had done it all so well,
so openly, so liberally, so properly, that Sir Thomas,
feeling, moreover, his own replies, and his own remarks
to have been very much to the purpose, was exceedingly
happy to give the particulars of their conversation;
and little aware of what was passing in his niece's mind,
conceived that by such details he must be gratifying her
far more than himself. He talked, therefore, for several
minutes without Fanny's daring to interrupt him.
She had hardly even attained the wish to do it. Her mind
was in too much confusion. She had changed her position;
and, with her eyes fixed intently on one of the windows,
was listening to her uncle in the utmost perturbation
and dismay. For a moment he ceased, but she had barely
become conscious of it, when, rising from his chair, he said,
"And now, Fanny, having performed one part of my commission,
and shewn you everything placed on a basis the most assured
and satisfactory, I may execute the remainder by prevailing
on you to accompany me downstairs, where, though I cannot
but presume on having been no unacceptable companion myself,
I must submit to your finding one still better worth
listening to. Mr. Crawford, as you have perhaps foreseen,
is yet in the house. He is in my room, and hoping to see
you there."
There was a look, a start, an exclamation on hearing this,
which astonished Sir Thomas; but what was his increase of
astonishment on hearing her exclaim--"Oh! no, sir, I cannot,
indeed I cannot go down to him. Mr. Crawford ought to know--
he must know that: I told him enough yesterday to convince him;
he spoke to me on this subject yesterday, and I told him
without disguise that it was very disagreeable to me,
and quite out of my power to return his good opinion."
"I do not catch your meaning," said Sir Thomas, sitting
down again. "Out of your power to return his good opinion?
What is all this? I know he spoke to you yesterday,
and (as far as I understand) received as much encouragement
to proceed as a well-judging young woman could permit
herself to give. I was very much pleased with what I
collected to have been your behaviour on the occasion;
it shewed a discretion highly to be commended. But now,
when he has made his overtures so properly, and honourably--
what are your scruples _now_?"
"You are mistaken, sir," cried Fanny, forced by the anxiety
of the moment even to tell her uncle that he was wrong;
"you are quite mistaken. How could Mr. Crawford say
such a thing? I gave him no encouragement yesterday.
On the contrary, I told him, I cannot recollect my exact words,
but I am sure I told him that I would not listen to him,
that it was very unpleasant to me in every respect, and that
I begged him never to talk to me in that manner again.
I am sure I said as much as that and more; and I should
have said still more, if I had been quite certain of his
meaning anything seriously; but I did not like to be,
I could not bear to be, imputing more than might be intended.
I thought it might all pass for nothing with _him_."
She could say no more; her breath was almost gone.
"Am I to understand," said Sir Thomas, after a few moments'
silence, "that you mean to _refuse_ Mr. Crawford?"
"Yes, sir."
"Refuse him?"
"Yes, sir."
"Refuse Mr. Crawford! Upon what plea? For what reason?"
"I--I cannot like him, sir, well enough to marry him."
"This is very strange!" said Sir Thomas, in a voice of
calm displeasure. "There is something in this which my
comprehension does not reach. Here is a young man wishing
to pay his addresses to you, with everything to recommend him:
not merely situation in life, fortune, and character,
but with more than common agreeableness, with address
and conversation pleasing to everybody. And he is not an
acquaintance of to-day; you have now known him some time.
His sister, moreover, is your intimate friend, and he has
been doing _that_ for your brother, which I should suppose
would have been almost sufficient recommendation to you,
had there been no other. It is very uncertain when my
interest might have got William on. He has done it already."
"Yes," said Fanny, in a faint voice, and looking down
with fresh shame; and she did feel almost ashamed
of herself, after such a picture as her uncle had drawn,
for not liking Mr. Crawford.
"You must have been aware," continued Sir Thomas presently,
"you must have been some time aware of a particularity
in Mr. Crawford's manners to you. This cannot have taken
you by surprise. You must have observed his attentions;
and though you always received them very properly (I have
no accusation to make on that head), I never perceived them
to be unpleasant to you. I am half inclined to think,
Fanny, that you do not quite know your own feelings."
"Oh yes, sir! indeed I do. His attentions were always--
what I did not like."
Sir Thomas looked at her with deeper surprise.
"This is beyond me," said he. "This requires explanation.
Young as you are, and having seen scarcely any one,
it is hardly possible that your affections--"
He paused and eyed her fixedly. He saw her lips
formed into a _no_, though the sound was inarticulate,
but her face was like scarlet. That, however, in so
modest a girl, might be very compatible with innocence;
and chusing at least to appear satisfied, he quickly added,
"No, no, I know _that_ is quite out of the question;
quite impossible. Well, there is nothing more to be said."
And for a few minutes he did say nothing. He was deep
in thought. His niece was deep in thought likewise, trying to
harden and prepare herself against farther questioning.
She would rather die than own the truth; and she hoped,
by a little reflection, to fortify herself beyond
betraying it.
"Independently of the interest which Mr. Crawford's _choice_
seemed to justify" said Sir Thomas, beginning again,
and very composedly, "his wishing to marry at all so
early is recommendatory to me. I am an advocate for
early marriages, where there are means in proportion,
and would have every young man, with a sufficient income,
settle as soon after four-and-twenty as he can. This is
so much my opinion, that I am sorry to think how little
likely my own eldest son, your cousin, Mr. Bertram,
is to marry early; but at present, as far as I can judge,
matrimony makes no part of his plans or thoughts.
I wish he were more likely to fix." Here was a glance
at Fanny. "Edmund, I consider, from his dispositions
and habits, as much more likely to marry early than
his brother. _He_, indeed, I have lately thought,
has seen the woman he could love, which, I am convinced,
my eldest son has not. Am I right? Do you agree with me,
my dear?"
"Yes, sir."
It was gently, but it was calmly said, and Sir Thomas was
easy on the score of the cousins. But the removal of his
alarm did his niece no service: as her unaccountableness
was confirmed his displeasure increased; and getting up
and walking about the room with a frown, which Fanny could
picture to herself, though she dared not lift up her eyes,
he shortly afterwards, and in a voice of authority, said,
"Have you any reason, child, to think ill of Mr. Crawford's
temper?"
"No, sir."
She longed to add, "But of his principles I have"; but her
heart sunk under the appalling prospect of discussion,
explanation, and probably non-conviction. Her ill opinion
of him was founded chiefly on observations, which,
for her cousins' sake, she could scarcely dare mention
to their father. Maria and Julia, and especially Maria,
were so closely implicated in Mr. Crawford's misconduct,
that she could not give his character, such as she
believed it, without betraying them. She had hoped that,
to a man like her uncle, so discerning, so honourable,
so good, the simple acknowledgment of settled _dislike_
on her side would have been sufficient. To her infinite
grief she found it was not.
Sir Thomas came towards the table where she sat
in trembling wretchedness, and with a good deal of
cold sternness, said, "It is of no use, I perceive,
to talk to you. We had better put an end to this
most mortifying conference. Mr. Crawford must not be
kept longer waiting. I will, therefore, only add,
as thinking it my duty to mark my opinion of your conduct,
that you have disappointed every expectation I had formed,
and proved yourself of a character the very reverse
of what I had supposed. For I _had_, Fanny, as I think
my behaviour must have shewn, formed a very favourable
opinion of you from the period of my return to England.
I had thought you peculiarly free from wilfulness of temper,
self-conceit, and every tendency to that independence
of spirit which prevails so much in modern days,
even in young women, and which in young women is offensive
and disgusting beyond all common offence. But you
have now shewn me that you can be wilful and perverse;
that you can and will decide for yourself, without any
consideration or deference for those who have surely some
right to guide you, without even asking their advice.
You have shewn yourself very, very different from anything
that I had imagined. The advantage or disadvantage of
your family, of your parents, your brothers and sisters,
never seems to have had a moment's share in your thoughts
on this occasion. How _they_ might be benefited,
how _they_ must rejoice in such an establishment for you,
is nothing to _you_. You think only of yourself,
and because you do not feel for Mr. Crawford exactly what a
young heated fancy imagines to be necessary for happiness,
you resolve to refuse him at once, without wishing
even for a little time to consider of it, a little more
time for cool consideration, and for really examining
your own inclinations; and are, in a wild fit of folly,
throwing away from you such an opportunity of being
settled in life, eligibly, honourably, nobly settled,
as will, probably, never occur to you again. Here is a
young man of sense, of character, of temper, of manners,
and of fortune, exceedingly attached to you, and seeking
your hand in the most handsome and disinterested way;
and let me tell you, Fanny, that you may live eighteen years
longer in the world without being addressed by a man of half
Mr. Crawford's estate, or a tenth part of his merits.
Gladly would I have bestowed either of my own daughters
on him. Maria is nobly married; but had Mr. Crawford
sought Julia's hand, I should have given it to him with
superior and more heartfelt satisfaction than I gave
Maria's to Mr. Rushworth." After half a moment's pause:
"And I should have been very much surprised had either
of my daughters, on receiving a proposal of marriage at any
time which might carry with it only _half_ the eligibility
of _this_, immediately and peremptorily, and without paying
my opinion or my regard the compliment of any consultation,
put a decided negative on it. I should have been much
surprised and much hurt by such a proceeding. I should
have thought it a gross violation of duty and respect.
_You_ are not to be judged by the same rule. You do not
owe me the duty of a child. But, Fanny, if your heart
can acquit you of _ingratitude_--"
He ceased. Fanny was by this time crying so bitterly that,
angry as he was, he would not press that article farther.
Her heart was almost broke by such a picture of what
she appeared to him; by such accusations, so heavy,
so multiplied, so rising in dreadful gradation!
Self-willed, obstinate, selfish, and ungrateful.
He thought her all this. She had deceived his expectations;
she had lost his good opinion. What was to become
of her?
"I am very sorry," said she inarticulately, through her tears,
"I am very sorry indeed."
"Sorry! yes, I hope you are sorry; and you will probably
have reason to be long sorry for this day's transactions."
"If it were possible for me to do otherwise" said she,
with another strong effort; "but I am so perfectly
convinced that I could never make him happy, and that I
should be miserable myself."
Another burst of tears; but in spite of that burst,
and in spite of that great black word _miserable_,
which served to introduce it, Sir Thomas began to think
a little relenting, a little change of inclination,
might have something to do with it; and to augur favourably
from the personal entreaty of the young man himself.
He knew her to be very timid, and exceedingly nervous;
and thought it not improbable that her mind might be
in such a state as a little time, a little pressing,
a little patience, and a little impatience, a judicious
mixture of all on the lover's side, might work their
usual effect on. If the gentleman would but persevere,
if he had but love enough to persevere, Sir Thomas began
to have hopes; and these reflections having passed across
his mind and cheered it, "Well," said he, in a tone
of becoming gravity, but of less anger, "well, child,
dry up your tears. There is no use in these tears;
they can do no good. You must now come downstairs with me.
Mr. Crawford has been kept waiting too long already.
You must give him your own answer: we cannot expect him
to be satisfied with less; and you only can explain to him
the grounds of that misconception of your sentiments, which,
unfortunately for himself, he certainly has imbibed. I am
totally unequal to it."
But Fanny shewed such reluctance, such misery, at the
idea of going down to him, that Sir Thomas, after a
little consideration, judged it better to indulge her.
His hopes from both gentleman and lady suffered a small
depression in consequence; but when he looked at his niece,
and saw the state of feature and complexion which her
crying had brought her into, he thought there might
be as much lost as gained by an immediate interview.
With a few words, therefore, of no particular meaning,
he walked off by himself, leaving his poor niece to sit
and cry over what had passed, with very wretched feelings
Her mind was all disorder. The past, present, future,
everything was terrible. But her uncle's anger gave
her the severest pain of all. Selfish and ungrateful!
to have appeared so to him! She was miserable for ever.
She had no one to take her part, to counsel, or speak
for her. Her only friend was absent. He might have
softened his father; but all, perhaps all, would think
her selfish and ungrateful. She might have to endure
the reproach again and again; she might hear it, or see it,
or know it to exist for ever in every connexion about her.
She could not but feel some resentment against Mr. Crawford;
yet, if he really loved her, and were unhappy too!
It was all wretchedness together.
In about a quarter of an hour her uncle returned;
she was almost ready to faint at the sight of him.
He spoke calmly, however, without austerity, without reproach,
and she revived a little. There was comfort, too,
in his words, as well as his manner, for he began with,
"Mr. Crawford is gone: he has just left me. I need not
repeat what has passed. I do not want to add to anything
you may now be feeling, by an account of what he has felt.
Suffice it, that he has behaved in the most gentlemanlike
and generous manner, and has confirmed me in a most
favourable opinion of his understanding, heart, and temper.
Upon my representation of what you were suffering,
he immediately, and with the greatest delicacy,
ceased to urge to see you for the present."
Here Fanny, who had looked up, looked down again. "Of course,"
continued her uncle, "it cannot be supposed but that he should
request to speak with you alone, be it only for five minutes;
a request too natural, a claim too just to be denied.
But there is no time fixed; perhaps to-morrow, or whenever
your spirits are composed enough. For the present you
have only to tranquillise yourself. Check these tears;
they do but exhaust you. If, as I am willing to suppose,
you wish to shew me any observance, you will not give
way to these emotions, but endeavour to reason yourself
into a stronger frame of mind. I advise you to go out:
the air will do you good; go out for an hour on the gravel;
you will have the shrubbery to yourself, and will be the
better for air and exercise. And, Fanny" (turning back
again for a moment), "I shall make no mention below of
what has passed; I shall not even tell your aunt Bertram.
There is no occasion for spreading the disappointment;
say nothing about it yourself."
This was an order to be most joyfully obeyed; this was
an act of kindness which Fanny felt at her heart.
To be spared from her aunt Norris's interminable
reproaches! he left her in a glow of gratitude.
Anything might be bearable rather than such reproaches.
Even to see Mr. Crawford would be less overpowering.
She walked out directly, as her uncle recommended,
and followed his advice throughout, as far as she could;
did check her tears; did earnestly try to compose her spirits
and strengthen her mind. She wished to prove to him that she
did desire his comfort, and sought to regain his favour;
and he had given her another strong motive for exertion,
in keeping the whole affair from the knowledge of her aunts.
Not to excite suspicion by her look or manner was now
an object worth attaining; and she felt equal to almost
anything that might save her from her aunt Norris.
She was struck, quite struck, when, on returning from her
walk and going into the East room again, the first thing
which caught her eye was a fire lighted and burning.
A fire! it seemed too much; just at that time to be giving
her such an indulgence was exciting even painful gratitude.
She wondered that Sir Thomas could have leisure to think
of such a trifle again; but she soon found, from the voluntary
information of the housemaid, who came in to attend it,
that so it was to be every day. Sir Thomas had given
orders for it.
"I must be a brute, indeed, if I can be really ungrateful!"
said she, in soliloquy. "Heaven defend me from
being ungrateful!"
She saw nothing more of her uncle, nor of her aunt Norris,
till they met at dinner. Her uncle's behaviour to her
was then as nearly as possible what it had been before;
she was sure he did not mean there should be any change,
and that it was only her own conscience that could fancy any;
but her aunt was soon quarrelling with her; and when she
found how much and how unpleasantly her having only walked
out without her aunt's knowledge could be dwelt on,
she felt all the reason she had to bless the kindness
which saved her from the same spirit of reproach,
exerted on a more momentous subject.
"If I had known you were going out, I should have got you
just to go as far as my house with some orders for Nanny,"
said she, "which I have since, to my very great inconvenience,
been obliged to go and carry myself. I could very ill
spare the time, and you might have saved me the trouble,
if you would only have been so good as to let us know you
were going out. It would have made no difference to you,
I suppose, whether you had walked in the shrubbery or gone
to my house."
"I recommended the shrubbery to Fanny as the driest place,"
said Sir Thomas.
"Oh!" said Mrs. Norris, with a moment's check,
"that was very kind of you, Sir Thomas; but you do not
know how dry the path is to my house. Fanny would have
had quite as good a walk there, I assure you, with the
advantage of being of some use, and obliging her aunt:
it is all her fault. If she would but have let us know
she was going out but there is a something about Fanny,
I have often observed it before--she likes to go her
own way to work; she does not like to be dictated to;
she takes her own independent walk whenever she can;
she certainly has a little spirit of secrecy, and independence,
and nonsense, about her, which I would advise her to get
the better of."
As a general reflection on Fanny, Sir Thomas thought
nothing could be more unjust, though he had been so lately
expressing the same sentiments himself, and he tried to turn
the conversation: tried repeatedly before he could succeed;
for Mrs. Norris had not discernment enough to perceive,
either now, or at any other time, to what degree he
thought well of his niece, or how very far he was from
wishing to have his own children's merits set off by
the depreciation of hers. She was talking _at_ Fanny,
and resenting this private walk half through the dinner.
It was over, however, at last; and the evening set in with
more composure to Fanny, and more cheerfulness of spirits
than she could have hoped for after so stormy a morning;
but she trusted, in the first place, that she had done right:
that her judgment had not misled her. For the purity
of her intentions she could answer; and she was willing
to hope, secondly, that her uncle's displeasure was abating,
and would abate farther as he considered the matter with
more impartiality, and felt, as a good man must feel,
how wretched, and how unpardonable, how hopeless,
and how wicked it was to marry without affection.
When the meeting with which she was threatened for the
morrow was past, she could not but flatter herself that
the subject would be finally concluded, and Mr. Crawford
once gone from Mansfield, that everything would soon
be as if no such subject had existed. She would not,
could not believe, that Mr. Crawford's affection for her
could distress him long; his mind was not of that sort.
London would soon bring its cure. In London he would
soon learn to wonder at his infatuation, and be thankful
for the right reason in her which had saved him from its
evil consequences.
While Fanny's mind was engaged in these sort of hopes,
her uncle was, soon after tea, called out of the room;
an occurrence too common to strike her, and she thought nothing
of it till the butler reappeared ten minutes afterwards,
and advancing decidedly towards herself, said, "Sir Thomas
wishes to speak with you, ma'am, in his own room."
Then it occurred to her what might be going on; a suspicion
rushed over her mind which drove the colour from her cheeks;
but instantly rising, she was preparing to obey, when Mrs. Norris
called out, "Stay, stay, Fanny! what are you about? where
are you going? don't be in such a hurry. Depend upon it,
it is not you who are wanted; depend upon it, it is me"
(looking at the butler); "but you are so very eager to put
yourself forward. What should Sir Thomas want you for?
It is me, Baddeley, you mean; I am coming this moment.
You mean me, Baddeley, I am sure; Sir Thomas wants me,
not Miss Price."
But Baddeley was stout. "No, ma'am, it is Miss Price;
I am certain of its being Miss Price." And there was
a half-smile with the words, which meant, "I do not think
you would answer the purpose at all."
Mrs. Norris, much discontented, was obliged to compose
herself to work again; and Fanny, walking off in
agitating consciousness, found herself, as she anticipated,
in another minute alone with Mr. Crawford.
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