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Mansfield Park
By
Jane Austen
Contents
About thirty years ago Miss Maria Ward, of
Huntingdon, with only seven thousand pounds, had the good luck to captivate=
Sir
Thomas Bertram, of Mansfield Park, in the county of Northampton, and to be
thereby raised to the rank of a baronet's lady, with all the comforts and
consequences of an handsome house and large income. All Huntingdon exclaime=
d on
the greatness of the match, and her uncle, the lawyer, himself, allowed her=
to
be at least three thousand pounds short of any equitable claim to it. She h=
ad
two sisters to be benefited by her elevation; and such of their acquaintanc=
e as
thought Miss Ward and Miss Frances quite as handsome as Miss Maria, did not
scruple to predict their marrying with almost equal advantage. But there
certainly are not so many men of large fortune in the world as there are pr=
etty
women to deserve them. Miss Ward, at the end of half a dozen years, found
herself obliged to be attached to the Rev. Mr. Norris, a friend of her
brother-in-law, with scarcely any private fortune, and Miss Frances fared y=
et
worse. Miss Ward's match, indeed, when it came to the point, was not
contemptible: Sir Thomas being happily able to give his friend an income in=
the
living of Mansfield; and Mr. and Mrs. Norris began their career of conjugal=
felicity
with very little less than a thousand a year. But Miss Frances married, in =
the
common phrase, to disoblige her family, and by fixing on a lieutenant of
marines, without education, fortune, or connexions, did it very thoroughly.=
She
could hardly have made a more untoward choice. Sir Thomas Bertram had inter=
est,
which, from principle as well as pride--from a general wish of doing right,=
and
a desire of seeing all that were connected with him in situations of
respectability, he would have been glad to exert for the advantage of Lady
Bertram's sister; but her husband's profession was such as no interest could
reach; and before he had time to devise any other method of assisting them,=
an
absolute breach between the sisters had taken place. It was the natural res=
ult
of the conduct of each party, and such as a very imprudent marriage almost =
always
produces. To save herself from useless remonstrance, Mrs. Price never wrote=
to
her family on the subject till actually married. Lady Bertram, who was a wo=
man
of very tranquil feelings, and a temper remarkably easy and indolent, would
have contented herself with merely giving up her sister, and thinking no mo=
re
of the matter; but Mrs. Norris had a spirit of activity, which could not be
satisfied till she had written a long and angry letter to Fanny, to point o=
ut
the folly of her conduct, and threaten her with all its possible ill
consequences. Mrs. Price, in her turn, was injured and angry; and an answer,
which comprehended each sister in its bitterness, and bestowed such very di=
srespectful
reflections on the pride of Sir Thomas as Mrs. Norris could not possibly ke=
ep
to herself, put an end to all intercourse between them for a considerable
period.
Their homes were so distant, and the circles in
which they moved so distinct, as almost to preclude the means of ever heari=
ng
of each other's existence during the eleven following years, or, at least, =
to make
it very wonderful to Sir Thomas that Mrs. Norris should ever have it in her
power to tell them, as she now and then did, in an angry voice, that Fanny =
had
got another child. By the end of eleven years, however, Mrs. Price could no
longer afford to cherish pride or resentment, or to lose one connexion that
might possibly assist her. A large and still increasing family, an husband
disabled for active service, but not the less equal to company and good liq=
uor,
and a very small income to supply their wants, made her eager to regain the
friends she had so carelessly sacrificed; and she addressed Lady Bertram in=
a
letter which spoke so much contrition and despondence, such a superfluity of
children, and such a want of almost everything else, as could not but dispo=
se
them all to a reconciliation. She was preparing for her ninth lying-in; and
after bewailing the circumstance, and imploring their countenance as sponso=
rs
to the expected child, she could not conceal how important she felt they mi=
ght
be to the future maintenance of the eight already in being. Her eldest was a
boy of ten years old, a fine spirited fellow, who longed to be out in the
world; but what could she do? Was there any chance of his being hereafter u=
seful
to Sir Thomas in the concerns of his West Indian property? No situation wou=
ld
be beneath him; or what did Sir Thomas think of Woolwich? or how could a bo=
y be
sent out to the East?
The letter was not unproductive. It re-establi=
shed
peace and kindness. Sir Thomas sent friendly advice and professions, Lady
Bertram dispatched money and baby-linen, and Mrs. Norris wrote the letters.=
Such were its immediate effects, and within a
twelvemonth a more important advantage to Mrs. Price resulted from it. Mrs.
Norris was often observing to the others that she could not get her poor si=
ster
and her family out of her head, and that, much as they had all done for her=
, she
seemed to be wanting to do more; and at length she could not but own it to =
be
her wish that poor Mrs. Price should be relieved from the charge and expens=
e of
one child entirely out of her great number. "What if they were among t=
hem
to undertake the care of her eldest daughter, a girl now nine years old, of=
an
age to require more attention than her poor mother could possibly give? The
trouble and expense of it to them would be nothing, compared with the
benevolence of the action." Lady Bertram agreed with her instantly.
"I think we cannot do better," said she; "let us send for the
child."
Sir Thomas could not give so instantaneous and
unqualified a consent. He debated and hesitated;--it was a serious charge;-=
-a
girl so brought up must be adequately provided for, or there would be cruel=
ty
instead of kindness in taking her from her family. He thought of his own fo=
ur children,
of his two sons, of cousins in love, etc.;--but no sooner had he deliberate=
ly
begun to state his objections, than Mrs. Norris interrupted him with a repl=
y to
them all, whether stated or not.
"My dear Sir Thomas, I perfectly comprehe=
nd
you, and do justice to the generosity and delicacy of your notions, which
indeed are quite of a piece with your general conduct; and I entirely agree
with you in the main as to the propriety of doing everything one could by w=
ay
of providing for a child one had in a manner taken into one's own hands; an=
d I
am sure I should be the last person in the world to withhold my mite upon s=
uch
an occasion. Having no children of my own, who should I look to in any litt=
le
matter I may ever have to bestow, but the children of my sisters?--and I am
sure Mr. Norris is too just--but you know I am a woman of few words and
professions. Do not let us be frightened from a good deed by a trifle. Give=
a
girl an education, and introduce her properly into the world, and ten to one
but she has the means of settling well, without farther expense to anybody.=
A
niece of ours, Sir Thomas, I may say, or at least of yours, would not grow =
up
in this neighbourhood without many advantages. I don't say she would be so =
handsome
as her cousins. I dare say she would not; but she would be introduced into =
the
society of this country under such very favourable circumstances as, in all
human probability, would get her a creditable establishment. You are thinki=
ng
of your sons--but do not you know that, of all things upon earth, that is t=
he
least likely to happen, brought up as they would be, always together like
brothers and sisters? It is morally impossible. I never knew an instance of=
it.
It is, in fact, the only sure way of providing against the connexion. Suppo=
se
her a pretty girl, and seen by Tom or Edmund for the first time seven years
hence, and I dare say there would be mischief. The very idea of her having =
been
suffered to grow up at a distance from us all in poverty and neglect, would=
be
enough to make either of the dear, sweet-tempered boys in love with her. But
breed her up with them from this time, and suppose her even to have the bea=
uty
of an angel, and she will never be more to either than a sister."
"There is a great deal of truth in what y=
ou
say," replied Sir Thomas, "and far be it from me to throw any
fanciful impediment in the way of a plan which would be so consistent with =
the
relative situations of each. I only meant to observe that it ought not to be
lightly engaged in, and that to make it really serviceable to Mrs. Price, a=
nd
creditable to ourselves, we must secure to the child, or consider ourselves
engaged to secure to her hereafter, as circumstances may arise, the provisi=
on
of a gentlewoman, if no such establishment should offer as you are so sangu=
ine
in expecting."
"I thoroughly understand you," cried
Mrs. Norris, "you are everything that is generous and considerate, and=
I
am sure we shall never disagree on this point. Whatever I can do, as you we=
ll
know, I am always ready enough to do for the good of those I love; and, tho=
ugh
I could never feel for this little girl the hundredth part of the regard I =
bear
your own dear children, nor consider her, in any respect, so much my own, I
should hate myself if I were capable of neglecting her. Is not she a sister=
's
child? and could I bear to see her want while I had a bit of bread to give =
her?
My dear Sir Thomas, with all my faults I have a warm heart; and, poor as I =
am,
would rather deny myself the necessaries of life than do an ungenerous thin=
g.
So, if you are not against it, I will write to my poor sister tomorrow, and
make the proposal; and, as soon as matters are settled, I will engage to get
the child to Mansfield; you shall have no trouble about it. My own trouble,=
you
know, I never regard. I will send Nanny to London on purpose, and she may h=
ave
a bed at her cousin the saddler's, and the child be appointed to meet her t=
here.
They may easily get her from Portsmouth to town by the coach, under the car=
e of
any creditable person that may chance to be going. I dare say there is alwa=
ys
some reputable tradesman's wife or other going up."
Except to the attack on Nanny's cousin, Sir Th=
omas
no longer made any objection, and a more respectable, though less economical
rendezvous being accordingly substituted, everything was considered as sett=
led,
and the pleasures of so benevolent a scheme were already enjoyed. The divis=
ion
of gratifying sensations ought not, in strict justice, to have been equal; =
for
Sir Thomas was fully resolved to be the real and consistent patron of the
selected child, and Mrs. Norris had not the least intention of being at any
expense whatever in her maintenance. As far as walking, talking, and contri=
ving
reached, she was thoroughly benevolent, and nobody knew better how to dicta=
te
liberality to others; but her love of money was equal to her love of direct=
ing,
and she knew quite as well how to save her own as to spend that of her frie=
nds.
Having married on a narrower income than she had been used to look forward =
to,
she had, from the first, fancied a very strict line of economy necessary; a=
nd
what was begun as a matter of prudence, soon grew into a matter of choice, =
as
an object of that needful solicitude which there were no children to supply.
Had there been a family to provide for, Mrs. Norris might never have saved =
her
money; but having no care of that kind, there was nothing to impede her
frugality, or lessen the comfort of making a yearly addition to an income w=
hich
they had never lived up to. Under this infatuating principle, counteracted =
by
no real affection for her sister, it was impossible for her to aim at more =
than
the credit of projecting and arranging so expensive a charity; though perha=
ps
she might so little know herself as to walk home to the Parsonage, after th=
is
conversation, in the happy belief of being the most liberal-minded sister a=
nd
aunt in the world.
When the subject was brought forward again, her
views were more fully explained; and, in reply to Lady Bertram's calm inqui=
ry
of "Where shall the child come to first, sister, to you or to us?"
Sir Thomas heard with some surprise that it would be totally out of Mrs.
Norris's power to take any share in the personal charge of her. He had been
considering her as a particularly welcome addition at the Parsonage, as a
desirable companion to an aunt who had no children of her own; but he found=
himself
wholly mistaken. Mrs. Norris was sorry to say that the little girl's staying
with them, at least as things then were, was quite out of the question. Poo=
r Mr.
Norris's indifferent state of health made it an impossibility: he could no =
more
bear the noise of a child than he could fly; if, indeed, he should ever get
well of his gouty complaints, it would be a different matter: she should th=
en
be glad to take her turn, and think nothing of the inconvenience; but just =
now,
poor Mr. Norris took up every moment of her time, and the very mention of s=
uch
a thing she was sure would distract him.
"Then she had better come to us," sa=
id
Lady Bertram, with the utmost composure. After a short pause Sir Thomas add=
ed
with dignity, "Yes, let her home be in this house. We will endeavour t=
o do
our duty by her, and she will, at least, have the advantage of companions of
her own age, and of a regular instructress."
"Very true," cried Mrs. Norris,
"which are both very important considerations; and it will be just the
same to Miss Lee whether she has three girls to teach, or only two--there c=
an
be no difference. I only wish I could be more useful; but you see I do all =
in
my power. I am not one of those that spare their own trouble; and Nanny sha=
ll
fetch her, however it may put me to inconvenience to have my chief counsell=
or
away for three days. I suppose, sister, you will put the child in the littl=
e white
attic, near the old nurseries. It will be much the best place for her, so n=
ear
Miss Lee, and not far from the girls, and close by the housemaids, who could
either of them help to dress her, you know, and take care of her clothes, f=
or I
suppose you would not think it fair to expect Ellis to wait on her as well =
as
the others. Indeed, I do not see that you could possibly place her anywhere
else."
Lady Bertram made no opposition.
"I hope she will prove a well-disposed
girl," continued Mrs. Norris, "and be sensible of her uncommon go=
od
fortune in having such friends."
"Should her disposition be really bad,&qu=
ot;
said Sir Thomas, "we must not, for our own children's sake, continue h=
er
in the family; but there is no reason to expect so great an evil. We shall
probably see much to wish altered in her, and must prepare ourselves for gr=
oss
ignorance, some meanness of opinions, and very distressing vulgarity of man=
ner;
but these are not incurable faults; nor, I trust, can they be dangerous for=
her
associates. Had my daughters been younger than herself, I should have
considered the introduction of such a companion as a matter of very serious
moment; but, as it is, I hope there can be nothing to fear for them, and
everything to hope for her, from the association."
"That is exactly what I think," cried
Mrs. Norris, "and what I was saying to my husband this morning. It wil=
l be
an education for the child, said I, only being with her cousins; if Miss Lee
taught her nothing, she would learn to be good and clever from them." =
"I hope she will not tease my poor pug,&q=
uot;
said Lady Bertram; "I have but just got Julia to leave it alone."=
"There will be some difficulty in our way,
Mrs. Norris," observed Sir Thomas, "as to the distinction proper =
to
be made between the girls as they grow up: how to preserve in the minds of =
my
daughters the consciousness of what they are, without making them think too
lowly of their cousin; and how, without depressing her spirits too far, to =
make
her remember that she is not a Miss Bertram. I should wish to see them very
good friends, and would, on no account, authorise in my girls the smallest
degree of arrogance towards their relation; but still they cannot be equals.
Their rank, fortune, rights, and expectations will always be different. It =
is a
point of great delicacy, and you must assist us in our endeavours to choose
exactly the right line of conduct."
Mrs. Norris was quite at his service; and thou=
gh
she perfectly agreed with him as to its being a most difficult thing,
encouraged him to hope that between them it would be easily managed.
It will be readily believed that Mrs. Norris d=
id
not write to her sister in vain. Mrs. Price seemed rather surprised that a =
girl
should be fixed on, when she had so many fine boys, but accepted the offer =
most
thankfully, assuring them of her daughter's being a very well-disposed, goo=
d-humoured
girl, and trusting they would never have cause to throw her off. She spoke =
of
her farther as somewhat delicate and puny, but was sanguine in the hope of =
her
being materially better for change of air. Poor woman! she probably thought
change of air might agree with many of her children.
The little girl performed her long journey in
safety; and at Northampton was met by Mrs. Norris, who thus regaled in the
credit of being foremost to welcome her, and in the importance of leading h=
er
in to the others, and recommending her to their kindness.
Fanny Price was at this time just ten years ol=
d,
and though there might not be much in her first appearance to captivate, th=
ere
was, at least, nothing to disgust her relations. She was small of her age, =
with
no glow of complexion, nor any other striking beauty; exceedingly timid and
shy, and shrinking from notice; but her air, though awkward, was not vulgar=
, her
voice was sweet, and when she spoke her countenance was pretty. Sir Thomas =
and
Lady Bertram received her very kindly; and Sir Thomas, seeing how much she
needed encouragement, tried to be all that was conciliating: but he had to =
work
against a most untoward gravity of deportment; and Lady Bertram, without ta=
king
half so much trouble, or speaking one word where he spoke ten, by the mere =
aid
of a good-humoured smile, became immediately the less awful character of the
two.
The young people were all at home, and sustain=
ed
their share in the introduction very well, with much good humour, and no
embarrassment, at least on the part of the sons, who, at seventeen and sixt=
een,
and tall of their age, had all the grandeur of men in the eyes of their lit=
tle cousin.
The two girls were more at a loss from being younger and in greater awe of
their father, who addressed them on the occasion with rather an injudicious
particularity. But they were too much used to company and praise to have
anything like natural shyness; and their confidence increasing from their c=
ousin's
total want of it, they were soon able to take a full survey of her face and=
her
frock in easy indifference.
They were a remarkably fine family, the sons v=
ery
well-looking, the daughters decidedly handsome, and all of them well-grown =
and
forward of their age, which produced as striking a difference between the
cousins in person, as education had given to their address; and no one woul=
d have
supposed the girls so nearly of an age as they really were. There were in f=
act
but two years between the youngest and Fanny. Julia Bertram was only twelve,
and Maria but a year older. The little visitor meanwhile was as unhappy as
possible. Afraid of everybody, ashamed of herself, and longing for the home=
she
had left, she knew not how to look up, and could scarcely speak to be heard=
, or
without crying. Mrs. Norris had been talking to her the whole way from
Northampton of her wonderful good fortune, and the extraordinary degree of
gratitude and good behaviour which it ought to produce, and her consciousne=
ss
of misery was therefore increased by the idea of its being a wicked thing f=
or
her not to be happy. The fatigue, too, of so long a journey, became soon no=
trifling
evil. In vain were the well-meant condescensions of Sir Thomas, and all the
officious prognostications of Mrs. Norris that she would be a good girl; in
vain did Lady Bertram smile and make her sit on the sofa with herself and p=
ug,
and vain was even the sight of a gooseberry tart towards giving her comfort;
she could scarcely swallow two mouthfuls before tears interrupted her, and
sleep seeming to be her likeliest friend, she was taken to finish her sorro=
ws
in bed.
"This is not a very promising
beginning," said Mrs. Norris, when Fanny had left the room. "After
all that I said to her as we came along, I thought she would have behaved
better; I told her how much might depend upon her acquitting herself well at
first. I wish there may not be a little sulkiness of temper--her poor mother
had a good deal; but we must make allowances for such a child--and I do not
know that her being sorry to leave her home is really against her, for, with
all its faults, it was her home, and she cannot as yet understand how much =
she
has changed for the better; but then there is moderation in all things.&quo=
t;
It required a longer time, however, than Mrs.
Norris was inclined to allow, to reconcile Fanny to the novelty of Mansfield
Park, and the separation from everybody she had been used to. Her feelings =
were
very acute, and too little understood to be properly attended to. Nobody me=
ant
to be unkind, but nobody put themselves out of their way to secure her comf=
ort.
The holiday allowed to the Miss Bertrams the n=
ext
day, on purpose to afford leisure for getting acquainted with, and entertai=
ning
their young cousin, produced little union. They could not but hold her chea=
p on
finding that she had but two sashes, and had never learned French; and when
they perceived her to be little struck with the duet they were so good as to
play, they could do no more than make her a generous present of some of the=
ir
least valued toys, and leave her to herself, while they adjourned to whatev=
er
might be the favourite holiday sport of the moment, making artificial flowe=
rs
or wasting gold paper.
Fanny, whether near or from her cousins, wheth=
er
in the schoolroom, the drawing-room, or the shrubbery, was equally forlorn,
finding something to fear in every person and place. She was disheartened by
Lady Bertram's silence, awed by Sir Thomas's grave looks, and quite overcom=
e by
Mrs. Norris's admonitions. Her elder cousins mortified her by reflections on
her size, and abashed her by noticing her shyness: Miss Lee wondered at her
ignorance, and the maid-servants sneered at her clothes; and when to these
sorrows was added the idea of the brothers and sisters among whom she had
always been important as playfellow, instructress, and nurse, the desponden=
ce
that sunk her little heart was severe.
The grandeur of the house astonished, but could
not console her. The rooms were too large for her to move in with ease: wha=
tever
she touched she expected to injure, and she crept about in constant terror =
of something
or other; often retreating towards her own chamber to cry; and the little g=
irl
who was spoken of in the drawing-room when she left it at night as seeming =
so
desirably sensible of her peculiar good fortune, ended every day's sorrows =
by
sobbing herself to sleep. A week had passed in this way, and no suspicion o=
f it
conveyed by her quiet passive manner, when she was found one morning by her
cousin Edmund, the youngest of the sons, sitting crying on the attic stairs=
.
"My dear little cousin," said he, wi=
th
all the gentleness of an excellent nature, "what can be the matter?&qu=
ot;
And sitting down by her, he was at great pains to overcome her shame in bei=
ng
so surprised, and persuade her to speak openly. Was she ill? or was anybody
angry with her? or had she quarrelled with Maria and Julia? or was she puzz=
led about
anything in her lesson that he could explain? Did she, in short, want anyth=
ing
he could possibly get her, or do for her? For a long while no answer could =
be
obtained beyond a "no, no--not at all--no, thank you"; but he sti=
ll
persevered; and no sooner had he begun to revert to her own home, than her
increased sobs explained to him where the grievance lay. He tried to console
her.
"You are sorry to leave Mama, my dear lit=
tle
Fanny," said he, "which shows you to be a very good girl; but you
must remember that you are with relations and friends, who all love you, and
wish to make you happy. Let us walk out in the park, and you shall tell me =
all
about your brothers and sisters."
On pursuing the subject, he found that, dear as
all these brothers and sisters generally were, there was one among them who=
ran
more in her thoughts than the rest. It was William whom she talked of most,=
and
wanted most to see. William, the eldest, a year older than herself, her con=
stant
companion and friend; her advocate with her mother (of whom he was the darl=
ing)
in every distress. "William did not like she should come away; he had =
told
her he should miss her very much indeed." "But William will write=
to
you, I dare say." "Yes, he had promised he would, but he had told=
her
to write first." "And when shall you do it?" She hung her he=
ad
and answered hesitatingly, "she did not know; she had not any paper.&q=
uot;
"If that be all your difficulty, I will
furnish you with paper and every other material, and you may write your let=
ter
whenever you choose. Would it make you happy to write to William?"
"Yes, very."
"Then let it be done now. Come with me in=
to
the breakfast-room, we shall find everything there, and be sure of having t=
he
room to ourselves."
"But, cousin, will it go to the post?&quo=
t;
"Yes, depend upon me it shall: it shall go
with the other letters; and, as your uncle will frank it, it will cost Will=
iam
nothing."
"My uncle!" repeated Fanny, with a
frightened look.
"Yes, when you have written the letter, I
will take it to my father to frank."
Fanny thought it a bold measure, but offered no
further resistance; and they went together into the breakfast-room, where
Edmund prepared her paper, and ruled her lines with all the goodwill that h=
er
brother could himself have felt, and probably with somewhat more exactness.=
He continued
with her the whole time of her writing, to assist her with his penknife or =
his
orthography, as either were wanted; and added to these attentions, which she
felt very much, a kindness to her brother which delighted her beyond all the
rest. He wrote with his own hand his love to his cousin William, and sent h=
im
half a guinea under the seal. Fanny's feelings on the occasion were such as=
she
believed herself incapable of expressing; but her countenance and a few art=
less
words fully conveyed all their gratitude and delight, and her cousin began =
to
find her an interesting object. He talked to her more, and, from all that s=
he
said, was convinced of her having an affectionate heart, and a strong desir=
e of
doing right; and he could perceive her to be farther entitled to attention =
by
great sensibility of her situation, and great timidity. He had never knowin=
gly
given her pain, but he now felt that she required more positive kindness; a=
nd
with that view endeavoured, in the first place, to lessen her fears of them
all, and gave her especially a great deal of good advice as to playing with
Maria and Julia, and being as merry as possible.
From this day Fanny grew more comfortable. She
felt that she had a friend, and the kindness of her cousin Edmund gave her
better spirits with everybody else. The place became less strange, and the
people less formidable; and if there were some amongst them whom she could =
not
cease to fear, she began at least to know their ways, and to catch the best=
manner
of conforming to them. The little rusticities and awkwardnesses which had at
first made grievous inroads on the tranquillity of all, and not least of
herself, necessarily wore away, and she was no longer materially afraid to
appear before her uncle, nor did her aunt Norris's voice make her start very
much. To her cousins she became occasionally an acceptable companion. Though
unworthy, from inferiority of age and strength, to be their constant associ=
ate,
their pleasures and schemes were sometimes of a nature to make a third very
useful, especially when that third was of an obliging, yielding temper; and=
they
could not but own, when their aunt inquired into her faults, or their broth=
er
Edmund urged her claims to their kindness, that "Fanny was good-nature=
d enough."
Edmund was uniformly kind himself; and she had
nothing worse to endure on the part of Tom than that sort of merriment whic=
h a
young man of seventeen will always think fair with a child of ten. He was j=
ust entering
into life, full of spirits, and with all the liberal dispositions of an eld=
est
son, who feels born only for expense and enjoyment. His kindness to his lit=
tle
cousin was consistent with his situation and rights: he made her some very
pretty presents, and laughed at her.
As her appearance and spirits improved, Sir Th=
omas
and Mrs. Norris thought with greater satisfaction of their benevolent plan;=
and
it was pretty soon decided between them that, though far from clever, she s=
howed
a tractable disposition, and seemed likely to give them little trouble. A m=
ean
opinion of her abilities was not confined to them. Fanny could read, work, =
and
write, but she had been taught nothing more; and as her cousins found her
ignorant of many things with which they had been long familiar, they thought
her prodigiously stupid, and for the first two or three weeks were continua=
lly
bringing some fresh report of it into the drawing-room. "Dear mama, on=
ly
think, my cousin cannot put the map of Europe together--or my cousin cannot
tell the principal rivers in Russia--or, she never heard of Asia Minor--or =
she
does not know the difference between water-colours and crayons!--How strang=
e!--Did
you ever hear anything so stupid?"
"My dear," their considerate aunt wo=
uld
reply, "it is very bad, but you must not expect everybody to be as for=
ward
and quick at learning as yourself."
"But, aunt, she is really so very ignoran=
t!--Do
you know, we asked her last night which way she would go to get to Ireland;=
and
she said, she should cross to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of nothing but =
the
Isle of Wight, and she calls it the Island, as if there were no other islan=
d in
the world. I am sure I should have been ashamed of myself, if I had not kno=
wn
better long before I was so old as she is. I cannot remember the time when I
did not know a great deal that she has not the least notion of yet. How long
ago it is, aunt, since we used to repeat the chronological order of the kin=
gs
of England, with the dates of their accession, and most of the principal ev=
ents
of their reigns!"
"Yes," added the other; "and of=
the
Roman emperors as low as Severus; besides a great deal of the heathen mytho=
logy,
and all the metals, semi-metals, planets, and distinguished philosophers.&q=
uot;
"Very true indeed, my dears, but you are
blessed with wonderful memories, and your poor cousin has probably none at =
all.
There is a vast deal of difference in memories, as well as in everything el=
se, and
therefore you must make allowance for your cousin, and pity her deficiency.=
And
remember that, if you are ever so forward and clever yourselves, you should
always be modest; for, much as you know already, there is a great deal more=
for
you to learn."
"Yes, I know there is, till I am seventee=
n.
But I must tell you another thing of Fanny, so odd and so stupid. Do you kn=
ow,
she says she does not want to learn either music or drawing."
"To be sure, my dear, that is very stupid
indeed, and shows a great want of genius and emulation. But, all things
considered, I do not know whether it is not as well that it should be so, f=
or,
though you know (owing to me) your papa and mama are so good as to bring he=
r up
with you, it is not at all necessary that she should be as accomplished as =
you
are;--on the contrary, it is much more desirable that there should be a
difference."
Such were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris
assisted to form her nieces' minds; and it is not very wonderful that, with=
all
their promising talents and early information, they should be entirely
deficient in the less common acquirements of self-knowledge, generosity and
humility. In everything but disposition they were admirably taught. Sir Tho=
mas
did not know what was wanting, because, though a truly anxious father, he w=
as
not outwardly affectionate, and the reserve of his manner repressed all the
flow of their spirits before him.
To the education of her daughters Lady Bertram
paid not the smallest attention. She had not time for such cares. She was a
woman who spent her days in sitting, nicely dressed, on a sofa, doing some =
long
piece of needlework, of little use and no beauty, thinking more of her pug =
than
her children, but very indulgent to the latter when it did not put herself =
to
inconvenience, guided in everything important by Sir Thomas, and in smaller
concerns by her sister. Had she possessed greater leisure for the service of
her girls, she would probably have supposed it unnecessary, for they were u=
nder
the care of a governess, with proper masters, and could want nothing more. =
As
for Fanny's being stupid at learning, "she could only say it was very
unlucky, but some people were stupid, and Fanny must take more pains: she d=
id
not know what else was to be done; and, except her being so dull, she must =
add
she saw no harm in the poor little thing, and always found her very handy a=
nd quick
in carrying messages, and fetching what she wanted."
Fanny, with all her faults of ignorance and
timidity, was fixed at Mansfield Park, and learning to transfer in its favo=
ur
much of her attachment to her former home, grew up there not unhappily among
her cousins. There was no positive ill-nature in Maria or Julia; and though=
Fanny
was often mortified by their treatment of her, she thought too lowly of her=
own
claims to feel injured by it.
From about the time of her entering the family,
Lady Bertram, in consequence of a little ill-health, and a great deal of
indolence, gave up the house in town, which she had been used to occupy eve=
ry
spring, and remained wholly in the country, leaving Sir Thomas to attend hi=
s duty
in Parliament, with whatever increase or diminution of comfort might arise =
from
her absence. In the country, therefore, the Miss Bertrams continued to exer=
cise
their memories, practise their duets, and grow tall and womanly: and their
father saw them becoming in person, manner, and accomplishments, everything
that could satisfy his anxiety. His eldest son was careless and extravagant,
and had already given him much uneasiness; but his other children promised =
him
nothing but good. His daughters, he felt, while they retained the name of
Bertram, must be giving it new grace, and in quitting it, he trusted, would
extend its respectable alliances; and the character of Edmund, his strong g=
ood sense
and uprightness of mind, bid most fairly for utility, honour, and happiness=
to
himself and all his connexions. He was to be a clergyman.
Amid the cares and the complacency which his o=
wn
children suggested, Sir Thomas did not forget to do what he could for the
children of Mrs. Price: he assisted her liberally in the education and disp=
osal
of her sons as they became old enough for a determinate pursuit; and Fanny,=
though
almost totally separated from her family, was sensible of the truest
satisfaction in hearing of any kindness towards them, or of anything at all
promising in their situation or conduct. Once, and once only, in the course=
of
many years, had she the happiness of being with William. Of the rest she saw
nothing: nobody seemed to think of her ever going amongst them again, even =
for
a visit, nobody at home seemed to want her; but William determining, soon a=
fter
her removal, to be a sailor, was invited to spend a week with his sister in
Northamptonshire before he went to sea. Their eager affection in meeting, t=
heir
exquisite delight in being together, their hours of happy mirth, and moment=
s of
serious conference, may be imagined; as well as the sanguine views and spir=
its
of the boy even to the last, and the misery of the girl when he left her.
Luckily the visit happened in the Christmas holidays, when she could direct=
ly
look for comfort to her cousin Edmund; and he told her such charming things=
of
what William was to do, and be hereafter, in consequence of his profession,=
as
made her gradually admit that the separation might have some use. Edmund's
friendship never failed her: his leaving Eton for Oxford made no change in =
his
kind dispositions, and only afforded more frequent opportunities of proving
them. Without any display of doing more than the rest, or any fear of doing=
too
much, he was always true to her interests, and considerate of her feelings,=
trying
to make her good qualities understood, and to conquer the diffidence which
prevented their being more apparent; giving her advice, consolation, and
encouragement.
Kept back as she was by everybody else, his si=
ngle
support could not bring her forward; but his attentions were otherwise of t=
he
highest importance in assisting the improvement of her mind, and extending =
its pleasures.
He knew her to be clever, to have a quick apprehension as well as good sens=
e,
and a fondness for reading, which, properly directed, must be an education =
in
itself. Miss Lee taught her French, and heard her read the daily portion of
history; but he recommended the books which charmed her leisure hours, he
encouraged her taste, and corrected her judgment: he made reading useful by
talking to her of what she read, and heightened its attraction by judicious
praise. In return for such services she loved him better than anybody in the
world except William: her heart was divided between the two.
The first event of any importance in the family
was the death of Mr. Norris, which happened when Fanny was about fifteen, a=
nd
necessarily introduced alterations and novelties. Mrs. Norris, on quitting =
the Parsonage,
removed first to the Park, and afterwards to a small house of Sir Thomas's =
in
the village, and consoled herself for the loss of her husband by considering
that she could do very well without him; and for her reduction of income by=
the
evident necessity of stricter economy.
The living was hereafter for Edmund; and, had =
his
uncle died a few years sooner, it would have been duly given to some friend=
to
hold till he were old enough for orders. But Tom's extravagance had, previo=
us
to that event, been so great as to render a different disposal of the next =
presentation
necessary, and the younger brother must help to pay for the pleasures of the
elder. There was another family living actually held for Edmund; but though
this circumstance had made the arrangement somewhat easier to Sir Thomas's
conscience, he could not but feel it to be an act of injustice, and he
earnestly tried to impress his eldest son with the same conviction, in the =
hope
of its producing a better effect than anything he had yet been able to say =
or
do.
"I blush for you, Tom," said he, in =
his
most dignified manner; "I blush for the expedient which I am driven on,
and I trust I may pity your feelings as a brother on the occasion. You have
robbed Edmund for ten, twenty, thirty years, perhaps for life, of more than
half the income which ought to be his. It may hereafter be in my power, or =
in
yours (I hope it will), to procure him better preferment; but it must not be
forgotten that no benefit of that sort would have been beyond his natural
claims on us, and that nothing can, in fact, be an equivalent for the certa=
in
advantage which he is now obliged to forego through the urgency of your
debts."
Tom listened with some shame and some sorrow; =
but
escaping as quickly as possible, could soon with cheerful selfishness refle=
ct,
firstly, that he had not been half so much in debt as some of his friends;
secondly, that his father had made a most tiresome piece of work of it; and=
, thirdly,
that the future incumbent, whoever he might be, would, in all probability, =
die
very soon.
On Mr. Norris's death the presentation became =
the
right of a Dr. Grant, who came consequently to reside at Mansfield; and on
proving to be a hearty man of forty-five, seemed likely to disappoint Mr.
Bertram's calculations. But "no, he was a short-necked, apoplectic sor=
t of
fellow, and, plied well with good things, would soon pop off."
He had a wife about fifteen years his junior, =
but
no children; and they entered the neighbourhood with the usual fair report =
of
being very respectable, agreeable people.
The time was now come when Sir Thomas expected=
his
sister-in-law to claim her share in their niece, the change in Mrs. Norris's
situation, and the improvement in Fanny's age, seeming not merely to do away
any former objection to their living together, but even to give it the most=
decided
eligibility; and as his own circumstances were rendered less fair than
heretofore, by some recent losses on his West India estate, in addition to =
his
eldest son's extravagance, it became not undesirable to himself to be relie=
ved
from the expense of her support, and the obligation of her future provision=
. In
the fullness of his belief that such a thing must be, he mentioned its
probability to his wife; and the first time of the subject's occurring to h=
er
again happening to be when Fanny was present, she calmly observed to her,
"So, Fanny, you are going to leave us, and live with my sister. How sh=
all
you like it?"
Fanny was too much surprised to do more than
repeat her aunt's words, "Going to leave you?"
"Yes, my dear; why should you be astonish=
ed?
You have been five years with us, and my sister always meant to take you wh=
en
Mr. Norris died. But you must come up and tack on my patterns all the
same."
The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had
been unexpected. She had never received kindness from her aunt Norris, and
could not love her.
"I shall be very sorry to go away," =
said
she, with a faltering voice.
"Yes, I dare say you will; that's natural
enough. I suppose you have had as little to vex you since you came into this
house as any creature in the world."
"I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt," =
said
Fanny modestly.
"No, my dear; I hope not. I have always f=
ound
you a very good girl."
"And am I never to live here again?"=
"Never, my dear; but you are sure of a
comfortable home. It can make very little difference to you, whether you ar=
e in
one house or the other."
Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful hear=
t;
she could not feel the difference to be so small, she could not think of li=
ving
with her aunt with anything like satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmu=
nd
she told him her distress.
"Cousin," said she, "something = is going to happen which I do not like at all; and though you have often persu= aded me into being reconciled to things that I disliked at first, you will not be able to do it now. I am going to live entirely with my aunt Norris." <= o:p>
"Indeed!"
"Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so=
. It
is quite settled. I am to leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House, I
suppose, as soon as she is removed there."
"Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not
unpleasant to you, I should call it an excellent one."
"Oh, cousin!"
"It has everything else in its favour. My
aunt is acting like a sensible woman in wishing for you. She is choosing a
friend and companion exactly where she ought, and I am glad her love of mon=
ey
does not interfere. You will be what you ought to be to her. I hope it does=
not
distress you very much, Fanny?"
"Indeed it does: I cannot like it. I love
this house and everything in it: I shall love nothing there. You know how
uncomfortable I feel with her."
"I can say nothing for her manner to you =
as a
child; but it was the same with us all, or nearly so. She never knew how to=
be
pleasant to children. But you are now of an age to be treated better; I thi=
nk
she is behaving better already; and when you are her only companion, you mu=
st be
important to her."
"I can never be important to any one.&quo=
t;
"What is to prevent you?"
"Everything. My situation, my foolishness=
and
awkwardness."
"As to your foolishness and awkwardness, =
my
dear Fanny, believe me, you never have a shadow of either, but in using the
words so improperly. There is no reason in the world why you should not be
important where you are known. You have good sense, and a sweet temper, and=
I
am sure you have a grateful heart, that could never receive kindness withou=
t wishing
to return it. I do not know any better qualifications for a friend and
companion."
"You are too kind," said Fanny,
colouring at such praise; "how shall I ever thank you as I ought, for
thinking so well of me. Oh! cousin, if I am to go away, I shall remember yo=
ur
goodness to the last moment of my life."
"Why, indeed, Fanny, I should hope to be remembered at such a distance as the White House. You speak as if you were going two hundred miles off instead of only across the park; but you will belong to us almost as much as ever. The two families will be meeting every= day in the year. The only difference will be that, living with your aunt, you w= ill necessarily be brought forward as you ought to be. Here there are too many whom you can hide behind; but with her you will be forced to speak for yourself." <= o:p>
"Oh! I do not say so."
"I must say it, and say it with pleasure.
Mrs. Norris is much better fitted than my mother for having the charge of y=
ou
now. She is of a temper to do a great deal for anybody she really interests
herself about, and she will force you to do justice to your natural
powers."
Fanny sighed, and said, "I cannot see thi=
ngs
as you do; but I ought to believe you to be right rather than myself, and I=
am
very much obliged to you for trying to reconcile me to what must be. If I c=
ould
suppose my aunt really to care for me, it would be delightful to feel mysel=
f of
consequence to anybody. Here, I know, I am of none, and yet I love the plac=
e so
well."
"The place, Fanny, is what you will not q=
uit,
though you quit the house. You will have as free a command of the park and
gardens as ever. Even your constant little heart need not take fright at su=
ch a
nominal change. You will have the same walks to frequent, the same library =
to choose
from, the same people to look at, the same horse to ride."
"Very true. Yes, dear old grey pony! Ah!
cousin, when I remember how much I used to dread riding, what terrors it ga=
ve
me to hear it talked of as likely to do me good (oh! how I have trembled at=
my
uncle's opening his lips if horses were talked of), and then think of the k=
ind pains
you took to reason and persuade me out of my fears, and convince me that I
should like it after a little while, and feel how right you proved to be, I=
am
inclined to hope you may always prophesy as well."
"And I am quite convinced that your being
with Mrs. Norris will be as good for your mind as riding has been for your
health, and as much for your ultimate happiness too."
So ended their discourse, which, for any very
appropriate service it could render Fanny, might as well have been spared, =
for
Mrs. Norris had not the smallest intention of taking her. It had never occu=
rred
to her, on the present occasion, but as a thing to be carefully avoided. To=
prevent
its being expected, she had fixed on the smallest habitation which could ra=
nk
as genteel among the buildings of Mansfield parish, the White House being o=
nly
just large enough to receive herself and her servants, and allow a spare ro=
om
for a friend, of which she made a very particular point. The spare rooms at=
the
Parsonage had never been wanted, but the absolute necessity of a spare room=
for
a friend was now never forgotten. Not all her precautions, however, could s=
ave
her from being suspected of something better; or, perhaps, her very display=
of the
importance of a spare room might have misled Sir Thomas to suppose it really
intended for Fanny. Lady Bertram soon brought the matter to a certainty by
carelessly observing to Mrs. Norris--
"I think, sister, we need not keep Miss L=
ee
any longer, when Fanny goes to live with you."
Mrs. Norris almost started. "Live with me,
dear Lady Bertram! what do you mean?"
"Is she not to live with you? I thought y=
ou
had settled it with Sir Thomas."
"Me! never. I never spoke a syllable abou=
t it
to Sir Thomas, nor he to me. Fanny live with me! the last thing in the world
for me to think of, or for anybody to wish that really knows us both. Good
heaven! what could I do with Fanny? Me! a poor, helpless, forlorn widow, un=
fit
for anything, my spirits quite broke down; what could I do with a girl at h=
er
time of life? A girl of fifteen! the very age of all others to need most
attention and care, and put the cheerfullest spirits to the test! Sure Sir
Thomas could not seriously expect such a thing! Sir Thomas is too much my
friend. Nobody that wishes me well, I am sure, would propose it. How came S=
ir
Thomas to speak to you about it?"
"Indeed, I do not know. I suppose he thou=
ght
it best."
"But what did he say? He could not say he
wished me to take Fanny. I am sure in his heart he could not wish me to do
it."
"No; he only said he thought it very like=
ly;
and I thought so too. We both thought it would be a comfort to you. But if =
you
do not like it, there is no more to be said. She is no encumbrance here.&qu=
ot;
"Dear sister, if you consider my unhappy
state, how can she be any comfort to me? Here am I, a poor desolate widow,
deprived of the best of husbands, my health gone in attending and nursing h=
im,
my spirits still worse, all my peace in this world destroyed, with hardly
enough to support me in the rank of a gentlewoman, and enable me to live so=
as
not to disgrace the memory of the dear departed--what possible comfort coul=
d I
have in taking such a charge upon me as Fanny? If I could wish it for my own
sake, I would not do so unjust a thing by the poor girl. She is in good han=
ds,
and sure of doing well. I must struggle through my sorrows and difficulties=
as
I can."
"Then you will not mind living by yourself
quite alone?"
"Lady Bertram, I do not complain. I know I
cannot live as I have done, but I must retrench where I can, and learn to b=
e a
better manager. I have been a liberal housekeeper enough, but I shall not be
ashamed to practise economy now. My situation is as much altered as my inco=
me. A
great many things were due from poor Mr. Norris, as clergyman of the parish,
that cannot be expected from me. It is unknown how much was consumed in our
kitchen by odd comers and goers. At the White House, matters must be better
looked after. I must live within my income, or I shall be miserable; and I =
own
it would give me great satisfaction to be able to do rather more, to lay by=
a
little at the end of the year."
"I dare say you will. You always do, don't
you?"
"My object, Lady Bertram, is to be of use=
to
those that come after me. It is for your children's good that I wish to be =
richer.
I have nobody else to care for, but I should be very glad to think I could
leave a little trifle among them worth their having."
"You are very good, but do not trouble
yourself about them. They are sure of being well provided for. Sir Thomas w=
ill
take care of that."
"Why, you know, Sir Thomas's means will be
rather straitened if the Antigua estate is to make such poor returns."=
"Oh! that will soon be settled. Sir Thomas
has been writing about it, I know."
"Well, Lady Bertram," said Mrs. Norr=
is,
moving to go, "I can only say that my sole desire is to be of use to y=
our
family: and so, if Sir Thomas should ever speak again about my taking Fanny,
you will be able to say that my health and spirits put it quite out of the
question; besides that, I really should not have a bed to give her, for I m=
ust keep
a spare room for a friend."
Lady Bertram repeated enough of this conversat=
ion
to her husband to convince him how much he had mistaken his sister-in-law's
views; and she was from that moment perfectly safe from all expectation, or=
the
slightest allusion to it from him. He could not but wonder at her refusing =
to
do anything for a niece whom she had been so forward to adopt; but, as she =
took
early care to make him, as well as Lady Bertram, understand that whatever s=
he
possessed was designed for their family, he soon grew reconciled to a
distinction which, at the same time that it was advantageous and compliment=
ary
to them, would enable him better to provide for Fanny himself.
Fanny soon learnt how unnecessary had been her
fears of a removal; and her spontaneous, untaught felicity on the discovery,
conveyed some consolation to Edmund for his disappointment in what he had
expected to be so essentially serviceable to her. Mrs. Norris took possessi=
on
of the White House, the Grants arrived at the Parsonage, and these events o=
ver,
everything at Mansfield went on for some time as usual.
The Grants showing a disposition to be friendly
and sociable, gave great satisfaction in the main among their new acquainta=
nce.
They had their faults, and Mrs. Norris soon found them out. The Doctor was =
very
fond of eating, and would have a good dinner every day; and Mrs. Grant, ins=
tead
of contriving to gratify him at little expense, gave her cook as high wages=
as
they did at Mansfield Park, and was scarcely ever seen in her offices. Mrs.
Norris could not speak with any temper of such grievances, nor of the quant=
ity
of butter and eggs that were regularly consumed in the house. "Nobody
loved plenty and hospitality more than herself; nobody more hated pitiful
doings; the Parsonage, she believed, had never been wanting in comforts of =
any
sort, had never borne a bad character in her time, but this was a way of go=
ing
on that she could not understand. A fine lady in a country parsonage was qu=
ite
out of place. Her store-room, she thought, might have been good enough for =
Mrs.
Grant to go into. Inquire where she would, she could not find out that Mrs.
Grant had ever had more than five thousand pounds."
Lady Bertram listened without much interest to
this sort of invective. She could not enter into the wrongs of an economist,
but she felt all the injuries of beauty in Mrs. Grant's being so well settl=
ed
in life without being handsome, and expressed her astonishment on that poin=
t almost
as often, though not so diffusely, as Mrs. Norris discussed the other.
These opinions had been hardly canvassed a year
before another event arose of such importance in the family, as might fairly
claim some place in the thoughts and conversation of the ladies. Sir Thomas
found it expedient to go to Antigua himself, for the better arrangement of =
his affairs,
and he took his eldest son with him, in the hope of detaching him from some=
bad
connexions at home. They left England with the probability of being nearly a
twelvemonth absent.
The necessity of the measure in a pecuniary li=
ght,
and the hope of its utility to his son, reconciled Sir Thomas to the effort=
of
quitting the rest of his family, and of leaving his daughters to the direct=
ion
of others at their present most interesting time of life. He could not think
Lady Bertram quite equal to supply his place with them, or rather, to perfo=
rm
what should have been her own; but, in Mrs. Norris's watchful attention, an=
d in
Edmund's judgment, he had sufficient confidence to make him go without fears
for their conduct.
Lady Bertram did not at all like to have her
husband leave her; but she was not disturbed by any alarm for his safety, or
solicitude for his comfort, being one of those persons who think nothing ca=
n be
dangerous, or difficult, or fatiguing to anybody but themselves.
The Miss Bertrams were much to be pitied on the
occasion: not for their sorrow, but for their want of it. Their father was =
no
object of love to them; he had never seemed the friend of their pleasures, =
and
his absence was unhappily most welcome. They were relieved by it from all
restraint; and without aiming at one gratification that would probably have
been forbidden by Sir Thomas, they felt themselves immediately at their own
disposal, and to have every indulgence within their reach. Fanny's relief, =
and
her consciousness of it, were quite equal to her cousins'; but a more tender
nature suggested that her feelings were ungrateful, and she really grieved
because she could not grieve. "Sir Thomas, who had done so much for her
and her brothers, and who was gone perhaps never to return! that she should=
see
him go without a tear! it was a shameful insensibility." He had said to
her, moreover, on the very last morning, that he hoped she might see William
again in the course of the ensuing winter, and had charged her to write and
invite him to Mansfield as soon as the squadron to which he belonged should=
be
known to be in England. "This was so thoughtful and kind!" and wo=
uld
he only have smiled upon her, and called her "my dear Fanny," whi=
le
he said it, every former frown or cold address might have been forgotten. B=
ut
he had ended his speech in a way to sink her in sad mortification, by addin=
g,
"If William does come to Mansfield, I hope you may be able to convince=
him
that the many years which have passed since you parted have not been spent =
on
your side entirely without improvement; though, I fear, he must find his si=
ster
at sixteen in some respects too much like his sister at ten." She cried
bitterly over this reflection when her uncle was gone; and her cousins, on
seeing her with red eyes, set her down as a hypocrite.
Tom Bertram had of late spent so little of his
time at home that he could be only nominally missed; and Lady Bertram was s=
oon
astonished to find how very well they did even without his father, how well
Edmund could supply his place in carving, talking to the steward, writing t=
o the
attorney, settling with the servants, and equally saving her from all possi=
ble
fatigue or exertion in every particular but that of directing her letters. =
The earliest intelligence of the travellers' s=
afe
arrival at Antigua, after a favourable voyage, was received; though not bef=
ore
Mrs. Norris had been indulging in very dreadful fears, and trying to make
Edmund participate them whenever she could get him alone; and as she depend=
ed on
being the first person made acquainted with any fatal catastrophe, she had
already arranged the manner of breaking it to all the others, when Sir Thom=
as's
assurances of their both being alive and well made it necessary to lay by h=
er
agitation and affectionate preparatory speeches for a while.
The winter came and passed without their being
called for; the accounts continued perfectly good; and Mrs. Norris, in prom=
oting
gaieties for her nieces, assisting their toilets, displaying their
accomplishments, and looking about for their future husbands, had so much t=
o do
as, in addition to all her own household cares, some interference in those =
of her
sister, and Mrs. Grant's wasteful doings to overlook, left her very little
occasion to be occupied in fears for the absent.
The Miss Bertrams were now fully established a=
mong
the belles of the neighbourhood; and as they joined to beauty and brilliant
acquirements a manner naturally easy, and carefully formed to general civil=
ity
and obligingness, they possessed its favour as well as its admiration. Thei=
r vanity
was in such good order that they seemed to be quite free from it, and gave
themselves no airs; while the praises attending such behaviour, secured and
brought round by their aunt, served to strengthen them in believing they ha=
d no
faults.
Lady Bertram did not go into public with her
daughters. She was too indolent even to accept a mother's gratification in
witnessing their success and enjoyment at the expense of any personal troub=
le,
and the charge was made over to her sister, who desired nothing better than=
a post
of such honourable representation, and very thoroughly relished the means it
afforded her of mixing in society without having horses to hire.
Fanny had no share in the festivities of the
season; but she enjoyed being avowedly useful as her aunt's companion when =
they
called away the rest of the family; and, as Miss Lee had left Mansfield, she
naturally became everything to Lady Bertram during the night of a ball or a
party. She talked to her, listened to her, read to her; and the tranquillit=
y of
such evenings, her perfect security in such a tete-a-tete from any sound of
unkindness, was unspeakably welcome to a mind which had seldom known a paus=
e in
its alarms or embarrassments. As to her cousins' gaieties, she loved to hea=
r an
account of them, especially of the balls, and whom Edmund had danced with; =
but
thought too lowly of her own situation to imagine she should ever be admitt=
ed
to the same, and listened, therefore, without an idea of any nearer concern=
in
them. Upon the whole, it was a comfortable winter to her; for though it bro=
ught
no William to England, the never-failing hope of his arrival was worth much=
.
The ensuing spring deprived her of her valued
friend, the old grey pony; and for some time she was in danger of feeling t=
he
loss in her health as well as in her affections; for in spite of the
acknowledged importance of her riding on horse-back, no measures were taken=
for
mounting her again, "because," as it was observed by her aunts,
"she might ride one of her cousin's horses at any time when they did n=
ot
want them," and as the Miss Bertrams regularly wanted their horses eve=
ry
fine day, and had no idea of carrying their obliging manners to the sacrifi=
ce
of any real pleasure, that time, of course, never came. They took their
cheerful rides in the fine mornings of April and May; and Fanny either sat =
at home
the whole day with one aunt, or walked beyond her strength at the instigati=
on
of the other: Lady Bertram holding exercise to be as unnecessary for everyb=
ody
as it was unpleasant to herself; and Mrs. Norris, who was walking all day,
thinking everybody ought to walk as much. Edmund was absent at this time, or
the evil would have been earlier remedied. When he returned, to understand =
how
Fanny was situated, and perceived its ill effects, there seemed with him but
one thing to be done; and that "Fanny must have a horse" was the
resolute declaration with which he opposed whatever could be urged by the s=
upineness
of his mother, or the economy of his aunt, to make it appear unimportant. M=
rs.
Norris could not help thinking that some steady old thing might be found am=
ong
the numbers belonging to the Park that would do vastly well; or that one mi=
ght
be borrowed of the steward; or that perhaps Dr. Grant might now and then le=
nd
them the pony he sent to the post. She could not but consider it as absolut=
ely
unnecessary, and even improper, that Fanny should have a regular lady's hor=
se
of her own, in the style of her cousins. She was sure Sir Thomas had never
intended it: and she must say that, to be making such a purchase in his
absence, and adding to the great expenses of his stable, at a time when a l=
arge
part of his income was unsettled, seemed to her very unjustifiable. "F=
anny
must have a horse," was Edmund's only reply. Mrs. Norris could not see=
it
in the same light. Lady Bertram did: she entirely agreed with her son as to=
the
necessity of it, and as to its being considered necessary by his father; she
only pleaded against there being any hurry; she only wanted him to wait till
Sir Thomas's return, and then Sir Thomas might settle it all himself. He wo=
uld
be at home in September, and where would be the harm of only waiting till
September?
Though Edmund was much more displeased with his
aunt than with his mother, as evincing least regard for her niece, he could=
not
help paying more attention to what she said; and at length determined on a
method of proceeding which would obviate the risk of his father's thinking =
he had
done too much, and at the same time procure for Fanny the immediate means of
exercise, which he could not bear she should be without. He had three horse=
s of
his own, but not one that would carry a woman. Two of them were hunters; the
third, a useful road-horse: this third he resolved to exchange for one that=
his
cousin might ride; he knew where such a one was to be met with; and having =
once
made up his mind, the whole business was soon completed. The new mare prove=
d a
treasure; with a very little trouble she became exactly calculated for the
purpose, and Fanny was then put in almost full possession of her. She had n=
ot supposed
before that anything could ever suit her like the old grey pony; but her
delight in Edmund's mare was far beyond any former pleasure of the sort; and
the addition it was ever receiving in the consideration of that kindness fr=
om
which her pleasure sprung, was beyond all her words to express. She regarded
her cousin as an example of everything good and great, as possessing worth
which no one but herself could ever appreciate, and as entitled to such
gratitude from her as no feelings could be strong enough to pay. Her sentim=
ents
towards him were compounded of all that was respectful, grateful, confiding,
and tender.
As the horse continued in name, as well as fac=
t,
the property of Edmund, Mrs. Norris could tolerate its being for Fanny's us=
e;
and had Lady Bertram ever thought about her own objection again, he might h=
ave been
excused in her eyes for not waiting till Sir Thomas's return in September, =
for
when September came Sir Thomas was still abroad, and without any near prosp=
ect
of finishing his business. Unfavourable circumstances had suddenly arisen a=
t a
moment when he was beginning to turn all his thoughts towards England; and =
the
very great uncertainty in which everything was then involved determined him=
on
sending home his son, and waiting the final arrangement by himself. Tom arr=
ived
safely, bringing an excellent account of his father's health; but to very
little purpose, as far as Mrs. Norris was concerned. Sir Thomas's sending a=
way his
son seemed to her so like a parent's care, under the influence of a forebod=
ing
of evil to himself, that she could not help feeling dreadful presentiments;=
and
as the long evenings of autumn came on, was so terribly haunted by these id=
eas,
in the sad solitariness of her cottage, as to be obliged to take daily refu=
ge
in the dining-room of the Park. The return of winter engagements, however, =
was
not without its effect; and in the course of their progress, her mind becam=
e so
pleasantly occupied in superintending the fortunes of her eldest niece, as =
tolerably
to quiet her nerves. "If poor Sir Thomas were fated never to return, it
would be peculiarly consoling to see their dear Maria well married," s=
he
very often thought; always when they were in the company of men of fortune,=
and
particularly on the introduction of a young man who had recently succeeded =
to
one of the largest estates and finest places in the country.
Mr. Rushworth was from the first struck with t=
he
beauty of Miss Bertram, and, being inclined to marry, soon fancied himself =
in
love. He was a heavy young man, with not more than common sense; but as the=
re
was nothing disagreeable in his figure or address, the young lady was well =
pleased
with her conquest. Being now in her twenty-first year, Maria Bertram was
beginning to think matrimony a duty; and as a marriage with Mr. Rushworth w=
ould
give her the enjoyment of a larger income than her father's, as well as ens=
ure
her the house in town, which was now a prime object, it became, by the same
rule of moral obligation, her evident duty to marry Mr. Rushworth if she co=
uld.
Mrs. Norris was most zealous in promoting the match, by every suggestion and
contrivance likely to enhance its desirableness to either party; and, among
other means, by seeking an intimacy with the gentleman's mother, who at pre=
sent
lived with him, and to whom she even forced Lady Bertram to go through ten =
miles
of indifferent road to pay a morning visit. It was not long before a good
understanding took place between this lady and herself. Mrs. Rushworth
acknowledged herself very desirous that her son should marry, and declared =
that
of all the young ladies she had ever seen, Miss Bertram seemed, by her amia=
ble
qualities and accomplishments, the best adapted to make him happy. Mrs. Nor=
ris
accepted the compliment, and admired the nice discernment of character which
could so well distinguish merit. Maria was indeed the pride and delight of =
them
all--perfectly faultless--an angel; and, of course, so surrounded by admire=
rs,
must be difficult in her choice: but yet, as far as Mrs. Norris could allow
herself to decide on so short an acquaintance, Mr. Rushworth appeared preci=
sely
the young man to deserve and attach her.
After dancing with each other at a proper numb=
er
of balls, the young people justified these opinions, and an engagement, wit=
h a
due reference to the absent Sir Thomas, was entered into, much to the
satisfaction of their respective families, and of the general lookers-on of=
the
neighbourhood, who had, for many weeks past, felt the expediency of Mr. Rus=
hworth's
marrying Miss Bertram.
It was some months before Sir Thomas's consent
could be received; but, in the meanwhile, as no one felt a doubt of his most
cordial pleasure in the connexion, the intercourse of the two families was
carried on without restraint, and no other attempt made at secrecy than Mrs=
. Norris's
talking of it everywhere as a matter not to be talked of at present.
Edmund was the only one of the family who could
see a fault in the business; but no representation of his aunt's could indu=
ce
him to find Mr. Rushworth a desirable companion. He could allow his sister =
to
be the best judge of her own happiness, but he was not pleased that her hap=
piness
should centre in a large income; nor could he refrain from often saying to
himself, in Mr. Rushworth's company--"If this man had not twelve thous=
and
a year, he would be a very stupid fellow."
Sir Thomas, however, was truly happy in the
prospect of an alliance so unquestionably advantageous, and of which he hea=
rd
nothing but the perfectly good and agreeable. It was a connexion exactly of=
the
right sort--in the same county, and the same interest--and his most hearty =
concurrence
was conveyed as soon as possible. He only conditioned that the marriage sho=
uld
not take place before his return, which he was again looking eagerly forward
to. He wrote in April, and had strong hopes of settling everything to his
entire satisfaction, and leaving Antigua before the end of the summer.
Such was the state of affairs in the month of
July; and Fanny had just reached her eighteenth year, when the society of t=
he
village received an addition in the brother and sister of Mrs. Grant, a Mr.=
and
Miss Crawford, the children of her mother by a second marriage. They were y=
oung
people of fortune. The son had a good estate in Norfolk, the daughter twenty
thousand pounds. As children, their sister had been always very fond of the=
m;
but, as her own marriage had been soon followed by the death of their common
parent, which left them to the care of a brother of their father, of whom M=
rs.
Grant knew nothing, she had scarcely seen them since. In their uncle's house
they had found a kind home. Admiral and Mrs. Crawford, though agreeing in
nothing else, were united in affection for these children, or, at least, we=
re
no farther adverse in their feelings than that each had their favourite, to=
whom
they showed the greatest fondness of the two. The Admiral delighted in the =
boy,
Mrs. Crawford doted on the girl; and it was the lady's death which now obli=
ged
her protegee, after some months' further trial at her uncle's house, to find
another home. Admiral Crawford was a man of vicious conduct, who chose, ins=
tead
of retaining his niece, to bring his mistress under his own roof; and to th=
is
Mrs. Grant was indebted for her sister's proposal of coming to her, a measu=
re
quite as welcome on one side as it could be expedient on the other; for Mrs.
Grant, having by this time run through the usual resources of ladies residi=
ng
in the country without a family of children--having more than filled her fa=
vourite
sitting-room with pretty furniture, and made a choice collection of plants =
and
poultry--was very much in want of some variety at home. The arrival, theref=
ore,
of a sister whom she had always loved, and now hoped to retain with her as =
long
as she remained single, was highly agreeable; and her chief anxiety was lest
Mansfield should not satisfy the habits of a young woman who had been mostly
used to London.
Miss Crawford was not entirely free from simil=
ar
apprehensions, though they arose principally from doubts of her sister's st=
yle
of living and tone of society; and it was not till after she had tried in v=
ain
to persuade her brother to settle with her at his own country house, that s=
he
could resolve to hazard herself among her other relations. To anything like=
a
permanence of abode, or limitation of society, Henry Crawford had, unluckil=
y, a
great dislike: he could not accommodate his sister in an article of such
importance; but he escorted her, with the utmost kindness, into
Northamptonshire, and as readily engaged to fetch her away again, at half an
hour's notice, whenever she were weary of the place.
The meeting was very satisfactory on each side.
Miss Crawford found a sister without preciseness or rusticity, a sister's
husband who looked the gentleman, and a house commodious and well fitted up;
and Mrs. Grant received in those whom she hoped to love better than ever a
young man and woman of very prepossessing appearance. Mary Crawford was
remarkably pretty; Henry, though not handsome, had air and countenance; the
manners of both were lively and pleasant, and Mrs. Grant immediately gave t=
hem credit
for everything else. She was delighted with each, but Mary was her dearest
object; and having never been able to glory in beauty of her own, she
thoroughly enjoyed the power of being proud of her sister's. She had not wa=
ited
her arrival to look out for a suitable match for her: she had fixed on Tom
Bertram; the eldest son of a baronet was not too good for a girl of twenty
thousand pounds, with all the elegance and accomplishments which Mrs. Grant
foresaw in her; and being a warm-hearted, unreserved woman, Mary had not be=
en
three hours in the house before she told her what she had planned.
Miss Crawford was glad to find a family of such
consequence so very near them, and not at all displeased either at her sist=
er's
early care, or the choice it had fallen on. Matrimony was her object, provi=
ded
she could marry well: and having seen Mr. Bertram in town, she knew that ob=
jection
could no more be made to his person than to his situation in life. While she
treated it as a joke, therefore, she did not forget to think of it seriousl=
y.
The scheme was soon repeated to Henry.
"And now," added Mrs. Grant, "I
have thought of something to make it complete. I should dearly love to sett=
le
you both in this country; and therefore, Henry, you shall marry the youngest
Miss Bertram, a nice, handsome, good-humoured, accomplished girl, who will =
make
you very happy."
Henry bowed and thanked her.
"My dear sister," said Mary, "if
you can persuade him into anything of the sort, it will be a fresh matter of
delight to me to find myself allied to anybody so clever, and I shall only
regret that you have not half a dozen daughters to dispose of. If you can
persuade Henry to marry, you must have the address of a Frenchwoman. All th=
at
English abilities can do has been tried already. I have three very particul=
ar friends
who have been all dying for him in their turn; and the pains which they, th=
eir
mothers (very clever women), as well as my dear aunt and myself, have taken=
to
reason, coax, or trick him into marrying, is inconceivable! He is the most
horrible flirt that can be imagined. If your Miss Bertrams do not like to h=
ave
their hearts broke, let them avoid Henry."
"My dear brother, I will not believe this=
of
you."
"No, I am sure you are too good. You will=
be
kinder than Mary. You will allow for the doubts of youth and inexperience. =
I am
of a cautious temper, and unwilling to risk my happiness in a hurry. Nobody=
can
think more highly of the matrimonial state than myself. I consider the bles=
sing
of a wife as most justly described in those discreet lines of the poet--'He=
aven's
last best gift.'"
"There, Mrs. Grant, you see how he dwells=
on
one word, and only look at his smile. I assure you he is very detestable; t=
he
Admiral's lessons have quite spoiled him."
"I pay very little regard," said Mrs.
Grant, "to what any young person says on the subject of marriage. If t=
hey
profess a disinclination for it, I only set it down that they have not yet =
seen
the right person."
Dr. Grant laughingly congratulated Miss Crawfo=
rd
on feeling no disinclination to the state herself.
"Oh yes! I am not at all ashamed of it. I
would have everybody marry if they can do it properly: I do not like to have
people throw themselves away; but everybody should marry as soon as they ca=
n do
it to advantage."
The young people were pleased with each other =
from
the first. On each side there was much to attract, and their acquaintance s=
oon
promised as early an intimacy as good manners would warrant. Miss Crawford's
beauty did her no disservice with the Miss Bertrams. They were too handsome=
themselves
to dislike any woman for being so too, and were almost as much charmed as t=
heir
brothers with her lively dark eye, clear brown complexion, and general
prettiness. Had she been tall, full formed, and fair, it might have been mo=
re
of a trial: but as it was, there could be no comparison; and she was most
allowably a sweet, pretty girl, while they were the finest young women in t=
he
country.
Her brother was not handsome: no, when they fi=
rst
saw him he was absolutely plain, black and plain; but still he was the
gentleman, with a pleasing address. The second meeting proved him not so ve=
ry
plain: he was plain, to be sure, but then he had so much countenance, and h=
is teeth
were so good, and he was so well made, that one soon forgot he was plain; a=
nd
after a third interview, after dining in company with him at the Parsonage,=
he
was no longer allowed to be called so by anybody. He was, in fact, the most
agreeable young man the sisters had ever known, and they were equally delig=
hted
with him. Miss Bertram's engagement made him in equity the property of Juli=
a,
of which Julia was fully aware; and before he had been at Mansfield a week,=
she
was quite ready to be fallen in love with.
Maria's notions on the subject were more confu=
sed
and indistinct. She did not want to see or understand. "There could be=
no
harm in her liking an agreeable man--everybody knew her situation--Mr. Craw=
ford
must take care of himself." Mr. Crawford did not mean to be in any dan=
ger!
the Miss Bertrams were worth pleasing, and were ready to be pleased; and he=
began
with no object but of making them like him. He did not want them to die of
love; but with sense and temper which ought to have made him judge and feel
better, he allowed himself great latitude on such points.
"I like your Miss Bertrams exceedingly,
sister," said he, as he returned from attending them to their carriage
after the said dinner visit; "they are very elegant, agreeable
girls."
"So they are indeed, and I am delighted to
hear you say it. But you like Julia best."
"Oh yes! I like Julia best."
"But do you really? for Miss Bertram is in
general thought the handsomest."
"So I should suppose. She has the advanta=
ge
in every feature, and I prefer her countenance; but I like Julia best; Miss
Bertram is certainly the handsomest, and I have found her the most agreeabl=
e,
but I shall always like Julia best, because you order me."
"I shall not talk to you, Henry, but I kn=
ow
you will like her best at last."
"Do not I tell you that I like her best at
first?"
"And besides, Miss Bertram is engaged.
Remember that, my dear brother. Her choice is made."
"Yes, and I like her the better for it. An
engaged woman is always more agreeable than a disengaged. She is satisfied =
with
herself. Her cares are over, and she feels that she may exert all her power=
s of
pleasing without suspicion. All is safe with a lady engaged: no harm can be=
done."
"Why, as to that, Mr. Rushworth is a very
good sort of young man, and it is a great match for her."
"But Miss Bertram does not care three str=
aws for
him; that is your opinion of your intimate friend. I do not subscribe to it=
. I
am sure Miss Bertram is very much attached to Mr. Rushworth. I could see it=
in her
eyes, when he was mentioned. I think too well of Miss Bertram to suppose she
would ever give her hand without her heart."
"Mary, how shall we manage him?"
"We must leave him to himself, I believe.
Talking does no good. He will be taken in at last."
"But I would not have him taken in; I wou=
ld
not have him duped; I would have it all fair and honourable."
"Oh dear! let him stand his chance and be
taken in. It will do just as well. Everybody is taken in at some period or
other."
"Not always in marriage, dear Mary."=
"In marriage especially. With all due res=
pect
to such of the present company as chance to be married, my dear Mrs. Grant,
there is not one in a hundred of either sex who is not taken in when they
marry. Look where I will, I see that it is so; and I feel that it must be s=
o,
when I consider that it is, of all transactions, the one in which people ex=
pect
most from others, and are least honest themselves."
"Ah! You have been in a bad school for
matrimony, in Hill Street."
"My poor aunt had certainly little cause =
to
love the state; but, however, speaking from my own observation, it is a
manoeuvring business. I know so many who have married in the full expectati=
on
and confidence of some one particular advantage in the connexion, or
accomplishment, or good quality in the person, who have found themselves
entirely deceived, and been obliged to put up with exactly the reverse. Wha=
t is
this but a take in?"
"My dear child, there must be a little
imagination here. I beg your pardon, but I cannot quite believe you. Depend
upon it, you see but half. You see the evil, but you do not see the
consolation. There will be little rubs and disappointments everywhere, and =
we
are all apt to expect too much; but then, if one scheme of happiness fails,
human nature turns to another; if the first calculation is wrong, we make a
second better: we find comfort somewhere--and those evil-minded observers,
dearest Mary, who make much of a little, are more taken in and deceived than
the parties themselves."
"Well done, sister! I honour your esprit =
du
corps. When I am a wife, I mean to be just as staunch myself; and I wish my
friends in general would be so too. It would save me many a heartache."=
;
"You are as bad as your brother, Mary; bu=
t we
will cure you both. Mansfield shall cure you both, and without any taking i=
n.
Stay with us, and we will cure you."
The Crawfords, without wanting to be cured, we=
re
very willing to stay. Mary was satisfied with the Parsonage as a present ho=
me,
and Henry equally ready to lengthen his visit. He had come, intending to sp=
end only
a few days with them; but Mansfield promised well, and there was nothing to
call him elsewhere. It delighted Mrs. Grant to keep them both with her, and=
Dr.
Grant was exceedingly well contented to have it so: a talking pretty young
woman like Miss Crawford is always pleasant society to an indolent, stay-at=
-home
man; and Mr. Crawford's being his guest was an excuse for drinking claret e=
very
day.
The Miss Bertrams' admiration of Mr. Crawford =
was
more rapturous than anything which Miss Crawford's habits made her likely to
feel. She acknowledged, however, that the Mr. Bertrams were very fine young
men, that two such young men were not often seen together even in London, a=
nd that
their manners, particularly those of the eldest, were very good. He had been
much in London, and had more liveliness and gallantry than Edmund, and must,
therefore, be preferred; and, indeed, his being the eldest was another stro=
ng
claim. She had felt an early presentiment that she should like the eldest b=
est.
She knew it was her way.
Tom Bertram must have been thought pleasant,
indeed, at any rate; he was the sort of young man to be generally liked, his
agreeableness was of the kind to be oftener found agreeable than some
endowments of a higher stamp, for he had easy manners, excellent spirits, a
large acquaintance, and a great deal to say; and the reversion of Mansfield
Park, and a baronetcy, did no harm to all this. Miss Crawford soon felt tha=
t he
and his situation might do. She looked about her with due consideration, an=
d found
almost everything in his favour: a park, a real park, five miles round, a
spacious modern-built house, so well placed and well screened as to deserve=
to
be in any collection of engravings of gentlemen's seats in the kingdom, and
wanting only to be completely new furnished--pleasant sisters, a quiet moth=
er,
and an agreeable man himself--with the advantage of being tied up from much
gaming at present by a promise to his father, and of being Sir Thomas
hereafter. It might do very well; she believed she should accept him; and s=
he
began accordingly to interest herself a little about the horse which he had=
to run
at the B---- races.
These races were to call him away not long aft=
er
their acquaintance began; and as it appeared that the family did not, from =
his
usual goings on, expect him back again for many weeks, it would bring his
passion to an early proof. Much was said on his side to induce her to attend
the races, and schemes were made for a large party to them, with all the ea=
gerness
of inclination, but it would only do to be talked of.
And Fanny, what was she doing and thinking all
this while? and what was her opinion of the newcomers? Few young ladies of
eighteen could be less called on to speak their opinion than Fanny. In a qu=
iet
way, very little attended to, she paid her tribute of admiration to Miss Cr=
awford's
beauty; but as she still continued to think Mr. Crawford very plain, in spi=
te
of her two cousins having repeatedly proved the contrary, she never mention=
ed
him. The notice, which she excited herself, was to this effect. "I beg=
in
now to understand you all, except Miss Price," said Miss Crawford, as =
she
was walking with the Mr. Bertrams. "Pray, is she out, or is she not? I=
am
puzzled. She dined at the Parsonage, with the rest of you, which seemed like
being out; and yet she says so little, that I can hardly suppose she is.&qu=
ot;
Edmund, to whom this was chiefly addressed,
replied, "I believe I know what you mean, but I will not undertake to
answer the question. My cousin is grown up. She has the age and sense of a
woman, but the outs and not outs are beyond me."
"And yet, in general, nothing can be more
easily ascertained. The distinction is so broad. Manners as well as appeara=
nce
are, generally speaking, so totally different. Till now, I could not have
supposed it possible to be mistaken as to a girl's being out or not. A girl=
not
out has always the same sort of dress: a close bonnet, for instance; looks =
very
demure, and never says a word. You may smile, but it is so, I assure you; a=
nd
except that it is sometimes carried a little too far, it is all very proper.
Girls should be quiet and modest. The most objectionable part is, that the
alteration of manners on being introduced into company is frequently too
sudden. They sometimes pass in such very little time from reserve to quite =
the
opposite--to confidence! That is the faulty part of the present system. One
does not like to see a girl of eighteen or nineteen so immediately up to ev=
ery
thing--and perhaps when one has seen her hardly able to speak the year befo=
re.
Mr. Bertram, I dare say you have sometimes met with such changes."
"I believe I have, but this is hardly fai=
r; I
see what you are at. You are quizzing me and Miss Anderson."
"No, indeed. Miss Anderson! I do not know=
who
or what you mean. I am quite in the dark. But I will quiz you with a great =
deal
of pleasure, if you will tell me what about."
"Ah! you carry it off very well, but I ca=
nnot
be quite so far imposed on. You must have had Miss Anderson in your eye, in
describing an altered young lady. You paint too accurately for mistake. It =
was
exactly so. The Andersons of Baker Street. We were speaking of them the oth=
er day,
you know. Edmund, you have heard me mention Charles Anderson. The circumsta=
nce
was precisely as this lady has represented it. When Anderson first introduc=
ed
me to his family, about two years ago, his sister was not out, and I could =
not
get her to speak to me. I sat there an hour one morning waiting for Anderso=
n,
with only her and a little girl or two in the room, the governess being sic=
k or
run away, and the mother in and out every moment with letters of business, =
and
I could hardly get a word or a look from the young lady--nothing like a civ=
il
answer--she screwed up her mouth, and turned from me with such an air! I did
not see her again for a twelvemonth. She was then out. I met her at Mrs.
Holford's, and did not recollect her. She came up to me, claimed me as an
acquaintance, stared me out of countenance; and talked and laughed till I d=
id
not know which way to look. I felt that I must be the jest of the room at t=
he
time, and Miss Crawford, it is plain, has heard the story."
"And a very pretty story it is, and with =
more
truth in it, I dare say, than does credit to Miss Anderson. It is too commo=
n a
fault. Mothers certainly have not yet got quite the right way of managing t=
heir
daughters. I do not know where the error lies. I do not pretend to set peop=
le
right, but I do see that they are often wrong."
"Those who are showing the world what fem=
ale
manners should be," said Mr. Bertram gallantly, "are doing a great
deal to set them right."
"The error is plain enough," said the
less courteous Edmund; "such girls are ill brought up. They are given
wrong notions from the beginning. They are always acting upon motives of
vanity, and there is no more real modesty in their behaviour before they ap=
pear
in public than afterwards."
"I do not know," replied Miss Crawfo=
rd
hesitatingly. "Yes, I cannot agree with you there. It is certainly the
modestest part of the business. It is much worse to have girls not out give
themselves the same airs and take the same liberties as if they were, which=
I
have seen done. That is worse than anything--quite disgusting!"
"Yes, that is very inconvenient indeed,&q=
uot;
said Mr. Bertram. "It leads one astray; one does not know what to do. =
The
close bonnet and demure air you describe so well (and nothing was ever just=
er),
tell one what is expected; but I got into a dreadful scrape last year from =
the
want of them. I went down to Ramsgate for a week with a friend last Septemb=
er, just
after my return from the West Indies. My friend Sneyd--you have heard me sp=
eak
of Sneyd, Edmund--his father, and mother, and sisters, were there, all new =
to
me. When we reached Albion Place they were out; we went after them, and fou=
nd
them on the pier: Mrs. and the two Miss Sneyds, with others of their
acquaintance. I made my bow in form; and as Mrs. Sneyd was surrounded by me=
n,
attached myself to one of her daughters, walked by her side all the way hom=
e,
and made myself as agreeable as I could; the young lady perfectly easy in h=
er
manners, and as ready to talk as to listen. I had not a suspicion that I co=
uld
be doing anything wrong. They looked just the same: both well-dressed, with=
veils
and parasols like other girls; but I afterwards found that I had been giving
all my attention to the youngest, who was not out, and had most excessively
offended the eldest. Miss Augusta ought not to have been noticed for the ne=
xt
six months; and Miss Sneyd, I believe, has never forgiven me."
"That was bad indeed. Poor Miss Sneyd. Th=
ough
I have no younger sister, I feel for her. To be neglected before one's time
must be very vexatious; but it was entirely the mother's fault. Miss Augusta
should have been with her governess. Such half-and-half doings never prospe=
r. But
now I must be satisfied about Miss Price. Does she go to balls? Does she di=
ne
out every where, as well as at my sister's?"
"No," replied Edmund; "I do not
think she has ever been to a ball. My mother seldom goes into company herse=
lf,
and dines nowhere but with Mrs. Grant, and Fanny stays at home with her.&qu=
ot;
"Oh! then the point is clear. Miss Price =
is
not out."
Mr. Bertram set off for--------, and Miss Craw=
ford
was prepared to find a great chasm in their society, and to miss him decide=
dly
in the meetings which were now becoming almost daily between the families; =
and
on their all dining together at the Park soon after his going, she retook h=
er
chosen place near the bottom of the table, fully expecting to feel a most
melancholy difference in the change of masters. It would be a very flat
business, she was sure. In comparison with his brother, Edmund would have
nothing to say. The soup would be sent round in a most spiritless manner, w=
ine
drank without any smiles or agreeable trifling, and the venison cut up with=
out
supplying one pleasant anecdote of any former haunch, or a single entertain=
ing
story, about "my friend such a one." She must try to find amuseme=
nt
in what was passing at the upper end of the table, and in observing Mr.
Rushworth, who was now making his appearance at Mansfield for the first time
since the Crawfords' arrival. He had been visiting a friend in the neighbou=
ring
county, and that friend having recently had his grounds laid out by an
improver, Mr. Rushworth was returned with his head full of the subject, and=
very
eager to be improving his own place in the same way; and though not saying =
much
to the purpose, could talk of nothing else. The subject had been already
handled in the drawing-room; it was revived in the dining-parlour. Miss
Bertram's attention and opinion was evidently his chief aim; and though her
deportment showed rather conscious superiority than any solicitude to oblige
him, the mention of Sotherton Court, and the ideas attached to it, gave her=
a
feeling of complacency, which prevented her from being very ungracious.
"I wish you could see Compton," said=
he;
"it is the most complete thing! I never saw a place so altered in my l=
ife.
I told Smith I did not know where I was. The approach now, is one of the fi=
nest
things in the country: you see the house in the most surprising manner. I
declare, when I got back to Sotherton yesterday, it looked like a prison--q=
uite
a dismal old prison."
"Oh, for shame!" cried Mrs. Norris.
"A prison indeed? Sotherton Court is the noblest old place in the
world."
"It wants improvement, ma'am, beyond
anything. I never saw a place that wanted so much improvement in my life; a=
nd
it is so forlorn that I do not know what can be done with it."
"No wonder that Mr. Rushworth should thin=
k so
at present," said Mrs. Grant to Mrs. Norris, with a smile; "but
depend upon it, Sotherton will have every improvement in time which his hea=
rt
can desire."
"I must try to do something with it,"
said Mr. Rushworth, "but I do not know what. I hope I shall have some =
good
friend to help me."
"Your best friend upon such an
occasion," said Miss Bertram calmly, "would be Mr. Repton, I
imagine."
"That is what I was thinking of. As he has
done so well by Smith, I think I had better have him at once. His terms are
five guineas a day."
"Well, and if they were ten," cried =
Mrs.
Norris, "I am sure you need not regard it. The expense need not be any
impediment. If I were you, I should not think of the expense. I would have
everything done in the best style, and made as nice as possible. Such a pla=
ce as
Sotherton Court deserves everything that taste and money can do. You have s=
pace
to work upon there, and grounds that will well reward you. For my own part,=
if
I had anything within the fiftieth part of the size of Sotherton, I should =
be
always planting and improving, for naturally I am excessively fond of it. It
would be too ridiculous for me to attempt anything where I am now, with my
little half acre. It would be quite a burlesque. But if I had more room, I
should take a prodigious delight in improving and planting. We did a vast d=
eal
in that way at the Parsonage: we made it quite a different place from what =
it
was when we first had it. You young ones do not remember much about it,
perhaps; but if dear Sir Thomas were here, he could tell you what improveme=
nts
we made: and a great deal more would have been done, but for poor Mr. Norri=
s's
sad state of health. He could hardly ever get out, poor man, to enjoy anyth=
ing,
and that disheartened me from doing several things that Sir Thomas and I us=
ed
to talk of. If it had not been for that, we should have carried on the gard=
en
wall, and made the plantation to shut out the churchyard, just as Dr. Grant=
has
done. We were always doing something as it was. It was only the spring
twelvemonth before Mr. Norris's death that we put in the apricot against the
stable wall, which is now grown such a noble tree, and getting to such
perfection, sir," addressing herself then to Dr. Grant.
"The tree thrives well, beyond a doubt,
madam," replied Dr. Grant. "The soil is good; and I never pass it
without regretting that the fruit should be so little worth the trouble of
gathering."
"Sir, it is a Moor Park, we bought it as a
Moor Park, and it cost us--that is, it was a present from Sir Thomas, but I=
saw
the bill--and I know it cost seven shillings, and was charged as a Moor
Park."
"You were imposed on, ma'am," replied
Dr. Grant: "these potatoes have as much the flavour of a Moor Park apr=
icot
as the fruit from that tree. It is an insipid fruit at the best; but a good
apricot is eatable, which none from my garden are."
"The truth is, ma'am," said Mrs. Gra=
nt,
pretending to whisper across the table to Mrs. Norris, "that Dr. Grant
hardly knows what the natural taste of our apricot is: he is scarcely ever
indulged with one, for it is so valuable a fruit; with a little assistance,=
and
ours is such a remarkably large, fair sort, that what with early tarts and
preserves, my cook contrives to get them all."
Mrs. Norris, who had begun to redden, was
appeased; and, for a little while, other subjects took place of the
improvements of Sotherton. Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris were seldom good frien=
ds;
their acquaintance had begun in dilapidations, and their habits were totally
dissimilar.
After a short interruption Mr. Rushworth began
again. "Smith's place is the admiration of all the country; and it was=
a
mere nothing before Repton took it in hand. I think I shall have Repton.&qu=
ot;
"Mr. Rushworth," said Lady Bertram,
"if I were you, I would have a very pretty shrubbery. One likes to get=
out
into a shrubbery in fine weather."
Mr. Rushworth was eager to assure her ladyship=
of
his acquiescence, and tried to make out something complimentary; but, betwe=
en
his submission to her taste, and his having always intended the same himsel=
f,
with the superadded objects of professing attention to the comfort of ladie=
s in
general, and of insinuating that there was one only whom he was anxious to
please, he grew puzzled, and Edmund was glad to put an end to his speech by=
a
proposal of wine. Mr. Rushworth, however, though not usually a great talker,
had still more to say on the subject next his heart. "Smith has not mu=
ch
above a hundred acres altogether in his grounds, which is little enough, and
makes it more surprising that the place can have been so improved. Now, at
Sotherton we have a good seven hundred, without reckoning the water meadows=
; so
that I think, if so much could be done at Compton, we need not despair. The=
re
have been two or three fine old trees cut down, that grew too near the hous=
e,
and it opens the prospect amazingly, which makes me think that Repton, or a=
nybody
of that sort, would certainly have the avenue at Sotherton down: the avenue
that leads from the west front to the top of the hill, you know," turn=
ing
to Miss Bertram particularly as he spoke. But Miss Bertram thought it most
becoming to reply--
"The avenue! Oh! I do not recollect it. I
really know very little of Sotherton."
Fanny, who was sitting on the other side of
Edmund, exactly opposite Miss Crawford, and who had been attentively listen=
ing,
now looked at him, and said in a low voice--
"Cut down an avenue! What a pity! Does it=
not
make you think of Cowper? 'Ye fallen avenues, once more I mourn your fate
unmerited.'"
He smiled as he answered, "I am afraid the
avenue stands a bad chance, Fanny."
"I should like to see Sotherton before it=
is
cut down, to see the place as it is now, in its old state; but I do not sup=
pose
I shall."
"Have you never been there? No, you never
can; and, unluckily, it is out of distance for a ride. I wish we could cont=
rive
it."
"Oh! it does not signify. Whenever I do s=
ee
it, you will tell me how it has been altered."
"I collect," said Miss Crawford,
"that Sotherton is an old place, and a place of some grandeur. In any
particular style of building?"
"The house was built in Elizabeth's time,=
and
is a large, regular, brick building; heavy, but respectable looking, and has
many good rooms. It is ill placed. It stands in one of the lowest spots of =
the
park; in that respect, unfavourable for improvement. But the woods are fine,
and there is a stream, which, I dare say, might be made a good deal of. Mr.=
Rushworth
is quite right, I think, in meaning to give it a modern dress, and I have no
doubt that it will be all done extremely well."
Miss Crawford listened with submission, and sa=
id
to herself, "He is a well-bred man; he makes the best of it."
"I do not wish to influence Mr.
Rushworth," he continued; "but, had I a place to new fashion, I
should not put myself into the hands of an improver. I would rather have an
inferior degree of beauty, of my own choice, and acquired progressively. I
would rather abide by my own blunders than by his."
"You would know what you were about, of
course; but that would not suit me. I have no eye or ingenuity for such
matters, but as they are before me; and had I a place of my own in the coun=
try,
I should be most thankful to any Mr. Repton who would undertake it, and giv=
e me
as much beauty as he could for my money; and I should never look at it till=
it was
complete."
"It would be delightful to me to see the
progress of it all," said Fanny.
"Ay, you have been brought up to it. It w=
as
no part of my education; and the only dose I ever had, being administered by
not the first favourite in the world, has made me consider improvements in =
hand
as the greatest of nuisances. Three years ago the Admiral, my honoured uncl=
e, bought
a cottage at Twickenham for us all to spend our summers in; and my aunt and=
I
went down to it quite in raptures; but it being excessively pretty, it was =
soon
found necessary to be improved, and for three months we were all dirt and
confusion, without a gravel walk to step on, or a bench fit for use. I would
have everything as complete as possible in the country, shrubberies and
flower-gardens, and rustic seats innumerable: but it must all be done witho=
ut
my care. Henry is different; he loves to be doing."
Edmund was sorry to hear Miss Crawford, whom he
was much disposed to admire, speak so freely of her uncle. It did not suit =
his
sense of propriety, and he was silenced, till induced by further smiles and=
liveliness
to put the matter by for the present.
"Mr. Bertram," said she, "I have
tidings of my harp at last. I am assured that it is safe at Northampton; and
there it has probably been these ten days, in spite of the solemn assurance=
s we
have so often received to the contrary." Edmund expressed his pleasure=
and
surprise. "The truth is, that our inquiries were too direct; we sent a
servant, we went ourselves: this will not do seventy miles from London; but=
this
morning we heard of it in the right way. It was seen by some farmer, and he
told the miller, and the miller told the butcher, and the butcher's son-in-=
law
left word at the shop."
"I am very glad that you have heard of it=
, by
whatever means, and hope there will be no further delay."
"I am to have it to-morrow; but how do you
think it is to be conveyed? Not by a wagon or cart: oh no! nothing of that =
kind
could be hired in the village. I might as well have asked for porters and a
handbarrow."
"You would find it difficult, I dare say,
just now, in the middle of a very late hay harvest, to hire a horse and
cart?"
"I was astonished to find what a piece of
work was made of it! To want a horse and cart in the country seemed impossi=
ble,
so I told my maid to speak for one directly; and as I cannot look out of my
dressing-closet without seeing one farmyard, nor walk in the shrubbery with=
out
passing another, I thought it would be only ask and have, and was rather
grieved that I could not give the advantage to all. Guess my surprise, when=
I
found that I had been asking the most unreasonable, most impossible thing in
the world; had offended all the farmers, all the labourers, all the hay in =
the
parish! As for Dr. Grant's bailiff, I believe I had better keep out of his =
way;
and my brother-in-law himself, who is all kindness in general, looked rather
black upon me when he found what I had been at."
"You could not be expected to have though=
t on
the subject before; but when you do think of it, you must see the importanc=
e of
getting in the grass. The hire of a cart at any time might not be so easy as
you suppose: our farmers are not in the habit of letting them out; but, in =
harvest,
it must be quite out of their power to spare a horse."
"I shall understand all your ways in time;
but, coming down with the true London maxim, that everything is to be got w=
ith
money, I was a little embarrassed at first by the sturdy independence of yo=
ur
country customs. However, I am to have my harp fetched to-morrow. Henry, wh=
o is
good-nature itself, has offered to fetch it in his barouche. Will it not be
honourably conveyed?"
Edmund spoke of the harp as his favourite
instrument, and hoped to be soon allowed to hear her. Fanny had never heard=
the
harp at all, and wished for it very much.
"I shall be most happy to play to you
both," said Miss Crawford; "at least as long as you can like to
listen: probably much longer, for I dearly love music myself, and where the
natural taste is equal the player must always be best off, for she is grati=
fied
in more ways than one. Now, Mr. Bertram, if you write to your brother, I
entreat you to tell him that my harp is come: he heard so much of my misery
about it. And you may say, if you please, that I shall prepare my most
plaintive airs against his return, in compassion to his feelings, as I know=
his
horse will lose."
"If I write, I will say whatever you wish=
me;
but I do not, at present, foresee any occasion for writing."
"No, I dare say, nor if he were to be gon=
e a
twelvemonth, would you ever write to him, nor he to you, if it could be hel=
ped.
The occasion would never be foreseen. What strange creatures brothers are! =
You
would not write to each other but upon the most urgent necessity in the wor=
ld;
and when obliged to take up the pen to say that such a horse is ill, or suc=
h a
relation dead, it is done in the fewest possible words. You have but one st=
yle
among you. I know it perfectly. Henry, who is in every other respect exactly
what a brother should be, who loves me, consults me, confides in me, and wi=
ll
talk to me by the hour together, has never yet turned the page in a letter;=
and
very often it is nothing more than--'Dear Mary, I am just arrived. Bath see=
ms
full, and everything as usual. Yours sincerely.' That is the true manly sty=
le;
that is a complete brother's letter."
"When they are at a distance from all the=
ir
family," said Fanny, colouring for William's sake, "they can write
long letters."
"Miss Price has a brother at sea," s=
aid
Edmund, "whose excellence as a correspondent makes her think you too
severe upon us."
"At sea, has she? In the king's service, =
of
course?"
Fanny would rather have had Edmund tell the st=
ory,
but his determined silence obliged her to relate her brother's situation: h=
er
voice was animated in speaking of his profession, and the foreign stations =
he
had been on; but she could not mention the number of years that he had been=
absent
without tears in her eyes. Miss Crawford civilly wished him an early promot=
ion.
"Do you know anything of my cousin's
captain?" said Edmund; "Captain Marshall? You have a large
acquaintance in the navy, I conclude?"
"Among admirals, large enough; but,"
with an air of grandeur, "we know very little of the inferior ranks.
Post-captains may be very good sort of men, but they do not belong to us. Of
various admirals I could tell you a great deal: of them and their flags, and
the gradation of their pay, and their bickerings and jealousies. But, in
general, I can assure you that they are all passed over, and all very ill u=
sed.
Certainly, my home at my uncle's brought me acquainted with a circle of
admirals. Of Rears and Vices I saw enough. Now do not be suspecting me of a
pun, I entreat."
Edmund again felt grave, and only replied,
"It is a noble profession."
"Yes, the profession is well enough under=
two
circumstances: if it make the fortune, and there be discretion in spending =
it;
but, in short, it is not a favourite profession of mine. It has never worn =
an
amiable form to me."
Edmund reverted to the harp, and was again very
happy in the prospect of hearing her play.
The subject of improving grounds, meanwhile, w=
as
still under consideration among the others; and Mrs. Grant could not help
addressing her brother, though it was calling his attention from Miss Julia=
Bertram.
"My dear Henry, have you nothing to say? =
You
have been an improver yourself, and from what I hear of Everingham, it may =
vie
with any place in England. Its natural beauties, I am sure, are great.
Everingham, as it used to be, was perfect in my estimation: such a happy fa=
ll of
ground, and such timber! What would I not give to see it again?"
"Nothing could be so gratifying to me as =
to
hear your opinion of it," was his answer; "but I fear there would=
be
some disappointment: you would not find it equal to your present ideas. In
extent, it is a mere nothing; you would be surprised at its insignificance;
and, as for improvement, there was very little for me to do--too little: I
should like to have been busy much longer."
"You are fond of the sort of thing?"
said Julia.
"Excessively; but what with the natural
advantages of the ground, which pointed out, even to a very young eye, what
little remained to be done, and my own consequent resolutions, I had not be=
en
of age three months before Everingham was all that it is now. My plan was l=
aid at
Westminster, a little altered, perhaps, at Cambridge, and at one-and-twenty
executed. I am inclined to envy Mr. Rushworth for having so much happiness =
yet
before him. I have been a devourer of my own."
"Those who see quickly, will resolve quic=
kly,
and act quickly," said Julia. "You can never want employment. Ins=
tead
of envying Mr. Rushworth, you should assist him with your opinion."
Mrs. Grant, hearing the latter part of this
speech, enforced it warmly, persuaded that no judgment could be equal to her
brother's; and as Miss Bertram caught at the idea likewise, and gave it her
full support, declaring that, in her opinion, it was infinitely better to
consult with friends and disinterested advisers, than immediately to throw =
the business
into the hands of a professional man, Mr. Rushworth was very ready to reque=
st
the favour of Mr. Crawford's assistance; and Mr. Crawford, after properly
depreciating his own abilities, was quite at his service in any way that co=
uld
be useful. Mr. Rushworth then began to propose Mr. Crawford's doing him the
honour of coming over to Sotherton, and taking a bed there; when Mrs. Norri=
s,
as if reading in her two nieces' minds their little approbation of a plan w=
hich
was to take Mr. Crawford away, interposed with an amendment.
"There can be no doubt of Mr. Crawford's
willingness; but why should not more of us go? Why should not we make a lit=
tle
party? Here are many that would be interested in your improvements, my dear=
Mr.
Rushworth, and that would like to hear Mr. Crawford's opinion on the spot, =
and
that might be of some small use to you with their opinions; and, for my own
part, I have been long wishing to wait upon your good mother again; nothing=
but
having no horses of my own could have made me so remiss; but now I could go=
and
sit a few hours with Mrs. Rushworth, while the rest of you walked about and
settled things, and then we could all return to a late dinner here, or dine=
at
Sotherton, just as might be most agreeable to your mother, and have a pleas=
ant
drive home by moonlight. I dare say Mr. Crawford would take my two nieces a=
nd
me in his barouche, and Edmund can go on horseback, you know, sister, and F=
anny
will stay at home with you."
Lady Bertram made no objection; and every one
concerned in the going was forward in expressing their ready concurrence,
excepting Edmund, who heard it all and said nothing.
"Well, Fanny, and how do you like Miss
Crawford now?" said Edmund the next day, after thinking some time on t=
he
subject himself. "How did you like her yesterday?"
"Very well--very much. I like to hear her
talk. She entertains me; and she is so extremely pretty, that I have great
pleasure in looking at her."
"It is her countenance that is so attract=
ive.
She has a wonderful play of feature! But was there nothing in her conversat=
ion
that struck you, Fanny, as not quite right?"
"Oh yes! she ought not to have spoken of =
her
uncle as she did. I was quite astonished. An uncle with whom she has been
living so many years, and who, whatever his faults may be, is so very fond =
of
her brother, treating him, they say, quite like a son. I could not have
believed it!"
"I thought you would be struck. It was ve=
ry
wrong; very indecorous."
"And very ungrateful, I think."
"Ungrateful is a strong word. I do not kn=
ow
that her uncle has any claim to her gratitude; his wife certainly had; and =
it
is the warmth of her respect for her aunt's memory which misleads her here.=
She
is awkwardly circumstanced. With such warm feelings and lively spirits it m=
ust
be difficult to do justice to her affection for Mrs. Crawford, without thro=
wing
a shade on the Admiral. I do not pretend to know which was most to blame in
their disagreements, though the Admiral's present conduct might incline one=
to
the side of his wife; but it is natural and amiable that Miss Crawford shou=
ld
acquit her aunt entirely. I do not censure her opinions; but there certainl=
y is
impropriety in making them public."
"Do not you think," said Fanny, afte=
r a
little consideration, "that this impropriety is a reflection itself up=
on
Mrs. Crawford, as her niece has been entirely brought up by her? She cannot
have given her right notions of what was due to the Admiral."
"That is a fair remark. Yes, we must supp=
ose
the faults of the niece to have been those of the aunt; and it makes one mo=
re
sensible of the disadvantages she has been under. But I think her present h=
ome
must do her good. Mrs. Grant's manners are just what they ought to be. She =
speaks
of her brother with a very pleasing affection."
"Yes, except as to his writing her such s=
hort
letters. She made me almost laugh; but I cannot rate so very highly the lov=
e or
good-nature of a brother who will not give himself the trouble of writing
anything worth reading to his sisters, when they are separated. I am sure
William would never have used me so, under any circumstances. And what righ=
t had
she to suppose that you would not write long letters when you were absent?&=
quot;
"The right of a lively mind, Fanny, seizi=
ng
whatever may contribute to its own amusement or that of others; perfectly
allowable, when untinctured by ill-humour or roughness; and there is not a
shadow of either in the countenance or manner of Miss Crawford: nothing sha=
rp,
or loud, or coarse. She is perfectly feminine, except in the instances we h=
ave been
speaking of. There she cannot be justified. I am glad you saw it all as I
did."
Having formed her mind and gained her affectio=
ns,
he had a good chance of her thinking like him; though at this period, and on
this subject, there began now to be some danger of dissimilarity, for he wa=
s in
a line of admiration of Miss Crawford, which might lead him where Fanny cou=
ld
not follow. Miss Crawford's attractions did not lessen. The harp arrived, a=
nd
rather added to her beauty, wit, and good-humour; for she played with the
greatest obligingness, with an expression and taste which were peculiarly
becoming, and there was something clever to be said at the close of every a=
ir.
Edmund was at the Parsonage every day, to be indulged with his favourite
instrument: one morning secured an invitation for the next; for the lady co=
uld
not be unwilling to have a listener, and every thing was soon in a fair tra=
in.
A young woman, pretty, lively, with a harp as
elegant as herself, and both placed near a window, cut down to the ground, =
and
opening on a little lawn, surrounded by shrubs in the rich foliage of summe=
r,
was enough to catch any man's heart. The season, the scene, the air, were a=
ll
favourable to tenderness and sentiment. Mrs. Grant and her tambour frame we=
re
not without their use: it was all in harmony; and as everything will turn to
account when love is once set going, even the sandwich tray, and Dr. Grant
doing the honours of it, were worth looking at. Without studying the busine=
ss,
however, or knowing what he was about, Edmund was beginning, at the end of a
week of such intercourse, to be a good deal in love; and to the credit of t=
he
lady it may be added that, without his being a man of the world or an elder
brother, without any of the arts of flattery or the gaieties of small talk,=
he
began to be agreeable to her. She felt it to be so, though she had not
foreseen, and could hardly understand it; for he was not pleasant by any co=
mmon
rule: he talked no nonsense; he paid no compliments; his opinions were
unbending, his attentions tranquil and simple. There was a charm, perhaps, =
in
his sincerity, his steadiness, his integrity, which Miss Crawford might be
equal to feel, though not equal to discuss with herself. She did not think =
very
much about it, however: he pleased her for the present; she liked to have h=
im
near her; it was enough.
Fanny could not wonder that Edmund was at the
Parsonage every morning; she would gladly have been there too, might she ha=
ve
gone in uninvited and unnoticed, to hear the harp; neither could she wonder
that, when the evening stroll was over, and the two families parted again, =
he
should think it right to attend Mrs. Grant and her sister to their home, wh=
ile Mr.
Crawford was devoted to the ladies of the Park; but she thought it a very b=
ad
exchange; and if Edmund were not there to mix the wine and water for her, w=
ould
rather go without it than not. She was a little surprised that he could spe=
nd
so many hours with Miss Crawford, and not see more of the sort of fault whi=
ch
he had already observed, and of which she was almost always reminded by a
something of the same nature whenever she was in her company; but so it was.
Edmund was fond of speaking to her of Miss Crawford, but he seemed to think=
it
enough that the Admiral had since been spared; and she scrupled to point out
her own remarks to him, lest it should appear like ill-nature. The first ac=
tual
pain which Miss Crawford occasioned her was the consequence of an inclinati=
on
to learn to ride, which the former caught, soon after her being settled at
Mansfield, from the example of the young ladies at the Park, and which, when
Edmund's acquaintance with her increased, led to his encouraging the wish, =
and
the offer of his own quiet mare for the purpose of her first attempts, as t=
he
best fitted for a beginner that either stable could furnish. No pain, no
injury, however, was designed by him to his cousin in this offer: she was n=
ot
to lose a day's exercise by it. The mare was only to be taken down to the
Parsonage half an hour before her ride were to begin; and Fanny, on its bei=
ng
first proposed, so far from feeling slighted, was almost over-powered with =
gratitude
that he should be asking her leave for it.
Miss Crawford made her first essay with great
credit to herself, and no inconvenience to Fanny. Edmund, who had taken down
the mare and presided at the whole, returned with it in excellent time, bef=
ore
either Fanny or the steady old coachman, who always attended her when she r=
ode
without her cousins, were ready to set forward. The second day's trial was =
not so
guiltless. Miss Crawford's enjoyment of riding was such that she did not kn=
ow
how to leave off. Active and fearless, and though rather small, strongly ma=
de,
she seemed formed for a horsewoman; and to the pure genuine pleasure of the
exercise, something was probably added in Edmund's attendance and instructi=
ons,
and something more in the conviction of very much surpassing her sex in gen=
eral
by her early progress, to make her unwilling to dismount. Fanny was ready a=
nd waiting,
and Mrs. Norris was beginning to scold her for not being gone, and still no
horse was announced, no Edmund appeared. To avoid her aunt, and look for hi=
m,
she went out.
The houses, though scarcely half a mile apart,
were not within sight of each other; but, by walking fifty yards from the h=
all
door, she could look down the park, and command a view of the Parsonage and=
all
its demesnes, gently rising beyond the village road; and in Dr. Grant's mea=
dow
she immediately saw the group--Edmund and Miss Crawford both on horse-back,
riding side by side, Dr. and Mrs. Grant, and Mr. Crawford, with two or three
grooms, standing about and looking on. A happy party it appeared to her, all
interested in one object: cheerful beyond a doubt, for the sound of merrime=
nt
ascended even to her. It was a sound which did not make her cheerful; she
wondered that Edmund should forget her, and felt a pang. She could not turn=
her
eyes from the meadow; she could not help watching all that passed. At first
Miss Crawford and her companion made the circuit of the field, which was no=
t small,
at a foot's pace; then, at her apparent suggestion, they rose into a canter;
and to Fanny's timid nature it was most astonishing to see how well she sat.
After a few minutes they stopped entirely. Edmund was close to her; he was
speaking to her; he was evidently directing her management of the bridle; he
had hold of her hand; she saw it, or the imagination supplied what the eye
could not reach. She must not wonder at all this; what could be more natural
than that Edmund should be making himself useful, and proving his good-natu=
re
by any one? She could not but think, indeed, that Mr. Crawford might as well
have saved him the trouble; that it would have been particularly proper and
becoming in a brother to have done it himself; but Mr. Crawford, with all h=
is boasted
good-nature, and all his coachmanship, probably knew nothing of the matter,=
and
had no active kindness in comparison of Edmund. She began to think it rather
hard upon the mare to have such double duty; if she were forgotten, the poor
mare should be remembered.
Her feelings for one and the other were soon a
little tranquillised by seeing the party in the meadow disperse, and Miss
Crawford still on horseback, but attended by Edmund on foot, pass through a
gate into the lane, and so into the park, and make towards the spot where s=
he
stood. She began then to be afraid of appearing rude and impatient; and wal=
ked to
meet them with a great anxiety to avoid the suspicion.
"My dear Miss Price," said Miss
Crawford, as soon as she was at all within hearing, "I am come to make=
my
own apologies for keeping you waiting; but I have nothing in the world to s=
ay
for myself--I knew it was very late, and that I was behaving extremely ill;=
and
therefore, if you please, you must forgive me. Selfishness must always be
forgiven, you know, because there is no hope of a cure."
Fanny's answer was extremely civil, and Edmund
added his conviction that she could be in no hurry. "For there is more
than time enough for my cousin to ride twice as far as she ever goes,"
said he, "and you have been promoting her comfort by preventing her fr=
om
setting off half an hour sooner: clouds are now coming up, and she will not
suffer from the heat as she would have done then. I wish you may not be
fatigued by so much exercise. I wish you had saved yourself this walk
home."
"No part of it fatigues me but getting off
this horse, I assure you," said she, as she sprang down with his help;
"I am very strong. Nothing ever fatigues me but doing what I do not li=
ke.
Miss Price, I give way to you with a very bad grace; but I sincerely hope y=
ou
will have a pleasant ride, and that I may have nothing but good to hear of =
this
dear, delightful, beautiful animal."
The old coachman, who had been waiting about w=
ith
his own horse, now joining them, Fanny was lifted on hers, and they set off
across another part of the park; her feelings of discomfort not lightened by
seeing, as she looked back, that the others were walking down the hill toge=
ther
to the village; nor did her attendant do her much good by his comments on M=
iss
Crawford's great cleverness as a horse-woman, which he had been watching wi=
th
an interest almost equal to her own.
"It is a pleasure to see a lady with such=
a
good heart for riding!" said he. "I never see one sit a horse bet=
ter.
She did not seem to have a thought of fear. Very different from you, miss, =
when
you first began, six years ago come next Easter. Lord bless you! how you did
tremble when Sir Thomas first had you put on!"
In the drawing-room Miss Crawford was also
celebrated. Her merit in being gifted by Nature with strength and courage w=
as
fully appreciated by the Miss Bertrams; her delight in riding was like their
own; her early excellence in it was like their own, and they had great plea=
sure
in praising it.
"I was sure she would ride well," sa=
id
Julia; "she has the make for it. Her figure is as neat as her
brother's."
"Yes," added Maria, "and her
spirits are as good, and she has the same energy of character. I cannot but
think that good horsemanship has a great deal to do with the mind."
When they parted at night Edmund asked Fanny
whether she meant to ride the next day.
"No, I do not know--not if you want the
mare," was her answer.
"I do not want her at all for myself,&quo=
t;
said he; "but whenever you are next inclined to stay at home, I think =
Miss
Crawford would be glad to have her a longer time--for a whole morning, in
short. She has a great desire to get as far as Mansfield Common: Mrs. Grant=
has
been telling her of its fine views, and I have no doubt of her being perfec=
tly
equal to it. But any morning will do for this. She would be extremely sorry=
to interfere
with you. It would be very wrong if she did. She rides only for pleasure; y=
ou
for health."
"I shall not ride to-morrow, certainly,&q=
uot;
said Fanny; "I have been out very often lately, and would rather stay =
at
home. You know I am strong enough now to walk very well."
Edmund looked pleased, which must be Fanny's
comfort, and the ride to Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the
party included all the young people but herself, and was much enjoyed at the
time, and doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion. A successful sche=
me
of this sort generally brings on another; and the having been to Mansfield =
Common
disposed them all for going somewhere else the day after. There were many o=
ther
views to be shewn; and though the weather was hot, there were shady lanes
wherever they wanted to go. A young party is always provided with a shady l=
ane.
Four fine mornings successively were spent in this manner, in shewing the
Crawfords the country, and doing the honours of its finest spots. Everything
answered; it was all gaiety and good-humour, the heat only supplying
inconvenience enough to be talked of with pleasure--till the fourth day, wh=
en
the happiness of one of the party was exceedingly clouded. Miss Bertram was=
the
one. Edmund and Julia were invited to dine at the Parsonage, and she was
excluded. It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant, with perfect good-humour, on=
Mr.
Rushworth's account, who was partly expected at the Park that day; but it w=
as
felt as a very grievous injury, and her good manners were severely taxed to
conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home. As Mr. Rushworth did =
not
come, the injury was increased, and she had not even the relief of shewing =
her
power over him; she could only be sullen to her mother, aunt, and cousin, a=
nd
throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert.
Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room, fresh with the evening air, glowing and cheerful, the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes from her book, and Lady Bertram was half-asle= ep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour, and having asked o= ne or two questions about the dinner, which were not immediately attended to, seemed almost determined to say no more. For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars, to think beyond themselves; but when the first pause came, Edmund, looking around, said, "But where is Fanny? Is she gone to bed?" <= o:p>
"No, not that I know of," replied Mr=
s.
Norris; "she was here a moment ago."
Her own gentle voice speaking from the other e=
nd
of the room, which was a very long one, told them that she was on the sofa.
Mrs. Norris began scolding.
"That is a very foolish trick, Fanny, to =
be
idling away all the evening upon a sofa. Why cannot you come and sit here, =
and
employ yourself as we do? If you have no work of your own, I can supply you
from the poor basket. There is all the new calico, that was bought last wee=
k, not
touched yet. I am sure I almost broke my back by cutting it out. You should
learn to think of other people; and, take my word for it, it is a shocking
trick for a young person to be always lolling upon a sofa."
Before half this was said, Fanny was returned =
to
her seat at the table, and had taken up her work again; and Julia, who was =
in
high good-humour, from the pleasures of the day, did her the justice of
exclaiming, "I must say, ma'am, that Fanny is as little upon the sofa =
as
anybody in the house."
"Fanny," said Edmund, after looking =
at
her attentively, "I am sure you have the headache."
She could not deny it, but said it was not very
bad.
"I can hardly believe you," he repli=
ed;
"I know your looks too well. How long have you had it?"
"Since a little before dinner. It is noth=
ing
but the heat."
"Did you go out in the heat?"
"Go out! to be sure she did," said M=
rs.
Norris: "would you have her stay within such a fine day as this? Were =
not
we all out? Even your mother was out to-day for above an hour."
"Yes, indeed, Edmund," added her
ladyship, who had been thoroughly awakened by Mrs. Norris's sharp reprimand=
to
Fanny; "I was out above an hour. I sat three-quarters of an hour in the
flower-garden, while Fanny cut the roses; and very pleasant it was, I assure
you, but very hot. It was shady enough in the alcove, but I declare I quite
dreaded the coming home again."
"Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?&q=
uot;
"Yes, and I am afraid they will be the la=
st
this year. Poor thing! She found it hot enough; but they were so full-blown
that one could not wait."
"There was no help for it, certainly,&quo=
t;
rejoined Mrs. Norris, in a rather softened voice; "but I question whet=
her
her headache might not be caught then, sister. There is nothing so likely to
give it as standing and stooping in a hot sun; but I dare say it will be we=
ll
to-morrow. Suppose you let her have your aromatic vinegar; I always forget =
to
have mine filled."
"She has got it," said Lady Bertram;
"she has had it ever since she came back from your house the second
time."
"What!" cried Edmund; "has she =
been
walking as well as cutting roses; walking across the hot park to your house,
and doing it twice, ma'am? No wonder her head aches."
Mrs. Norris was talking to Julia, and did not
hear.
"I was afraid it would be too much for
her," said Lady Bertram; "but when the roses were gathered, your =
aunt
wished to have them, and then you know they must be taken home."
"But were there roses enough to oblige he=
r to
go twice?"
"No; but they were to be put into the spa=
re
room to dry; and, unluckily, Fanny forgot to lock the door of the room and
bring away the key, so she was obliged to go again."
Edmund got up and walked about the room, sayin=
g,
"And could nobody be employed on such an errand but Fanny? Upon my wor=
d,
ma'am, it has been a very ill-managed business."
"I am sure I do not know how it was to ha=
ve
been done better," cried Mrs. Norris, unable to be longer deaf;
"unless I had gone myself, indeed; but I cannot be in two places at on=
ce;
and I was talking to Mr. Green at that very time about your mother's dairym=
aid,
by her desire, and had promised John Groom to write to Mrs. Jefferies about=
his
son, and the poor fellow was waiting for me half an hour. I think nobody can
justly accuse me of sparing myself upon any occasion, but really I cannot do
everything at once. And as for Fanny's just stepping down to my house for m=
e--it
is not much above a quarter of a mile--I cannot think I was unreasonable to=
ask
it. How often do I pace it three times a day, early and late, ay, and in all
weathers too, and say nothing about it?"
"I wish Fanny had half your strength,
ma'am."
"If Fanny would be more regular in her
exercise, she would not be knocked up so soon. She has not been out on
horseback now this long while, and I am persuaded that, when she does not r=
ide,
she ought to walk. If she had been riding before, I should not have asked i=
t of
her. But I thought it would rather do her good after being stooping among t=
he roses;
for there is nothing so refreshing as a walk after a fatigue of that kind; =
and
though the sun was strong, it was not so very hot. Between ourselves,
Edmund," nodding significantly at his mother, "it was cutting the
roses, and dawdling about in the flower-garden, that did the mischief."=
;
"I am afraid it was, indeed," said t=
he
more candid Lady Bertram, who had overheard her; "I am very much afraid
she caught the headache there, for the heat was enough to kill anybody. It =
was
as much as I could bear myself. Sitting and calling to Pug, and trying to k=
eep
him from the flower-beds, was almost too much for me."
Edmund said no more to either lady; but going
quietly to another table, on which the supper-tray yet remained, brought a
glass of Madeira to Fanny, and obliged her to drink the greater part. She
wished to be able to decline it; but the tears, which a variety of feelings
created, made it easier to swallow than to speak.
Vexed as Edmund was with his mother and aunt, =
he
was still more angry with himself. His own forgetfulness of her was worse t=
han
anything which they had done. Nothing of this would have happened had she b=
een
properly considered; but she had been left four days together without any
choice of companions or exercise, and without any excuse for avoiding whate=
ver her
unreasonable aunts might require. He was ashamed to think that for four days
together she had not had the power of riding, and very seriously resolved,
however unwilling he must be to check a pleasure of Miss Crawford's, that it
should never happen again.
Fanny went to bed with her heart as full as on=
the
first evening of her arrival at the Park. The state of her spirits had prob=
ably
had its share in her indisposition; for she had been feeling neglected, and
been struggling against discontent and envy for some days past. As she lean=
t on
the sofa, to which she had retreated that she might not be seen, the pain of
her mind had been much beyond that in her head; and the sudden change which
Edmund's kindness had then occasioned, made her hardly know how to support
herself.
Fanny's rides recommenced the very next day; a=
nd
as it was a pleasant fresh-feeling morning, less hot than the weather had
lately been, Edmund trusted that her losses, both of health and pleasure, w=
ould
be soon made good. While she was gone Mr. Rushworth arrived, escorting his
mother, who came to be civil and to shew her civility especially, in urging=
the
execution of the plan for visiting Sotherton, which had been started a fort=
night
before, and which, in consequence of her subsequent absence from home, had
since lain dormant. Mrs. Norris and her nieces were all well pleased with i=
ts
revival, and an early day was named and agreed to, provided Mr. Crawford sh=
ould
be disengaged: the young ladies did not forget that stipulation, and though
Mrs. Norris would willingly have answered for his being so, they would neit=
her
authorise the liberty nor run the risk; and at last, on a hint from Miss
Bertram, Mr. Rushworth discovered that the properest thing to be done was f=
or
him to walk down to the Parsonage directly, and call on Mr. Crawford, and
inquire whether Wednesday would suit him or not.
Before his return Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford
came in. Having been out some time, and taken a different route to the hous=
e,
they had not met him. Comfortable hopes, however, were given that he would =
find
Mr. Crawford at home. The Sotherton scheme was mentioned of course. It was =
hardly
possible, indeed, that anything else should be talked of, for Mrs. Norris w=
as
in high spirits about it; and Mrs. Rushworth, a well-meaning, civil, prosin=
g,
pompous woman, who thought nothing of consequence, but as it related to her=
own
and her son's concerns, had not yet given over pressing Lady Bertram to be =
of
the party. Lady Bertram constantly declined it; but her placid manner of
refusal made Mrs. Rushworth still think she wished to come, till Mrs. Norri=
s's
more numerous words and louder tone convinced her of the truth.
"The fatigue would be too much for my sis=
ter,
a great deal too much, I assure you, my dear Mrs. Rushworth. Ten miles ther=
e,
and ten back, you know. You must excuse my sister on this occasion, and acc=
ept
of our two dear girls and myself without her. Sotherton is the only place t=
hat could
give her a wish to go so far, but it cannot be, indeed. She will have a
companion in Fanny Price, you know, so it will all do very well; and as for
Edmund, as he is not here to speak for himself, I will answer for his being
most happy to join the party. He can go on horseback, you know."
Mrs. Rushworth being obliged to yield to Lady
Bertram's staying at home, could only be sorry. "The loss of her
ladyship's company would be a great drawback, and she should have been
extremely happy to have seen the young lady too, Miss Price, who had never =
been
at Sotherton yet, and it was a pity she should not see the place."
"You are very kind, you are all kindness,=
my
dear madam," cried Mrs. Norris; "but as to Fanny, she will have
opportunities in plenty of seeing Sotherton. She has time enough before her;
and her going now is quite out of the question. Lady Bertram could not poss=
ibly
spare her."
"Oh no! I cannot do without Fanny." =
Mrs. Rushworth proceeded next, under the
conviction that everybody must be wanting to see Sotherton, to include Miss
Crawford in the invitation; and though Mrs. Grant, who had not been at the
trouble of visiting Mrs. Rushworth, on her coming into the neighbourhood,
civilly declined it on her own account, she was glad to secure any pleasure=
for
her sister; and Mary, properly pressed and persuaded, was not long in accep=
ting
her share of the civility. Mr. Rushworth came back from the Parsonage succe=
ssful;
and Edmund made his appearance just in time to learn what had been settled =
for
Wednesday, to attend Mrs. Rushworth to her carriage, and walk half-way down=
the
park with the two other ladies.
On his return to the breakfast-room, he found =
Mrs.
Norris trying to make up her mind as to whether Miss Crawford's being of the
party were desirable or not, or whether her brother's barouche would not be
full without her. The Miss Bertrams laughed at the idea, assuring her that =
the
barouche would hold four perfectly well, independent of the box, on which o=
ne
might go with him.
"But why is it necessary," said Edmu=
nd,
"that Crawford's carriage, or his only, should be employed? Why is no =
use
to be made of my mother's chaise? I could not, when the scheme was first
mentioned the other day, understand why a visit from the family were not to=
be
made in the carriage of the family."
"What!" cried Julia: "go boxed =
up
three in a postchaise in this weather, when we may have seats in a barouche!
No, my dear Edmund, that will not quite do."
"Besides," said Maria, "I know =
that
Mr. Crawford depends upon taking us. After what passed at first, he would c=
laim
it as a promise."
"And, my dear Edmund," added Mrs.
Norris, "taking out two carriages when one will do, would be trouble f=
or
nothing; and, between ourselves, coachman is not very fond of the roads bet=
ween
this and Sotherton: he always complains bitterly of the narrow lanes scratc=
hing
his carriage, and you know one should not like to have dear Sir Thomas, whe=
n he
comes home, find all the varnish scratched off."
"That would not be a very handsome reason=
for
using Mr. Crawford's," said Maria; "but the truth is, that Wilcox=
is
a stupid old fellow, and does not know how to drive. I will answer for it t=
hat
we shall find no inconvenience from narrow roads on Wednesday."
"There is no hardship, I suppose, nothing
unpleasant," said Edmund, "in going on the barouche box."
"Unpleasant!" cried Maria: "oh
dear! I believe it would be generally thought the favourite seat. There can=
be
no comparison as to one's view of the country. Probably Miss Crawford will
choose the barouche-box herself."
"There can be no objection, then, to Fann=
y's
going with you; there can be no doubt of your having room for her."
"Fanny!" repeated Mrs. Norris; "=
;my
dear Edmund, there is no idea of her going with us. She stays with her aunt=
. I
told Mrs. Rushworth so. She is not expected."
"You can have no reason, I imagine,
madam," said he, addressing his mother, "for wishing Fanny not to=
be
of the party, but as it relates to yourself, to your own comfort. If you co=
uld
do without her, you would not wish to keep her at home?"
"To be sure not, but I cannot do without
her."
"You can, if I stay at home with you, as I
mean to do."
There was a general cry out at this.
"Yes," he continued, "there is no necessity for my going, an=
d I
mean to stay at home. Fanny has a great desire to see Sotherton. I know she
wishes it very much. She has not often a gratification of the kind, and I am
sure, ma'am, you would be glad to give her the pleasure now?"
"Oh yes! very glad, if your aunt sees no
objection."
Mrs. Norris was very ready with the only objec=
tion
which could remain--their having positively assured Mrs. Rushworth that Fan=
ny
could not go, and the very strange appearance there would consequently be i=
n taking
her, which seemed to her a difficulty quite impossible to be got over. It m=
ust
have the strangest appearance! It would be something so very unceremonious,=
so
bordering on disrespect for Mrs. Rushworth, whose own manners were such a
pattern of good-breeding and attention, that she really did not feel equal =
to
it. Mrs. Norris had no affection for Fanny, and no wish of procuring her
pleasure at any time; but her opposition to Edmund now, arose more from
partiality for her own scheme, because it was her own, than from anything e=
lse.
She felt that she had arranged everything extremely well, and that any
alteration must be for the worse. When Edmund, therefore, told her in reply=
, as
he did when she would give him the hearing, that she need not distress hers=
elf
on Mrs. Rushworth's account, because he had taken the opportunity, as he wa=
lked
with her through the hall, of mentioning Miss Price as one who would probab=
ly
be of the party, and had directly received a very sufficient invitation for=
his
cousin, Mrs. Norris was too much vexed to submit with a very good grace, and
would only say, "Very well, very well, just as you chuse, settle it yo=
ur
own way, I am sure I do not care about it."
"It seems very odd," said Maria,
"that you should be staying at home instead of Fanny."
"I am sure she ought to be very much obli=
ged
to you," added Julia, hastily leaving the room as she spoke, from a
consciousness that she ought to offer to stay at home herself.
"Fanny will feel quite as grateful as the
occasion requires," was Edmund's only reply, and the subject dropt.
Fanny's gratitude, when she heard the plan, wa=
s,
in fact, much greater than her pleasure. She felt Edmund's kindness with al=
l,
and more than all, the sensibility which he, unsuspicious of her fond attac=
hment,
could be aware of; but that he should forego any enjoyment on her account g=
ave
her pain, and her own satisfaction in seeing Sotherton would be nothing wit=
hout
him.
The next meeting of the two Mansfield families
produced another alteration in the plan, and one that was admitted with gen=
eral
approbation. Mrs. Grant offered herself as companion for the day to Lady Be=
rtram
in lieu of her son, and Dr. Grant was to join them at dinner. Lady Bertram =
was
very well pleased to have it so, and the young ladies were in spirits again.
Even Edmund was very thankful for an arrangement which restored him to his
share of the party; and Mrs. Norris thought it an excellent plan, and had i=
t at
her tongue's end, and was on the point of proposing it, when Mrs. Grant spo=
ke.
Wednesday was fine, and soon after breakfast t=
he
barouche arrived, Mr. Crawford driving his sisters; and as everybody was re=
ady,
there was nothing to be done but for Mrs. Grant to alight and the others to
take their places. The place of all places, the envied seat, the post of ho=
nour,
was unappropriated. To whose happy lot was it to fall? While each of the Mi=
ss
Bertrams were meditating how best, and with the most appearance of obliging=
the
others, to secure it, the matter was settled by Mrs. Grant's saying, as she
stepped from the carriage, "As there are five of you, it will be better
that one should sit with Henry; and as you were saying lately that you wish=
ed
you could drive, Julia, I think this will be a good opportunity for you to =
take
a lesson."
Happy Julia! Unhappy Maria! The former was on =
the
barouche-box in a moment, the latter took her seat within, in gloom and
mortification; and the carriage drove off amid the good wishes of the two
remaining ladies, and the barking of Pug in his mistress's arms.
Their road was through a pleasant country; and
Fanny, whose rides had never been extensive, was soon beyond her knowledge,=
and
was very happy in observing all that was new, and admiring all that was pre=
tty.
She was not often invited to join in the conversation of the others, nor di=
d she
desire it. Her own thoughts and reflections were habitually her best
companions; and, in observing the appearance of the country, the bearings of
the roads, the difference of soil, the state of the harvest, the cottages, =
the
cattle, the children, she found entertainment that could only have been
heightened by having Edmund to speak to of what she felt. That was the only
point of resemblance between her and the lady who sat by her: in everything=
but
a value for Edmund, Miss Crawford was very unlike her. She had none of Fann=
y's
delicacy of taste, of mind, of feeling; she saw Nature, inanimate Nature, w=
ith
little observation; her attention was all for men and women, her talents for
the light and lively. In looking back after Edmund, however, when there was=
any
stretch of road behind them, or when he gained on them in ascending a consi=
derable
hill, they were united, and a "there he is" broke at the same mom=
ent
from them both, more than once.
For the first seven miles Miss Bertram had very
little real comfort: her prospect always ended in Mr. Crawford and her sist=
er
sitting side by side, full of conversation and merriment; and to see only h=
is
expressive profile as he turned with a smile to Julia, or to catch the laug=
h of
the other, was a perpetual source of irritation, which her own sense of
propriety could but just smooth over. When Julia looked back, it was with a
countenance of delight, and whenever she spoke to them, it was in the highe=
st
spirits: "her view of the country was charming, she wished they could =
all
see it," etc.; but her only offer of exchange was addressed to Miss
Crawford, as they gained the summit of a long hill, and was not more inviti=
ng
than this: "Here is a fine burst of country. I wish you had my seat, b=
ut I
dare say you will not take it, let me press you ever so much;" and Miss
Crawford could hardly answer before they were moving again at a good pace. =
When they came within the influence of Sothert=
on
associations, it was better for Miss Bertram, who might be said to have two
strings to her bow. She had Rushworth feelings, and Crawford feelings, and =
in the
vicinity of Sotherton the former had considerable effect. Mr. Rushworth's
consequence was hers. She could not tell Miss Crawford that "those woo=
ds
belonged to Sotherton," she could not carelessly observe that "she
believed that it was now all Mr. Rushworth's property on each side of the
road," without elation of heart; and it was a pleasure to increase with
their approach to the capital freehold mansion, and ancient manorial reside=
nce
of the family, with all its rights of court-leet and court-baron.
"Now we shall have no more rough road, Mi=
ss
Crawford; our difficulties are over. The rest of the way is such as it ough=
t to
be. Mr. Rushworth has made it since he succeeded to the estate. Here begins=
the
village. Those cottages are really a disgrace. The church spire is reckoned=
remarkably
handsome. I am glad the church is not so close to the great house as often
happens in old places. The annoyance of the bells must be terrible. There is
the parsonage: a tidy-looking house, and I understand the clergyman and his
wife are very decent people. Those are almshouses, built by some of the fam=
ily.
To the right is the steward's house; he is a very respectable man. Now we a=
re
coming to the lodge-gates; but we have nearly a mile through the park still=
. It
is not ugly, you see, at this end; there is some fine timber, but the situa=
tion
of the house is dreadful. We go down hill to it for half a mile, and it is a
pity, for it would not be an ill-looking place if it had a better
approach."
Miss Crawford was not slow to admire; she pret=
ty
well guessed Miss Bertram's feelings, and made it a point of honour to prom=
ote
her enjoyment to the utmost. Mrs. Norris was all delight and volubility; an=
d even
Fanny had something to say in admiration, and might be heard with complacen=
cy.
Her eye was eagerly taking in everything within her reach; and after being =
at
some pains to get a view of the house, and observing that "it was a so=
rt
of building which she could not look at but with respect," she added,
"Now, where is the avenue? The house fronts the east, I perceive. The
avenue, therefore, must be at the back of it. Mr. Rushworth talked of the w=
est
front."
"Yes, it is exactly behind the house; beg=
ins
at a little distance, and ascends for half a mile to the extremity of the
grounds. You may see something of it here--something of the more distant tr=
ees.
It is oak entirely."
Miss Bertram could now speak with decided
information of what she had known nothing about when Mr. Rushworth had asked
her opinion; and her spirits were in as happy a flutter as vanity and pride
could furnish, when they drove up to the spacious stone steps before the
principal entrance.
Mr. Rushworth was at the door to receive his f=
air
lady; and the whole party were welcomed by him with due attention. In the
drawing-room they were met with equal cordiality by the mother, and Miss
Bertram had all the distinction with each that she could wish. After the bu=
siness
of arriving was over, it was first necessary to eat, and the doors were thr=
own
open to admit them through one or two intermediate rooms into the appointed
dining-parlour, where a collation was prepared with abundance and elegance.
Much was said, and much was ate, and all went well. The particular object of
the day was then considered. How would Mr. Crawford like, in what manner wo=
uld
he chuse, to take a survey of the grounds? Mr. Rushworth mentioned his
curricle. Mr. Crawford suggested the greater desirableness of some carriage
which might convey more than two. "To be depriving themselves of the
advantage of other eyes and other judgments, might be an evil even beyond t=
he
loss of present pleasure."
Mrs. Rushworth proposed that the chaise should=
be
taken also; but this was scarcely received as an amendment: the young ladies
neither smiled nor spoke. Her next proposition, of shewing the house to suc=
h of
them as had not been there before, was more acceptable, for Miss Bertram was
pleased to have its size displayed, and all were glad to be doing something=
.
The whole party rose accordingly, and under Mr=
s.
Rushworth's guidance were shewn through a number of rooms, all lofty, and m=
any
large, and amply furnished in the taste of fifty years back, with shining f=
loors,
solid mahogany, rich damask, marble, gilding, and carving, each handsome in=
its
way. Of pictures there were abundance, and some few good, but the larger pa=
rt
were family portraits, no longer anything to anybody but Mrs. Rushworth, who
had been at great pains to learn all that the housekeeper could teach, and =
was
now almost equally well qualified to shew the house. On the present occasion
she addressed herself chiefly to Miss Crawford and Fanny, but there was no
comparison in the willingness of their attention; for Miss Crawford, who had
seen scores of great houses, and cared for none of them, had only the
appearance of civilly listening, while Fanny, to whom everything was almost=
as
interesting as it was new, attended with unaffected earnestness to all that
Mrs. Rushworth could relate of the family in former times, its rise and gra=
ndeur,
regal visits and loyal efforts, delighted to connect anything with history
already known, or warm her imagination with scenes of the past.
The situation of the house excluded the
possibility of much prospect from any of the rooms; and while Fanny and som=
e of
the others were attending Mrs. Rushworth, Henry Crawford was looking grave =
and
shaking his head at the windows. Every room on the west front looked across=
a
lawn to the beginning of the avenue immediately beyond tall iron palisades =
and
gates.
Having visited many more rooms than could be
supposed to be of any other use than to contribute to the window-tax, and f=
ind
employment for housemaids, "Now," said Mrs. Rushworth, "we a=
re
coming to the chapel, which properly we ought to enter from above, and look
down upon; but as we are quite among friends, I will take you in this way, =
if
you will excuse me."
They entered. Fanny's imagination had prepared=
her
for something grander than a mere spacious, oblong room, fitted up for the
purpose of devotion: with nothing more striking or more solemn than the
profusion of mahogany, and the crimson velvet cushions appearing over the l=
edge
of the family gallery above. "I am disappointed," said she, in a =
low
voice, to Edmund. "This is not my idea of a chapel. There is nothing a=
wful
here, nothing melancholy, nothing grand. Here are no aisles, no arches, no
inscriptions, no banners. No banners, cousin, to be 'blown by the night win=
d of
heaven.' No signs that a 'Scottish monarch sleeps below.'"
"You forget, Fanny, how lately all this h=
as
been built, and for how confined a purpose, compared with the old chapels of
castles and monasteries. It was only for the private use of the family. They
have been buried, I suppose, in the parish church. There you must look for =
the
banners and the achievements."
"It was foolish of me not to think of all
that; but I am disappointed."
Mrs. Rushworth began her relation. "This
chapel was fitted up as you see it, in James the Second's time. Before that
period, as I understand, the pews were only wainscot; and there is some rea=
son
to think that the linings and cushions of the pulpit and family seat were o=
nly
purple cloth; but this is not quite certain. It is a handsome chapel, and w=
as formerly
in constant use both morning and evening. Prayers were always read in it by=
the
domestic chaplain, within the memory of many; but the late Mr. Rushworth le=
ft
it off."
"Every generation has its improvements,&q=
uot;
said Miss Crawford, with a smile, to Edmund.
Mrs. Rushworth was gone to repeat her lesson to
Mr. Crawford; and Edmund, Fanny, and Miss Crawford remained in a cluster
together.
"It is a pity," cried Fanny, "t=
hat
the custom should have been discontinued. It was a valuable part of former
times. There is something in a chapel and chaplain so much in character wit=
h a
great house, with one's ideas of what such a household should be! A whole
family assembling regularly for the purpose of prayer is fine!"
"Very fine indeed," said Miss Crawfo=
rd,
laughing. "It must do the heads of the family a great deal of good to
force all the poor housemaids and footmen to leave business and pleasure, a=
nd
say their prayers here twice a day, while they are inventing excuses themse=
lves
for staying away."
"That is hardly Fanny's idea of a family
assembling," said Edmund. "If the master and mistress do not atte=
nd
themselves, there must be more harm than good in the custom."
"At any rate, it is safer to leave people=
to
their own devices on such subjects. Everybody likes to go their own way--to
chuse their own time and manner of devotion. The obligation of attendance, =
the
formality, the restraint, the length of time--altogether it is a formidable
thing, and what nobody likes; and if the good people who used to kneel and =
gape
in that gallery could have foreseen that the time would ever come when men =
and
women might lie another ten minutes in bed, when they woke with a headache,
without danger of reprobation, because chapel was missed, they would have
jumped with joy and envy. Cannot you imagine with what unwilling feelings t=
he
former belles of the house of Rushworth did many a time repair to this chap=
el?
The young Mrs. Eleanors and Mrs. Bridgets--starched up into seeming piety, =
but
with heads full of something very different--especially if the poor chaplain
were not worth looking at--and, in those days, I fancy parsons were very
inferior even to what they are now."
For a few moments she was unanswered. Fanny
coloured and looked at Edmund, but felt too angry for speech; and he needed=
a
little recollection before he could say, "Your lively mind can hardly =
be serious
even on serious subjects. You have given us an amusing sketch, and human na=
ture
cannot say it was not so. We must all feel at times the difficulty of fixing
our thoughts as we could wish; but if you are supposing it a frequent thing,
that is to say, a weakness grown into a habit from neglect, what could be
expected from the private devotions of such persons? Do you think the minds
which are suffered, which are indulged in wanderings in a chapel, would be =
more
collected in a closet?"
"Yes, very likely. They would have two
chances at least in their favour. There would be less to distract the atten=
tion
from without, and it would not be tried so long."
"The mind which does not struggle against
itself under one circumstance, would find objects to distract it in the oth=
er,
I believe; and the influence of the place and of example may often rouse be=
tter
feelings than are begun with. The greater length of the service, however, I
admit to be sometimes too hard a stretch upon the mind. One wishes it were =
not
so; but I have not yet left Oxford long enough to forget what chapel prayers
are."
While this was passing, the rest of the party =
being
scattered about the chapel, Julia called Mr. Crawford's attention to her
sister, by saying, "Do look at Mr. Rushworth and Maria, standing side =
by
side, exactly as if the ceremony were going to be performed. Have not they
completely the air of it?"
Mr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and step=
ping
forward to Maria, said, in a voice which she only could hear, "I do not
like to see Miss Bertram so near the altar."
Starting, the lady instinctively moved a step =
or
two, but recovering herself in a moment, affected to laugh, and asked him, =
in a
tone not much louder, "If he would give her away?"
"I am afraid I should do it very
awkwardly," was his reply, with a look of meaning.
Julia, joining them at the moment, carried on =
the
joke.
"Upon my word, it is really a pity that it
should not take place directly, if we had but a proper licence, for here we=
are
altogether, and nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant."=
And
she talked and laughed about it with so little caution as to catch the comp=
rehension
of Mr. Rushworth and his mother, and expose her sister to the whispered
gallantries of her lover, while Mrs. Rushworth spoke with proper smiles and
dignity of its being a most happy event to her whenever it took place.
"If Edmund were but in orders!" cried
Julia, and running to where he stood with Miss Crawford and Fanny: "My
dear Edmund, if you were but in orders now, you might perform the ceremony
directly. How unlucky that you are not ordained; Mr. Rushworth and Maria are
quite ready."
Miss Crawford's countenance, as Julia spoke, m=
ight
have amused a disinterested observer. She looked almost aghast under the new
idea she was receiving. Fanny pitied her. "How distressed she will be =
at
what she said just now," passed across her mind.
"Ordained!" said Miss Crawford;
"what, are you to be a clergyman?"
"Yes; I shall take orders soon after my
father's return--probably at Christmas."
Miss Crawford, rallying her spirits, and recovering her complexion, replied only, "If I had known this before, = I would have spoken of the cloth with more respect," and turned the subject. <= o:p>
The chapel was soon afterwards left to the sil=
ence
and stillness which reigned in it, with few interruptions, throughout the y=
ear.
Miss Bertram, displeased with her sister, led the way, and all seemed to fe=
el that
they had been there long enough.
The lower part of the house had been now entir=
ely
shewn, and Mrs. Rushworth, never weary in the cause, would have proceeded
towards the principal staircase, and taken them through all the rooms above=
, if
her son had not interposed with a doubt of there being time enough. "F=
or if,"
said he, with the sort of self-evident proposition which many a clearer head
does not always avoid, "we are too long going over the house, we shall=
not
have time for what is to be done out of doors. It is past two, and we are to
dine at five."
Mrs. Rushworth submitted; and the question of
surveying the grounds, with the who and the how, was likely to be more fully
agitated, and Mrs. Norris was beginning to arrange by what junction of
carriages and horses most could be done, when the young people, meeting wit=
h an
outward door, temptingly open on a flight of steps which led immediately to
turf and shrubs, and all the sweets of pleasure-grounds, as by one impulse,=
one
wish for air and liberty, all walked out.
"Suppose we turn down here for the
present," said Mrs. Rushworth, civilly taking the hint and following t=
hem.
"Here are the greatest number of our plants, and here are the curious
pheasants."
"Query," said Mr. Crawford, looking
round him, "whether we may not find something to employ us here before=
we
go farther? I see walls of great promise. Mr. Rushworth, shall we summon a
council on this lawn?"
"James," said Mrs. Rushworth to her =
son,
"I believe the wilderness will be new to all the party. The Miss Bertr=
ams
have never seen the wilderness yet."
No objection was made, but for some time there
seemed no inclination to move in any plan, or to any distance. All were
attracted at first by the plants or the pheasants, and all dispersed about =
in
happy independence. Mr. Crawford was the first to move forward to examine t=
he
capabilities of that end of the house. The lawn, bounded on each side by a =
high
wall, contained beyond the first planted area a bowling-green, and beyond t=
he
bowling-green a long terrace walk, backed by iron palisades, and commanding=
a
view over them into the tops of the trees of the wilderness immediately
adjoining. It was a good spot for fault-finding. Mr. Crawford was soon foll=
owed
by Miss Bertram and Mr. Rushworth; and when, after a little time, the others
began to form into parties, these three were found in busy consultation on =
the
terrace by Edmund, Miss Crawford, and Fanny, who seemed as naturally to uni=
te,
and who, after a short participation of their regrets and difficulties, left
them and walked on. The remaining three, Mrs. Rushworth, Mrs. Norris, and
Julia, were still far behind; for Julia, whose happy star no longer prevail=
ed, was
obliged to keep by the side of Mrs. Rushworth, and restrain her impatient f=
eet
to that lady's slow pace, while her aunt, having fallen in with the
housekeeper, who was come out to feed the pheasants, was lingering behind in
gossip with her. Poor Julia, the only one out of the nine not tolerably
satisfied with their lot, was now in a state of complete penance, and as
different from the Julia of the barouche-box as could well be imagined. The
politeness which she had been brought up to practise as a duty made it
impossible for her to escape; while the want of that higher species of
self-command, that just consideration of others, that knowledge of her own
heart, that principle of right, which had not formed any essential part of =
her
education, made her miserable under it.
"This is insufferably hot," said Mis=
s Crawford,
when they had taken one turn on the terrace, and were drawing a second time=
to
the door in the middle which opened to the wilderness. "Shall any of us
object to being comfortable? Here is a nice little wood, if one can but get
into it. What happiness if the door should not be locked! but of course it =
is; for
in these great places the gardeners are the only people who can go where th=
ey
like."
The door, however, proved not to be locked, and
they were all agreed in turning joyfully through it, and leaving the
unmitigated glare of day behind. A considerable flight of steps landed them=
in
the wilderness, which was a planted wood of about two acres, and though chi=
efly
of larch and laurel, and beech cut down, and though laid out with too much =
regularity,
was darkness and shade, and natural beauty, compared with the bowling-green=
and
the terrace. They all felt the refreshment of it, and for some time could o=
nly
walk and admire. At length, after a short pause, Miss Crawford began with,
"So you are to be a clergyman, Mr. Bertram. This is rather a surprise =
to
me."
"Why should it surprise you? You must sup=
pose
me designed for some profession, and might perceive that I am neither a law=
yer,
nor a soldier, nor a sailor."
"Very true; but, in short, it had not occ=
urred
to me. And you know there is generally an uncle or a grandfather to leave a
fortune to the second son."
"A very praiseworthy practice," said
Edmund, "but not quite universal. I am one of the exceptions, and being
one, must do something for myself."
"But why are you to be a clergyman? I tho=
ught
that was always the lot of the youngest, where there were many to chuse bef=
ore
him."
"Do you think the church itself never cho=
sen,
then?"
"Never is a black word. But yes, in the n=
ever
of conversation, which means not very often, I do think it. For what is to =
be
done in the church? Men love to distinguish themselves, and in either of the
other lines distinction may be gained, but not in the church. A clergyman i=
s nothing."
"The nothing of conversation has its
gradations, I hope, as well as the never. A clergyman cannot be high in sta=
te
or fashion. He must not head mobs, or set the ton in dress. But I cannot ca=
ll
that situation nothing which has the charge of all that is of the first
importance to mankind, individually or collectively considered, temporally =
and eternally,
which has the guardianship of religion and morals, and consequently of the
manners which result from their influence. No one here can call the office
nothing. If the man who holds it is so, it is by the neglect of his duty, by
foregoing its just importance, and stepping out of his place to appear what=
he
ought not to appear."
"You assign greater consequence to the
clergyman than one has been used to hear given, or than I can quite compreh=
end.
One does not see much of this influence and importance in society, and how =
can
it be acquired where they are so seldom seen themselves? How can two sermon=
s a week,
even supposing them worth hearing, supposing the preacher to have the sense=
to
prefer Blair's to his own, do all that you speak of? govern the conduct and
fashion the manners of a large congregation for the rest of the week? One
scarcely sees a clergyman out of his pulpit."
"You are speaking of London, I am speakin=
g of
the nation at large."
"The metropolis, I imagine, is a pretty f=
air
sample of the rest."
"Not, I should hope, of the proportion of
virtue to vice throughout the kingdom. We do not look in great cities for o=
ur
best morality. It is not there that respectable people of any denomination =
can
do most good; and it certainly is not there that the influence of the clergy
can be most felt. A fine preacher is followed and admired; but it is not in
fine preaching only that a good clergyman will be useful in his parish and =
his
neighbourhood, where the parish and neighbourhood are of a size capable of
knowing his private character, and observing his general conduct, which in
London can rarely be the case. The clergy are lost there in the crowds of t=
heir
parishioners. They are known to the largest part only as preachers. And with
regard to their influencing public manners, Miss Crawford must not
misunderstand me, or suppose I mean to call them the arbiters of good-breed=
ing,
the regulators of refinement and courtesy, the masters of the ceremonies of
life. The manners I speak of might rather be called conduct, perhaps, the
result of good principles; the effect, in short, of those doctrines which i=
t is
their duty to teach and recommend; and it will, I believe, be everywhere fo=
und,
that as the clergy are, or are not what they ought to be, so are the rest of
the nation."
"Certainly," said Fanny, with gentle
earnestness.
"There," cried Miss Crawford, "=
you
have quite convinced Miss Price already."
"I wish I could convince Miss Crawford
too."
"I do not think you ever will," said
she, with an arch smile; "I am just as much surprised now as I was at
first that you should intend to take orders. You really are fit for somethi=
ng
better. Come, do change your mind. It is not too late. Go into the law.&quo=
t;
"Go into the law! With as much ease as I =
was
told to go into this wilderness."
"Now you are going to say something about=
law
being the worst wilderness of the two, but I forestall you; remember, I have
forestalled you."
"You need not hurry when the object is on=
ly
to prevent my saying a bon mot, for there is not the least wit in my nature=
. I
am a very matter-of-fact, plain-spoken being, and may blunder on the border=
s of
a repartee for half an hour together without striking it out."
A general silence succeeded. Each was thoughtf=
ul.
Fanny made the first interruption by saying, "I wonder that I should be
tired with only walking in this sweet wood; but the next time we come to a
seat, if it is not disagreeable to you, I should be glad to sit down for a
little while."
"My dear Fanny," cried Edmund,
immediately drawing her arm within his, "how thoughtless I have been! I
hope you are not very tired. Perhaps," turning to Miss Crawford, "=
;my
other companion may do me the honour of taking an arm."
"Thank you, but I am not at all tired.&qu=
ot;
She took it, however, as she spoke, and the gratification of having her do =
so,
of feeling such a connexion for the first time, made him a little forgetful=
of
Fanny. "You scarcely touch me," said he. "You do not make me=
of
any use. What a difference in the weight of a woman's arm from that of a ma=
n!
At Oxford I have been a good deal used to have a man lean on me for the len=
gth
of a street, and you are only a fly in the comparison."
"I am really not tired, which I almost wo=
nder
at; for we must have walked at least a mile in this wood. Do not you think =
we
have?"
"Not half a mile," was his sturdy
answer; for he was not yet so much in love as to measure distance, or reckon
time, with feminine lawlessness.
"Oh! you do not consider how much we have
wound about. We have taken such a very serpentine course, and the wood itse=
lf
must be half a mile long in a straight line, for we have never seen the end=
of
it yet since we left the first great path."
"But if you remember, before we left that
first great path, we saw directly to the end of it. We looked down the whole
vista, and saw it closed by iron gates, and it could not have been more tha=
n a
furlong in length."
"Oh! I know nothing of your furlongs, but=
I
am sure it is a very long wood, and that we have been winding in and out ev=
er
since we came into it; and therefore, when I say that we have walked a mile=
in
it, I must speak within compass."
"We have been exactly a quarter of an hour
here," said Edmund, taking out his watch. "Do you think we are
walking four miles an hour?"
"Oh! do not attack me with your watch. A
watch is always too fast or too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch.&q=
uot;
A few steps farther brought them out at the bo=
ttom
of the very walk they had been talking of; and standing back, well shaded a=
nd
sheltered, and looking over a ha-ha into the park, was a comfortable-sized
bench, on which they all sat down.
"I am afraid you are very tired, Fanny,&q=
uot;
said Edmund, observing her; "why would not you speak sooner? This will=
be
a bad day's amusement for you if you are to be knocked up. Every sort of
exercise fatigues her so soon, Miss Crawford, except riding."
"How abominable in you, then, to let me
engross her horse as I did all last week! I am ashamed of you and of myself,
but it shall never happen again."
"Your attentiveness and consideration mak=
es
me more sensible of my own neglect. Fanny's interest seems in safer hands w=
ith
you than with me."
"That she should be tired now, however, g=
ives
me no surprise; for there is nothing in the course of one's duties so fatig=
uing
as what we have been doing this morning: seeing a great house, dawdling from
one room to another, straining one's eyes and one's attention, hearing what=
one
does not understand, admiring what one does not care for. It is generally a=
llowed
to be the greatest bore in the world, and Miss Price has found it so, though
she did not know it."
"I shall soon be rested," said Fanny;
"to sit in the shade on a fine day, and look upon verdure, is the most=
perfect
refreshment."
After sitting a little while Miss Crawford was=
up
again. "I must move," said she; "resting fatigues me. I have
looked across the ha-ha till I am weary. I must go and look through that ir=
on
gate at the same view, without being able to see it so well."
Edmund left the seat likewise. "Now, Miss
Crawford, if you will look up the walk, you will convince yourself that it
cannot be half a mile long, or half half a mile."
"It is an immense distance," said sh=
e;
"I see that with a glance."
He still reasoned with her, but in vain. She w=
ould
not calculate, she would not compare. She would only smile and assert. The
greatest degree of rational consistency could not have been more engaging, =
and
they talked with mutual satisfaction. At last it was agreed that they shoul=
d endeavour
to determine the dimensions of the wood by walking a little more about it. =
They
would go to one end of it, in the line they were then in--for there was a
straight green walk along the bottom by the side of the ha-ha--and perhaps =
turn
a little way in some other direction, if it seemed likely to assist them, a=
nd
be back in a few minutes. Fanny said she was rested, and would have moved t=
oo,
but this was not suffered. Edmund urged her remaining where she was with an=
earnestness
which she could not resist, and she was left on the bench to think with
pleasure of her cousin's care, but with great regret that she was not stron=
ger.
She watched them till they had turned the corner, and listened till all sou=
nd
of them had ceased.
A quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, passed a=
way,
and Fanny was still thinking of Edmund, Miss Crawford, and herself, without
interruption from any one. She began to be surprised at being left so long,=
and
to listen with an anxious desire of hearing their steps and their voices ag=
ain.
She listened, and at length she heard; she heard voices and feet approachin=
g;
but she had just satisfied herself that it was not those she wanted, when M=
iss
Bertram, Mr. Rushworth, and Mr. Crawford issued from the same path which she
had trod herself, and were before her.
"Miss Price all alone" and "My =
dear
Fanny, how comes this?" were the first salutations. She told her story.
"Poor dear Fanny," cried her cousin, "how ill you have been =
used
by them! You had better have staid with us."
Then seating herself with a gentleman on each
side, she resumed the conversation which had engaged them before, and discu=
ssed
the possibility of improvements with much animation. Nothing was fixed on; =
but
Henry Crawford was full of ideas and projects, and, generally speaking,
whatever he proposed was immediately approved, first by her, and then by Mr.
Rushworth, whose principal business seemed to be to hear the others, and who
scarcely risked an original thought of his own beyond a wish that they had =
seen
his friend Smith's place.
After some minutes spent in this way, Miss
Bertram, observing the iron gate, expressed a wish of passing through it in=
to
the park, that their views and their plans might be more comprehensive. It =
was
the very thing of all others to be wished, it was the best, it was the only=
way
of proceeding with any advantage, in Henry Crawford's opinion; and he direc=
tly
saw a knoll not half a mile off, which would give them exactly the requisite
command of the house. Go therefore they must to that knoll, and through that
gate; but the gate was locked. Mr. Rushworth wished he had brought the key;=
he
had been very near thinking whether he should not bring the key; he was
determined he would never come without the key again; but still this did not
remove the present evil. They could not get through; and as Miss Bertram's
inclination for so doing did by no means lessen, it ended in Mr. Rushworth's
declaring outright that he would go and fetch the key. He set off according=
ly.
"It is undoubtedly the best thing we can =
do
now, as we are so far from the house already," said Mr. Crawford, when=
he
was gone.
"Yes, there is nothing else to be done. B=
ut
now, sincerely, do not you find the place altogether worse than you expecte=
d?"
"No, indeed, far otherwise. I find it bet=
ter,
grander, more complete in its style, though that style may not be the best.=
And
to tell you the truth," speaking rather lower, "I do not think th=
at I
shall ever see Sotherton again with so much pleasure as I do now. Another
summer will hardly improve it to me."
After a moment's embarrassment the lady replie=
d,
"You are too much a man of the world not to see with the eyes of the
world. If other people think Sotherton improved, I have no doubt that you
will."
"I am afraid I am not quite so much the m=
an
of the world as might be good for me in some points. My feelings are not qu=
ite
so evanescent, nor my memory of the past under such easy dominion as one fi=
nds
to be the case with men of the world."
This was followed by a short silence. Miss Ber=
tram
began again. "You seemed to enjoy your drive here very much this morni=
ng.
I was glad to see you so well entertained. You and Julia were laughing the
whole way."
"Were we? Yes, I believe we were; but I h=
ave
not the least recollection at what. Oh! I believe I was relating to her some
ridiculous stories of an old Irish groom of my uncle's. Your sister loves to
laugh."
"You think her more light-hearted than I
am?"
"More easily amused," he replied;
"consequently, you know," smiling, "better company. I could =
not
have hoped to entertain you with Irish anecdotes during a ten miles'
drive."
"Naturally, I believe, I am as lively as
Julia, but I have more to think of now."
"You have, undoubtedly; and there are
situations in which very high spirits would denote insensibility. Your
prospects, however, are too fair to justify want of spirits. You have a very
smiling scene before you."
"Do you mean literally or figuratively?
Literally, I conclude. Yes, certainly, the sun shines, and the park looks v=
ery
cheerful. But unluckily that iron gate, that ha-ha, give me a feeling of
restraint and hardship. 'I cannot get out,' as the starling said." As =
she
spoke, and it was with expression, she walked to the gate: he followed her.
"Mr. Rushworth is so long fetching this key!"
"And for the world you would not get out
without the key and without Mr. Rushworth's authority and protection, or I
think you might with little difficulty pass round the edge of the gate, her=
e,
with my assistance; I think it might be done, if you really wished to be mo=
re
at large, and could allow yourself to think it not prohibited."
"Prohibited! nonsense! I certainly can get
out that way, and I will. Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment, you know;=
we
shall not be out of sight."
"Or if we are, Miss Price will be so good=
as
to tell him that he will find us near that knoll: the grove of oak on the
knoll."
Fanny, feeling all this to be wrong, could not
help making an effort to prevent it. "You will hurt yourself, Miss
Bertram," she cried; "you will certainly hurt yourself against th=
ose
spikes; you will tear your gown; you will be in danger of slipping into the
ha-ha. You had better not go."
Her cousin was safe on the other side while th=
ese
words were spoken, and, smiling with all the good-humour of success, she sa=
id,
"Thank you, my dear Fanny, but I and my gown are alive and well, and so
good-bye."
Fanny was again left to her solitude, and with= no increase of pleasant feelings, for she was sorry for almost all that she had seen and heard, astonished at Miss Bertram, and angry with Mr. Crawford. By taking a circuitous route, and, as it appeared to her, very unreasonable di= rection to the knoll, they were soon beyond her eye; and for some minutes longer sh= e remained without sight or sound of any companion. She seemed to have the little wood= all to herself. She could almost have thought that Edmund and Miss Crawford had left it, but that it was impossible for Edmund to forget her so entirely. <= o:p>
She was again roused from disagreeable musings=
by
sudden footsteps: somebody was coming at a quick pace down the principal wa=
lk.
She expected Mr. Rushworth, but it was Julia, who, hot and out of breath, a=
nd
with a look of disappointment, cried out on seeing her, "Heyday! Where=
are
the others? I thought Maria and Mr. Crawford were with you."
Fanny explained.
"A pretty trick, upon my word! I cannot s=
ee
them anywhere," looking eagerly into the park. "But they cannot be
very far off, and I think I am equal to as much as Maria, even without
help."
"But, Julia, Mr. Rushworth will be here i=
n a
moment with the key. Do wait for Mr. Rushworth."
"Not I, indeed. I have had enough of the
family for one morning. Why, child, I have but this moment escaped from his
horrible mother. Such a penance as I have been enduring, while you were sit=
ting
here so composed and so happy! It might have been as well, perhaps, if you =
had
been in my place, but you always contrive to keep out of these scrapes.&quo=
t;
This was a most unjust reflection, but Fanny c=
ould
allow for it, and let it pass: Julia was vexed, and her temper was hasty; b=
ut
she felt that it would not last, and therefore, taking no notice, only asked
her if she had not seen Mr. Rushworth.
"Yes, yes, we saw him. He was posting awa=
y as
if upon life and death, and could but just spare time to tell us his errand,
and where you all were."
"It is a pity he should have so much trou=
ble
for nothing."
"That is Miss Maria's concern. I am not
obliged to punish myself for her sins. The mother I could not avoid, as lon=
g as
my tiresome aunt was dancing about with the housekeeper, but the son I can =
get
away from."
And she immediately scrambled across the fence,
and walked away, not attending to Fanny's last question of whether she had =
seen
anything of Miss Crawford and Edmund. The sort of dread in which Fanny now =
sat
of seeing Mr. Rushworth prevented her thinking so much of their continued a=
bsence,
however, as she might have done. She felt that he had been very ill-used, a=
nd
was quite unhappy in having to communicate what had passed. He joined her
within five minutes after Julia's exit; and though she made the best of the
story, he was evidently mortified and displeased in no common degree. At fi=
rst
he scarcely said anything; his looks only expressed his extreme surprise and
vexation, and he walked to the gate and stood there, without seeming to know
what to do.
"They desired me to stay--my cousin Maria
charged me to say that you would find them at that knoll, or thereabouts.&q=
uot;
"I do not believe I shall go any
farther," said he sullenly; "I see nothing of them. By the time I=
get
to the knoll they may be gone somewhere else. I have had walking enough.&qu=
ot;
And he sat down with a most gloomy countenance=
by
Fanny.
"I am very sorry," said she; "i=
t is
very unlucky." And she longed to be able to say something more to the
purpose.
After an interval of silence, "I think th=
ey
might as well have staid for me," said he.
"Miss Bertram thought you would follow
her."
"I should not have had to follow her if s=
he
had staid."
This could not be denied, and Fanny was silenc=
ed.
After another pause, he went on--"Pray, Miss Price, are you such a gre=
at
admirer of this Mr. Crawford as some people are? For my part, I can see not=
hing
in him."
"I do not think him at all handsome."=
;
"Handsome! Nobody can call such an unders=
ized
man handsome. He is not five foot nine. I should not wonder if he is not mo=
re
than five foot eight. I think he is an ill-looking fellow. In my opinion, t=
hese
Crawfords are no addition at all. We did very well without them."
A small sigh escaped Fanny here, and she did n=
ot
know how to contradict him.
"If I had made any difficulty about fetch=
ing
the key, there might have been some excuse, but I went the very moment she =
said
she wanted it."
"Nothing could be more obliging than your
manner, I am sure, and I dare say you walked as fast as you could; but stil=
l it
is some distance, you know, from this spot to the house, quite into the hou=
se;
and when people are waiting, they are bad judges of time, and every half mi=
nute
seems like five."
He got up and walked to the gate again, and
"wished he had had the key about him at the time." Fanny thought =
she
discerned in his standing there an indication of relenting, which encouraged
her to another attempt, and she said, therefore, "It is a pity you sho=
uld
not join them. They expected to have a better view of the house from that p=
art of
the park, and will be thinking how it may be improved; and nothing of that
sort, you know, can be settled without you."
She found herself more successful in sending a=
way
than in retaining a companion. Mr. Rushworth was worked on. "Well,&quo=
t;
said he, "if you really think I had better go: it would be foolish to
bring the key for nothing." And letting himself out, he walked off wit=
hout
farther ceremony.
Fanny's thoughts were now all engrossed by the=
two
who had left her so long ago, and getting quite impatient, she resolved to =
go
in search of them. She followed their steps along the bottom walk, and had =
just
turned up into another, when the voice and the laugh of Miss Crawford once =
more
caught her ear; the sound approached, and a few more windings brought them
before her. They were just returned into the wilderness from the park, to w=
hich
a sidegate, not fastened, had tempted them very soon after their leaving he=
r,
and they had been across a portion of the park into the very avenue which F=
anny
had been hoping the whole morning to reach at last, and had been sitting do=
wn
under one of the trees. This was their history. It was evident that they had
been spending their time pleasantly, and were not aware of the length of th=
eir
absence. Fanny's best consolation was in being assured that Edmund had wish=
ed
for her very much, and that he should certainly have come back for her, had=
she
not been tired already; but this was not quite sufficient to do away with t=
he
pain of having been left a whole hour, when he had talked of only a few
minutes, nor to banish the sort of curiosity she felt to know what they had
been conversing about all that time; and the result of the whole was to her
disappointment and depression, as they prepared by general agreement to ret=
urn
to the house.
On reaching the bottom of the steps to the
terrace, Mrs. Rushworth and Mrs. Norris presented themselves at the top, ju=
st
ready for the wilderness, at the end of an hour and a half from their leavi=
ng
the house. Mrs. Norris had been too well employed to move faster. Whatever =
cross-accidents
had occurred to intercept the pleasures of her nieces, she had found a morn=
ing
of complete enjoyment; for the housekeeper, after a great many courtesies on
the subject of pheasants, had taken her to the dairy, told her all about th=
eir
cows, and given her the receipt for a famous cream cheese; and since Julia's
leaving them they had been met by the gardener, with whom she had made a mo=
st
satisfactory acquaintance, for she had set him right as to his grandson's
illness, convinced him that it was an ague, and promised him a charm for it;
and he, in return, had shewn her all his choicest nursery of plants, and ac=
tually
presented her with a very curious specimen of heath.
On this rencontre they all returned to the hou=
se
together, there to lounge away the time as they could with sofas, and
chit-chat, and Quarterly Reviews, till the return of the others, and the
arrival of dinner. It was late before the Miss Bertrams and the two gentlem=
en
came in, and their ramble did not appear to have been more than partially a=
greeable,
or at all productive of anything useful with regard to the object of the da=
y.
By their own accounts they had been all walking after each other, and the
junction which had taken place at last seemed, to Fanny's observation, to h=
ave
been as much too late for re-establishing harmony, as it confessedly had be=
en
for determining on any alteration. She felt, as she looked at Julia and Mr.
Rushworth, that hers was not the only dissatisfied bosom amongst them: there
was gloom on the face of each. Mr. Crawford and Miss Bertram were much more
gay, and she thought that he was taking particular pains, during dinner, to=
do
away any little resentment of the other two, and restore general good-humou=
r.
Dinner was soon followed by tea and coffee, a =
ten
miles' drive home allowed no waste of hours; and from the time of their sit=
ting
down to table, it was a quick succession of busy nothings till the carriage
came to the door, and Mrs. Norris, having fidgeted about, and obtained a few
pheasants' eggs and a cream cheese from the housekeeper, and made abundance=
of
civil speeches to Mrs. Rushworth, was ready to lead the way. At the same mo=
ment
Mr. Crawford, approaching Julia, said, "I hope I am not to lose my
companion, unless she is afraid of the evening air in so exposed a seat.&qu=
ot;
The request had not been foreseen, but was very graciously received, and Ju=
lia's
day was likely to end almost as well as it began. Miss Bertram had made up =
her
mind to something different, and was a little disappointed; but her convict=
ion
of being really the one preferred comforted her under it, and enabled her to
receive Mr. Rushworth's parting attentions as she ought. He was certainly
better pleased to hand her into the barouche than to assist her in ascendin=
g the
box, and his complacency seemed confirmed by the arrangement.
"Well, Fanny, this has been a fine day for
you, upon my word," said Mrs. Norris, as they drove through the park.
"Nothing but pleasure from beginning to end! I am sure you ought to be
very much obliged to your aunt Bertram and me for contriving to let you go.=
A
pretty good day's amusement you have had!"
Maria was just discontented enough to say
directly, "I think you have done pretty well yourself, ma'am. Your lap
seems full of good things, and here is a basket of something between us whi=
ch
has been knocking my elbow unmercifully."
"My dear, it is only a beautiful little
heath, which that nice old gardener would make me take; but if it is in your
way, I will have it in my lap directly. There, Fanny, you shall carry that
parcel for me; take great care of it: do not let it fall; it is a cream che=
ese,
just like the excellent one we had at dinner. Nothing would satisfy that go=
od
old Mrs. Whitaker, but my taking one of the cheeses. I stood out as long as=
I
could, till the tears almost came into her eyes, and I knew it was just the
sort that my sister would be delighted with. That Mrs. Whitaker is a treasu=
re!
She was quite shocked when I asked her whether wine was allowed at the seco=
nd
table, and she has turned away two housemaids for wearing white gowns. Take
care of the cheese, Fanny. Now I can manage the other parcel and the basket
very well."
"What else have you been spunging?" =
said
Maria, half-pleased that Sotherton should be so complimented.
"Spunging, my dear! It is nothing but fou=
r of
those beautiful pheasants' eggs, which Mrs. Whitaker would quite force upon=
me:
she would not take a denial. She said it must be such an amusement to me, as
she understood I lived quite alone, to have a few living creatures of that
sort; and so to be sure it will. I shall get the dairymaid to set them under
the first spare hen, and if they come to good I can have them moved to my o=
wn
house and borrow a coop; and it will be a great delight to me in my lonely
hours to attend to them. And if I have good luck, your mother shall have
some."
It was a beautiful evening, mild and still, and
the drive was as pleasant as the serenity of Nature could make it; but when
Mrs. Norris ceased speaking, it was altogether a silent drive to those with=
in.
Their spirits were in general exhausted; and to determine whether the day h=
ad afforded
most pleasure or pain, might occupy the meditations of almost all.
The day at Sotherton, with all its imperfectio=
ns,
afforded the Miss Bertrams much more agreeable feelings than were derived f=
rom
the letters from Antigua, which soon afterwards reached Mansfield. It was m=
uch pleasanter
to think of Henry Crawford than of their father; and to think of their fath=
er
in England again within a certain period, which these letters obliged them =
to
do, was a most unwelcome exercise.
November was the black month fixed for his ret=
urn.
Sir Thomas wrote of it with as much decision as experience and anxiety could
authorise. His business was so nearly concluded as to justify him in propos=
ing
to take his passage in the September packet, and he consequently looked for=
ward
with the hope of being with his beloved family again early in November.
Maria was more to be pitied than Julia; for to=
her
the father brought a husband, and the return of the friend most solicitous =
for
her happiness would unite her to the lover, on whom she had chosen that
happiness should depend. It was a gloomy prospect, and all she could do was=
to throw
a mist over it, and hope when the mist cleared away she should see something
else. It would hardly be early in November, there were generally delays, a =
bad
passage or something; that favouring something which everybody who shuts th=
eir
eyes while they look, or their understandings while they reason, feels the
comfort of. It would probably be the middle of November at least; the middl=
e of
November was three months off. Three months comprised thirteen weeks. Much
might happen in thirteen weeks.
Sir Thomas would have been deeply mortified by=
a
suspicion of half that his daughters felt on the subject of his return, and
would hardly have found consolation in a knowledge of the interest it excit=
ed
in the breast of another young lady. Miss Crawford, on walking up with her =
brother
to spend the evening at Mansfield Park, heard the good news; and though see=
ming
to have no concern in the affair beyond politeness, and to have vented all =
her
feelings in a quiet congratulation, heard it with an attention not so easily
satisfied. Mrs. Norris gave the particulars of the letters, and the subject=
was
dropt; but after tea, as Miss Crawford was standing at an open window with
Edmund and Fanny looking out on a twilight scene, while the Miss Bertrams, =
Mr.
Rushworth, and Henry Crawford were all busy with candles at the pianoforte,=
she
suddenly revived it by turning round towards the group, and saying, "H=
ow happy
Mr. Rushworth looks! He is thinking of November."
Edmund looked round at Mr. Rushworth too, but =
had
nothing to say.
"Your father's return will be a very
interesting event."
"It will, indeed, after such an absence; =
an
absence not only long, but including so many dangers."
"It will be the forerunner also of other interesting events: your sister's marriage, and your taking orders." <= o:p>
"Yes."
"Don't be affronted," said she,
laughing, "but it does put me in mind of some of the old heathen heroe=
s,
who, after performing great exploits in a foreign land, offered sacrifices =
to
the gods on their safe return."
"There is no sacrifice in the case,"
replied Edmund, with a serious smile, and glancing at the pianoforte again;
"it is entirely her own doing."
"Oh yes I know it is. I was merely joking.
She has done no more than what every young woman would do; and I have no do=
ubt
of her being extremely happy. My other sacrifice, of course, you do not
understand."
"My taking orders, I assure you, is quite=
as
voluntary as Maria's marrying."
"It is fortunate that your inclination and
your father's convenience should accord so well. There is a very good living
kept for you, I understand, hereabouts."
"Which you suppose has biassed me?" =
"But that I am sure it has not," cri=
ed
Fanny.
"Thank you for your good word, Fanny, but=
it
is more than I would affirm myself. On the contrary, the knowing that there=
was
such a provision for me probably did bias me. Nor can I think it wrong that=
it
should. There was no natural disinclination to be overcome, and I see no re=
ason
why a man should make a worse clergyman for knowing that he will have a com=
petence
early in life. I was in safe hands. I hope I should not have been influenced
myself in a wrong way, and I am sure my father was too conscientious to have
allowed it. I have no doubt that I was biased, but I think it was
blamelessly."
"It is the same sort of thing," said
Fanny, after a short pause, "as for the son of an admiral to go into t=
he
navy, or the son of a general to be in the army, and nobody sees anything w=
rong
in that. Nobody wonders that they should prefer the line where their friends
can serve them best, or suspects them to be less in earnest in it than they
appear."
"No, my dear Miss Price, and for reasons
good. The profession, either navy or army, is its own justification. It has
everything in its favour: heroism, danger, bustle, fashion. Soldiers and
sailors are always acceptable in society. Nobody can wonder that men are
soldiers and sailors."
"But the motives of a man who takes orders
with the certainty of preferment may be fairly suspected, you think?" =
said
Edmund. "To be justified in your eyes, he must do it in the most compl=
ete
uncertainty of any provision."
"What! take orders without a living! No; =
that
is madness indeed; absolute madness."
"Shall I ask you how the church is to be
filled, if a man is neither to take orders with a living nor without? No; f=
or
you certainly would not know what to say. But I must beg some advantage to =
the
clergyman from your own argument. As he cannot be influenced by those feeli=
ngs
which you rank highly as temptation and reward to the soldier and sailor in=
their
choice of a profession, as heroism, and noise, and fashion, are all against
him, he ought to be less liable to the suspicion of wanting sincerity or go=
od
intentions in the choice of his."
"Oh! no doubt he is very sincere in
preferring an income ready made, to the trouble of working for one; and has=
the
best intentions of doing nothing all the rest of his days but eat, drink, a=
nd
grow fat. It is indolence, Mr. Bertram, indeed. Indolence and love of ease;=
a
want of all laudable ambition, of taste for good company, or of inclination=
to
take the trouble of being agreeable, which make men clergymen. A clergyman =
has
nothing to do but be slovenly and selfish--read the newspaper, watch the
weather, and quarrel with his wife. His curate does all the work, and the
business of his own life is to dine."
"There are such clergymen, no doubt, but I
think they are not so common as to justify Miss Crawford in esteeming it th=
eir
general character. I suspect that in this comprehensive and (may I say)
commonplace censure, you are not judging from yourself, but from prejudiced
persons, whose opinions you have been in the habit of hearing. It is imposs=
ible
that your own observation can have given you much knowledge of the clergy. =
You
can have been personally acquainted with very few of a set of men you conde=
mn
so conclusively. You are speaking what you have been told at your uncle's
table."
"I speak what appears to me the general
opinion; and where an opinion is general, it is usually correct. Though I h=
ave
not seen much of the domestic lives of clergymen, it is seen by too many to
leave any deficiency of information."
"Where any one body of educated men, of
whatever denomination, are condemned indiscriminately, there must be a
deficiency of information, or (smiling) of something else. Your uncle, and =
his
brother admirals, perhaps knew little of clergymen beyond the chaplains who=
m,
good or bad, they were always wishing away."
"Poor William! He has met with great kind=
ness
from the chaplain of the Antwerp," was a tender apostrophe of Fanny's,
very much to the purpose of her own feelings if not of the conversation.
"I have been so little addicted to take my
opinions from my uncle," said Miss Crawford, "that I can hardly
suppose--and since you push me so hard, I must observe, that I am not entir=
ely
without the means of seeing what clergymen are, being at this present time =
the
guest of my own brother, Dr. Grant. And though Dr. Grant is most kind and
obliging to me, and though he is really a gentleman, and, I dare say, a good
scholar and clever, and often preaches good sermons, and is very respectabl=
e, I
see him to be an indolent, selfish bon vivant, who must have his palate
consulted in everything; who will not stir a finger for the convenience of =
any
one; and who, moreover, if the cook makes a blunder, is out of humour with =
his
excellent wife. To own the truth, Henry and I were partly driven out this v=
ery
evening by a disappointment about a green goose, which he could not get the
better of. My poor sister was forced to stay and bear it."
"I do not wonder at your disapprobation, =
upon
my word. It is a great defect of temper, made worse by a very faulty habit =
of
self-indulgence; and to see your sister suffering from it must be exceeding=
ly
painful to such feelings as yours. Fanny, it goes against us. We cannot att=
empt
to defend Dr. Grant."
"No," replied Fanny, "but we ne=
ed
not give up his profession for all that; because, whatever profession Dr. G=
rant
had chosen, he would have taken a--not a good temper into it; and as he mus=
t,
either in the navy or army, have had a great many more people under his com=
mand
than he has now, I think more would have been made unhappy by him as a sail=
or
or soldier than as a clergyman. Besides, I cannot but suppose that whatever=
there
may be to wish otherwise in Dr. Grant would have been in a greater danger of
becoming worse in a more active and worldly profession, where he would have=
had
less time and obligation--where he might have escaped that knowledge of
himself, the frequency, at least, of that knowledge which it is impossible =
he
should escape as he is now. A man--a sensible man like Dr. Grant, cannot be=
in
the habit of teaching others their duty every week, cannot go to church twi=
ce
every Sunday, and preach such very good sermons in so good a manner as he d=
oes,
without being the better for it himself. It must make him think; and I have=
no
doubt that he oftener endeavours to restrain himself than he would if he had
been anything but a clergyman."
"We cannot prove to the contrary, to be s=
ure;
but I wish you a better fate, Miss Price, than to be the wife of a man whose
amiableness depends upon his own sermons; for though he may preach himself =
into
a good-humour every Sunday, it will be bad enough to have him quarrelling a=
bout
green geese from Monday morning till Saturday night."
"I think the man who could often quarrel =
with
Fanny," said Edmund affectionately, "must be beyond the reach of =
any
sermons."
Fanny turned farther into the window; and Miss
Crawford had only time to say, in a pleasant manner, "I fancy Miss Pri=
ce
has been more used to deserve praise than to hear it"; when, being
earnestly invited by the Miss Bertrams to join in a glee, she tripped off to
the instrument, leaving Edmund looking after her in an ecstasy of admiratio=
n of
all her many virtues, from her obliging manners down to her light and grace=
ful tread.
"There goes good-humour, I am sure,"
said he presently. "There goes a temper which would never give pain! H=
ow
well she walks! and how readily she falls in with the inclination of others!
joining them the moment she is asked. What a pity," he added, after an
instant's reflection, "that she should have been in such hands!" =
Fanny agreed to it, and had the pleasure of se=
eing
him continue at the window with her, in spite of the expected glee; and of
having his eyes soon turned, like hers, towards the scene without, where all
that was solemn, and soothing, and lovely, appeared in the brilliancy of an=
unclouded
night, and the contrast of the deep shade of the woods. Fanny spoke her
feelings. "Here's harmony!" said she; "here's repose! Here's=
what
may leave all painting and all music behind, and what poetry only can attem=
pt
to describe! Here's what may tranquillise every care, and lift the heart to
rapture! When I look out on such a night as this, I feel as if there could =
be
neither wickedness nor sorrow in the world; and there certainly would be le=
ss
of both if the sublimity of Nature were more attended to, and people were
carried more out of themselves by contemplating such a scene."
"I like to hear your enthusiasm, Fanny. I=
t is
a lovely night, and they are much to be pitied who have not been taught to
feel, in some degree, as you do; who have not, at least, been given a taste=
for
Nature in early life. They lose a great deal."
"You taught me to think and feel on the
subject, cousin."
"I had a very apt scholar. There's Arctur=
us
looking very bright."
"Yes, and the Bear. I wish I could see
Cassiopeia."
"We must go out on the lawn for that. Sho=
uld
you be afraid?"
"Not in the least. It is a great while si=
nce
we have had any star-gazing."
"Yes; I do not know how it has
happened." The glee began. "We will stay till this is finished,
Fanny," said he, turning his back on the window; and as it advanced, s=
he
had the mortification of seeing him advance too, moving forward by gentle
degrees towards the instrument, and when it ceased, he was close by the sin=
gers,
among the most urgent in requesting to hear the glee again.
Fanny sighed alone at the window till scolded =
away
by Mrs. Norris's threats of catching cold.
Sir Thomas was to return in November, and his
eldest son had duties to call him earlier home. The approach of September
brought tidings of Mr. Bertram, first in a letter to the gamekeeper and the=
n in
a letter to Edmund; and by the end of August he arrived himself, to be gay,=
agreeable,
and gallant again as occasion served, or Miss Crawford demanded; to tell of
races and Weymouth, and parties and friends, to which she might have listen=
ed
six weeks before with some interest, and altogether to give her the fullest
conviction, by the power of actual comparison, of her preferring his younger
brother.
It was very vexatious, and she was heartily so=
rry
for it; but so it was; and so far from now meaning to marry the elder, she =
did
not even want to attract him beyond what the simplest claims of conscious
beauty required: his lengthened absence from Mansfield, without anything bu=
t pleasure
in view, and his own will to consult, made it perfectly clear that he did n=
ot
care about her; and his indifference was so much more than equalled by her =
own,
that were he now to step forth the owner of Mansfield Park, the Sir Thomas
complete, which he was to be in time, she did not believe she could accept =
him.
The season and duties which brought Mr. Bertram
back to Mansfield took Mr. Crawford into Norfolk. Everingham could not do
without him in the beginning of September. He went for a fortnight--a fortn=
ight
of such dullness to the Miss Bertrams as ought to have put them both on the=
ir guard,
and made even Julia admit, in her jealousy of her sister, the absolute
necessity of distrusting his attentions, and wishing him not to return; and=
a
fortnight of sufficient leisure, in the intervals of shooting and sleeping,=
to
have convinced the gentleman that he ought to keep longer away, had he been
more in the habit of examining his own motives, and of reflecting to what t=
he
indulgence of his idle vanity was tending; but, thoughtless and selfish from
prosperity and bad example, he would not look beyond the present moment. The
sisters, handsome, clever, and encouraging, were an amusement to his sated
mind; and finding nothing in Norfolk to equal the social pleasures of
Mansfield, he gladly returned to it at the time appointed, and was welcomed
thither quite as gladly by those whom he came to trifle with further.
Maria, with only Mr. Rushworth to attend to he=
r,
and doomed to the repeated details of his day's sport, good or bad, his boa=
st
of his dogs, his jealousy of his neighbours, his doubts of their
qualifications, and his zeal after poachers, subjects which will not find t=
heir
way to female feelings without some talent on one side or some attachment o=
n the
other, had missed Mr. Crawford grievously; and Julia, unengaged and unemplo=
yed,
felt all the right of missing him much more. Each sister believed herself t=
he
favourite. Julia might be justified in so doing by the hints of Mrs. Grant,
inclined to credit what she wished, and Maria by the hints of Mr. Crawford
himself. Everything returned into the same channel as before his absence; h=
is
manners being to each so animated and agreeable as to lose no ground with
either, and just stopping short of the consistence, the steadiness, the
solicitude, and the warmth which might excite general notice.
Fanny was the only one of the party who found
anything to dislike; but since the day at Sotherton, she could never see Mr.
Crawford with either sister without observation, and seldom without wonder =
or
censure; and had her confidence in her own judgment been equal to her exerc=
ise
of it in every other respect, had she been sure that she was seeing clearly=
, and
judging candidly, she would probably have made some important communication=
s to
her usual confidant. As it was, however, she only hazarded a hint, and the =
hint
was lost. "I am rather surprised," said she, "that Mr. Crawf=
ord
should come back again so soon, after being here so long before, full seven
weeks; for I had understood he was so very fond of change and moving about,
that I thought something would certainly occur, when he was once gone, to t=
ake
him elsewhere. He is used to much gayer places than Mansfield."
"It is to his credit," was Edmund's
answer; "and I dare say it gives his sister pleasure. She does not like
his unsettled habits."
"What a favourite he is with my
cousins!"
"Yes, his manners to women are such as mu=
st
please. Mrs. Grant, I believe, suspects him of a preference for Julia; I ha=
ve
never seen much symptom of it, but I wish it may be so. He has no faults but
what a serious attachment would remove."
"If Miss Bertram were not engaged," =
said
Fanny cautiously, "I could sometimes almost think that he admired her =
more
than Julia."
"Which is, perhaps, more in favour of his
liking Julia best, than you, Fanny, may be aware; for I believe it often
happens that a man, before he has quite made up his own mind, will distingu=
ish
the sister or intimate friend of the woman he is really thinking of more th=
an
the woman herself. Crawford has too much sense to stay here if he found him=
self
in any danger from Maria; and I am not at all afraid for her, after such a
proof as she has given that her feelings are not strong."
Fanny supposed she must have been mistaken, and
meant to think differently in future; but with all that submission to Edmund
could do, and all the help of the coinciding looks and hints which she occa=
sionally
noticed in some of the others, and which seemed to say that Julia was Mr.
Crawford's choice, she knew not always what to think. She was privy, one
evening, to the hopes of her aunt Norris on the subject, as well as to her
feelings, and the feelings of Mrs. Rushworth, on a point of some similarity,
and could not help wondering as she listened; and glad would she have been =
not
to be obliged to listen, for it was while all the other young people were
dancing, and she sitting, most unwillingly, among the chaperons at the fire,
longing for the re-entrance of her elder cousin, on whom all her own hopes =
of a
partner then depended. It was Fanny's first ball, though without the
preparation or splendour of many a young lady's first ball, being the thoug=
ht
only of the afternoon, built on the late acquisition of a violin player in =
the
servants' hall, and the possibility of raising five couple with the help of
Mrs. Grant and a new intimate friend of Mr. Bertram's just arrived on a vis=
it.
It had, however, been a very happy one to Fanny through four dances, and she
was quite grieved to be losing even a quarter of an hour. While waiting and
wishing, looking now at the dancers and now at the door, this dialogue betw=
een
the two above-mentioned ladies was forced on her--
"I think, ma'am," said Mrs. Norris, =
her
eyes directed towards Mr. Rushworth and Maria, who were partners for the se=
cond
time, "we shall see some happy faces again now."
"Yes, ma'am, indeed," replied the ot=
her,
with a stately simper, "there will be some satisfaction in looking on =
now,
and I think it was rather a pity they should have been obliged to part. You=
ng
folks in their situation should be excused complying with the common forms.=
I
wonder my son did not propose it."
"I dare say he did, ma'am. Mr. Rushworth =
is
never remiss. But dear Maria has such a strict sense of propriety, so much =
of
that true delicacy which one seldom meets with nowadays, Mrs. Rushworth--th=
at
wish of avoiding particularity! Dear ma'am, only look at her face at this m=
oment;
how different from what it was the two last dances!"
Miss Bertram did indeed look happy, her eyes w=
ere
sparkling with pleasure, and she was speaking with great animation, for Jul=
ia
and her partner, Mr. Crawford, were close to her; they were all in a cluste=
r together.
How she had looked before, Fanny could not recollect, for she had been danc=
ing
with Edmund herself, and had not thought about her.
Mrs. Norris continued, "It is quite
delightful, ma'am, to see young people so properly happy, so well suited, a=
nd
so much the thing! I cannot but think of dear Sir Thomas's delight. And wha=
t do
you say, ma'am, to the chance of another match? Mr. Rushworth has set a goo=
d example,
and such things are very catching."
Mrs. Rushworth, who saw nothing but her son, w=
as
quite at a loss.
"The couple above, ma'am. Do you see no
symptoms there?"
"Oh dear! Miss Julia and Mr. Crawford. Ye=
s,
indeed, a very pretty match. What is his property?"
"Four thousand a year."
"Very well. Those who have not more must =
be
satisfied with what they have. Four thousand a year is a pretty estate, and=
he
seems a very genteel, steady young man, so I hope Miss Julia will be very
happy."
"It is not a settled thing, ma'am, yet. We
only speak of it among friends. But I have very little doubt it will be. He=
is
growing extremely particular in his attentions."
Fanny could listen no farther. Listening and
wondering were all suspended for a time, for Mr. Bertram was in the room ag=
ain;
and though feeling it would be a great honour to be asked by him, she thoug=
ht
it must happen. He came towards their little circle; but instead of asking =
her
to dance, drew a chair near her, and gave her an account of the present sta=
te
of a sick horse, and the opinion of the groom, from whom he had just parted.
Fanny found that it was not to be, and in the modesty of her nature immedia=
tely
felt that she had been unreasonable in expecting it. When he had told of his
horse, he took a newspaper from the table, and looking over it, said in a
languid way, "If you want to dance, Fanny, I will stand up with you.&q=
uot;
With more than equal civility the offer was declined; she did not wish to
dance. "I am glad of it," said he, in a much brisker tone, and
throwing down the newspaper again, "for I am tired to death. I only wo=
nder
how the good people can keep it up so long. They had need be all in love, to
find any amusement in such folly; and so they are, I fancy. If you look at =
them
you may see they are so many couple of lovers--all but Yates and Mrs.
Grant--and, between ourselves, she, poor woman, must want a lover as much as
any one of them. A desperate dull life hers must be with the doctor,"
making a sly face as he spoke towards the chair of the latter, who proving,=
however,
to be close at his elbow, made so instantaneous a change of expression and
subject necessary, as Fanny, in spite of everything, could hardly help laug=
hing
at. "A strange business this in America, Dr. Grant! What is your opini=
on?
I always come to you to know what I am to think of public matters."
"My dear Tom," cried his aunt soon
afterwards, "as you are not dancing, I dare say you will have no objec=
tion
to join us in a rubber; shall you?" Then leaving her seat, and coming =
to
him to enforce the proposal, added in a whisper, "We want to make a ta=
ble
for Mrs. Rushworth, you know. Your mother is quite anxious about it, but ca=
nnot
very well spare time to sit down herself, because of her fringe. Now, you a=
nd I
and Dr. Grant will just do; and though we play but half-crowns, you know, y=
ou may
bet half-guineas with him."
"I should be most happy," replied he
aloud, and jumping up with alacrity, "it would give me the greatest
pleasure; but that I am this moment going to dance." Come, Fanny, taki=
ng
her hand, "do not be dawdling any longer, or the dance will be over.&q=
uot;
Fanny was led off very willingly, though it was
impossible for her to feel much gratitude towards her cousin, or distinguis=
h,
as he certainly did, between the selfishness of another person and his own.=
"A pretty modest request upon my word,&qu=
ot;
he indignantly exclaimed as they walked away. "To want to nail me to a=
card-table
for the next two hours with herself and Dr. Grant, who are always quarrelli=
ng,
and that poking old woman, who knows no more of whist than of algebra. I wi=
sh
my good aunt would be a little less busy! And to ask me in such a way too! =
without
ceremony, before them all, so as to leave me no possibility of refusing. Th=
at
is what I dislike most particularly. It raises my spleen more than anything=
, to
have the pretence of being asked, of being given a choice, and at the same =
time
addressed in such a way as to oblige one to do the very thing, whatever it =
be!
If I had not luckily thought of standing up with you I could not have got o=
ut
of it. It is a great deal too bad. But when my aunt has got a fancy in her
head, nothing can stop her."
The Honourable John Yates, this new friend, had
not much to recommend him beyond habits of fashion and expense, and being t=
he
younger son of a lord with a tolerable independence; and Sir Thomas would
probably have thought his introduction at Mansfield by no means desirable. =
Mr. Bertram's
acquaintance with him had begun at Weymouth, where they had spent ten days
together in the same society, and the friendship, if friendship it might be
called, had been proved and perfected by Mr. Yates's being invited to take
Mansfield in his way, whenever he could, and by his promising to come; and =
he
did come rather earlier than had been expected, in consequence of the sudden
breaking-up of a large party assembled for gaiety at the house of another
friend, which he had left Weymouth to join. He came on the wings of
disappointment, and with his head full of acting, for it had been a theatri=
cal
party; and the play in which he had borne a part was within two days of
representation, when the sudden death of one of the nearest connexions of t=
he
family had destroyed the scheme and dispersed the performers. To be so near=
happiness,
so near fame, so near the long paragraph in praise of the private theatrica=
ls
at Ecclesford, the seat of the Right Hon. Lord Ravenshaw, in Cornwall, which
would of course have immortalised the whole party for at least a twelvemont=
h!
and being so near, to lose it all, was an injury to be keenly felt, and Mr.
Yates could talk of nothing else. Ecclesford and its theatre, with its
arrangements and dresses, rehearsals and jokes, was his never-failing subje=
ct,
and to boast of the past his only consolation.
Happily for him, a love of the theatre is so
general, an itch for acting so strong among young people, that he could har=
dly
out-talk the interest of his hearers. From the first casting of the parts to
the epilogue it was all bewitching, and there were few who did not wish to =
have
been a party concerned, or would have hesitated to try their skill. The pla=
y had
been Lovers' Vows, and Mr. Yates was to have been Count Cassel. "A tri=
fling
part," said he, "and not at all to my taste, and such a one as I
certainly would not accept again; but I was determined to make no difficult=
ies.
Lord Ravenshaw and the duke had appropriated the only two characters worth
playing before I reached Ecclesford; and though Lord Ravenshaw offered to
resign his to me, it was impossible to take it, you know. I was sorry for h=
im
that he should have so mistaken his powers, for he was no more equal to the
Baron--a little man with a weak voice, always hoarse after the first ten
minutes. It must have injured the piece materially; but I was resolved to m=
ake
no difficulties. Sir Henry thought the duke not equal to Frederick, but that
was because Sir Henry wanted the part himself; whereas it was certainly in =
the
best hands of the two. I was surprised to see Sir Henry such a stick. Lucki=
ly the
strength of the piece did not depend upon him. Our Agatha was inimitable, a=
nd
the duke was thought very great by many. And upon the whole, it would certa=
inly
have gone off wonderfully."
"It was a hard case, upon my word"; =
and,
"I do think you were very much to be pitied," were the kind respo=
nses
of listening sympathy.
"It is not worth complaining about; but t=
o be
sure the poor old dowager could not have died at a worse time; and it is
impossible to help wishing that the news could have been suppressed for just
the three days we wanted. It was but three days; and being only a grandmoth=
er,
and all happening two hundred miles off, I think there would have been no g=
reat
harm, and it was suggested, I know; but Lord Ravenshaw, who I suppose is on=
e of
the most correct men in England, would not hear of it."
"An afterpiece instead of a comedy,"
said Mr. Bertram. "Lovers' Vows were at an end, and Lord and Lady
Ravenshaw left to act My Grandmother by themselves. Well, the jointure may
comfort him; and perhaps, between friends, he began to tremble for his cred=
it
and his lungs in the Baron, and was not sorry to withdraw; and to make you
amends, Yates, I think we must raise a little theatre at Mansfield, and ask=
you
to be our manager."
This, though the thought of the moment, did not
end with the moment; for the inclination to act was awakened, and in no one
more strongly than in him who was now master of the house; and who, having =
so
much leisure as to make almost any novelty a certain good, had likewise suc=
h a
degree of lively talents and comic taste, as were exactly adapted to the
novelty of acting. The thought returned again and again. "Oh for the
Ecclesford theatre and scenery to try something with." Each sister cou=
ld
echo the wish; and Henry Crawford, to whom, in all the riot of his
gratifications it was yet an untasted pleasure, was quite alive at the idea.
"I really believe," said he, "I could be fool enough at this=
moment
to undertake any character that ever was written, from Shylock or Richard I=
II
down to the singing hero of a farce in his scarlet coat and cocked hat. I f=
eel as
if I could be anything or everything; as if I could rant and storm, or sigh=
or
cut capers, in any tragedy or comedy in the English language. Let us be doi=
ng
something. Be it only half a play, an act, a scene; what should prevent us?=
Not
these countenances, I am sure," looking towards the Miss Bertrams;
"and for a theatre, what signifies a theatre? We shall be only amusing
ourselves. Any room in this house might suffice."
"We must have a curtain," said Tom
Bertram; "a few yards of green baize for a curtain, and perhaps that m=
ay
be enough."
"Oh, quite enough," cried Mr. Yates,
"with only just a side wing or two run up, doors in flat, and three or
four scenes to be let down; nothing more would be necessary on such a plan =
as
this. For mere amusement among ourselves we should want nothing more."=
"I believe we must be satisfied with
less," said Maria. "There would not be time, and other difficulti=
es
would arise. We must rather adopt Mr. Crawford's views, and make the
performance, not the theatre, our object. Many parts of our best plays are
independent of scenery."
"Nay," said Edmund, who began to lis=
ten
with alarm. "Let us do nothing by halves. If we are to act, let it be =
in a
theatre completely fitted up with pit, boxes, and gallery, and let us have a
play entire from beginning to end; so as it be a German play, no matter wha=
t,
with a good tricking, shifting afterpiece, and a figure-dance, and a hornpi=
pe,
and a song between the acts. If we do not outdo Ecclesford, we do
nothing."
"Now, Edmund, do not be disagreeable,&quo=
t;
said Julia. "Nobody loves a play better than you do, or can have gone =
much
farther to see one."
"True, to see real acting, good hardened =
real
acting; but I would hardly walk from this room to the next to look at the r=
aw
efforts of those who have not been bred to the trade: a set of gentlemen and
ladies, who have all the disadvantages of education and decorum to struggle
through."
After a short pause, however, the subject still
continued, and was discussed with unabated eagerness, every one's inclinati=
on
increasing by the discussion, and a knowledge of the inclination of the res=
t;
and though nothing was settled but that Tom Bertram would prefer a comedy, =
and
his sisters and Henry Crawford a tragedy, and that nothing in the world cou=
ld
be easier than to find a piece which would please them all, the resolution =
to
act something or other seemed so decided as to make Edmund quite uncomforta=
ble.
He was determined to prevent it, if possible, though his mother, who equally
heard the conversation which passed at table, did not evince the least
disapprobation.
The same evening afforded him an opportunity of
trying his strength. Maria, Julia, Henry Crawford, and Mr. Yates were in the
billiard-room. Tom, returning from them into the drawing-room, where Edmund=
was
standing thoughtfully by the fire, while Lady Bertram was on the sofa at a
little distance, and Fanny close beside her arranging her work, thus began =
as
he entered--"Such a horribly vile billiard-table as ours is not to be =
met
with, I believe, above ground. I can stand it no longer, and I think, I may
say, that nothing shall ever tempt me to it again; but one good thing I have
just ascertained: it is the very room for a theatre, precisely the shape and
length for it; and the doors at the farther end, communicating with each ot=
her,
as they may be made to do in five minutes, by merely moving the bookcase in=
my
father's room, is the very thing we could have desired, if we had sat down =
to
wish for it; and my father's room will be an excellent greenroom. It seems =
to
join the billiard-room on purpose."
"You are not serious, Tom, in meaning to
act?" said Edmund, in a low voice, as his brother approached the fire.=
"Not serious! never more so, I assure you.
What is there to surprise you in it?"
"I think it would be very wrong. In a gen= eral light, private theatricals are open to some objections, but as we are circumstanced, I must think it would be highly injudicious, and more than injudicious to attempt anything of the kind. It would shew great want of feeling on my father's account, absent as he is, and in some degree of cons= tant danger; and it would be imprudent, I think, with regard to Maria, whose sit= uation is a very delicate one, considering everything, extremely delicate." <= o:p>
"You take up a thing so seriously! as if =
we
were going to act three times a week till my father's return, and invite all
the country. But it is not to be a display of that sort. We mean nothing bu=
t a
little amusement among ourselves, just to vary the scene, and exercise our =
powers
in something new. We want no audience, no publicity. We may be trusted, I
think, in chusing some play most perfectly unexceptionable; and I can conce=
ive
no greater harm or danger to any of us in conversing in the elegant written
language of some respectable author than in chattering in words of our own.=
I
have no fears and no scruples. And as to my father's being absent, it is so=
far
from an objection, that I consider it rather as a motive; for the expectati=
on
of his return must be a very anxious period to my mother; and if we can be =
the
means of amusing that anxiety, and keeping up her spirits for the next few
weeks, I shall think our time very well spent, and so, I am sure, will he. =
It is
a very anxious period for her."
As he said this, each looked towards their mot=
her.
Lady Bertram, sunk back in one corner of the sofa, the picture of health,
wealth, ease, and tranquillity, was just falling into a gentle doze, while
Fanny was getting through the few difficulties of her work for her.
Edmund smiled and shook his head.
"By Jove! this won't do," cried Tom,
throwing himself into a chair with a hearty laugh. "To be sure, my dear
mother, your anxiety--I was unlucky there."
"What is the matter?" asked her
ladyship, in the heavy tone of one half-roused; "I was not asleep.&quo=
t;
"Oh dear, no, ma'am, nobody suspected you!
Well, Edmund," he continued, returning to the former subject, posture,=
and
voice, as soon as Lady Bertram began to nod again, "but this I will
maintain, that we shall be doing no harm."
"I cannot agree with you; I am convinced =
that
my father would totally disapprove it."
"And I am convinced to the contrary. Nobo=
dy
is fonder of the exercise of talent in young people, or promotes it more, t=
han
my father, and for anything of the acting, spouting, reciting kind, I think=
he
has always a decided taste. I am sure he encouraged it in us as boys. How m=
any
a time have we mourned over the dead body of Julius Caesar, and to be'd and=
not
to be'd, in this very room, for his amusement? And I am sure, my name was
Norval, every evening of my life through one Christmas holidays."
"It was a very different thing. You must =
see
the difference yourself. My father wished us, as schoolboys, to speak well,=
but
he would never wish his grown-up daughters to be acting plays. His sense of
decorum is strict."
"I know all that," said Tom, displea=
sed.
"I know my father as well as you do; and I'll take care that his daugh=
ters
do nothing to distress him. Manage your own concerns, Edmund, and I'll take
care of the rest of the family."
"If you are resolved on acting," rep=
lied
the persevering Edmund, "I must hope it will be in a very small and qu=
iet
way; and I think a theatre ought not to be attempted. It would be taking
liberties with my father's house in his absence which could not be
justified."
"For everything of that nature I will be
answerable," said Tom, in a decided tone. "His house shall not be
hurt. I have quite as great an interest in being careful of his house as you
can have; and as to such alterations as I was suggesting just now, such as
moving a bookcase, or unlocking a door, or even as using the billiard-room =
for
the space of a week without playing at billiards in it, you might just as w=
ell
suppose he would object to our sitting more in this room, and less in the b=
reakfast-room,
than we did before he went away, or to my sister's pianoforte being moved f=
rom
one side of the room to the other. Absolute nonsense!"
"The innovation, if not wrong as an
innovation, will be wrong as an expense."
"Yes, the expense of such an undertaking
would be prodigious! Perhaps it might cost a whole twenty pounds. Something=
of
a theatre we must have undoubtedly, but it will be on the simplest plan: a
green curtain and a little carpenter's work, and that's all; and as the
carpenter's work may be all done at home by Christopher Jackson himself, it
will be too absurd to talk of expense; and as long as Jackson is employed, =
everything
will be right with Sir Thomas. Don't imagine that nobody in this house can =
see
or judge but yourself. Don't act yourself, if you do not like it, but don't
expect to govern everybody else."
"No, as to acting myself," said Edmu=
nd,
"that I absolutely protest against."
Tom walked out of the room as he said it, and
Edmund was left to sit down and stir the fire in thoughtful vexation.
Fanny, who had heard it all, and borne Edmund
company in every feeling throughout the whole, now ventured to say, in her
anxiety to suggest some comfort, "Perhaps they may not be able to find=
any
play to suit them. Your brother's taste and your sisters' seem very
different."
"I have no hope there, Fanny. If they per=
sist
in the scheme, they will find something. I shall speak to my sisters and tr=
y to
dissuade them, and that is all I can do."
"I should think my aunt Norris would be on
your side."
"I dare say she would, but she has no
influence with either Tom or my sisters that could be of any use; and if I
cannot convince them myself, I shall let things take their course, without
attempting it through her. Family squabbling is the greatest evil of all, a=
nd
we had better do anything than be altogether by the ears."
His sisters, to whom he had an opportunity of
speaking the next morning, were quite as impatient of his advice, quite as
unyielding to his representation, quite as determined in the cause of pleas=
ure,
as Tom. Their mother had no objection to the plan, and they were not in the=
least
afraid of their father's disapprobation. There could be no harm in what had
been done in so many respectable families, and by so many women of the first
consideration; and it must be scrupulousness run mad that could see anythin=
g to
censure in a plan like theirs, comprehending only brothers and sisters and
intimate friends, and which would never be heard of beyond themselves. Julia
did seem inclined to admit that Maria's situation might require particular
caution and delicacy--but that could not extend to her--she was at liberty;=
and
Maria evidently considered her engagement as only raising her so much more
above restraint, and leaving her less occasion than Julia to consult either=
father
or mother. Edmund had little to hope, but he was still urging the subject w=
hen
Henry Crawford entered the room, fresh from the Parsonage, calling out,
"No want of hands in our theatre, Miss Bertram. No want of understrapp=
ers:
my sister desires her love, and hopes to be admitted into the company, and =
will
be happy to take the part of any old duenna or tame confidante, that you may
not like to do yourselves."
Maria gave Edmund a glance, which meant,
"What say you now? Can we be wrong if Mary Crawford feels the same?&qu=
ot;
And Edmund, silenced, was obliged to acknowledge that the charm of acting m=
ight
well carry fascination to the mind of genius; and with the ingenuity of lov=
e,
to dwell more on the obliging, accommodating purport of the message than on=
anything
else.
The scheme advanced. Opposition was vain; and =
as
to Mrs. Norris, he was mistaken in supposing she would wish to make any. She
started no difficulties that were not talked down in five minutes by her el=
dest
nephew and niece, who were all-powerful with her; and as the whole arrangem=
ent
was to bring very little expense to anybody, and none at all to herself, as=
she
foresaw in it all the comforts of hurry, bustle, and importance, and derived
the immediate advantage of fancying herself obliged to leave her own house,
where she had been living a month at her own cost, and take up her abode in
theirs, that every hour might be spent in their service, she was, in fact,
exceedingly delighted with the project.
Fanny seemed nearer being right than Edmund had
supposed. The business of finding a play that would suit everybody proved t=
o be
no trifle; and the carpenter had received his orders and taken his
measurements, had suggested and removed at least two sets of difficulties, =
and
having made the necessity of an enlargement of plan and expense fully evide=
nt,
was already at work, while a play was still to seek. Other preparations were
also in hand. An enormous roll of green baize had arrived from Northampton,=
and
been cut out by Mrs. Norris (with a saving by her good management of full t=
hree-quarters
of a yard), and was actually forming into a curtain by the housemaids, and
still the play was wanting; and as two or three days passed away in this
manner, Edmund began almost to hope that none might ever be found.
There were, in fact, so many things to be atte=
nded
to, so many people to be pleased, so many best characters required, and, ab=
ove
all, such a need that the play should be at once both tragedy and comedy, t=
hat
there did seem as little chance of a decision as anything pursued by youth =
and zeal
could hold out.
On the tragic side were the Miss Bertrams, Hen=
ry
Crawford, and Mr. Yates; on the comic, Tom Bertram, not quite alone, becaus=
e it
was evident that Mary Crawford's wishes, though politely kept back, incline=
d the
same way: but his determinateness and his power seemed to make allies
unnecessary; and, independent of this great irreconcilable difference, they
wanted a piece containing very few characters in the whole, but every chara=
cter
first-rate, and three principal women. All the best plays were run over in
vain. Neither Hamlet, nor Macbeth, nor Othello, nor Douglas, nor The Gamest=
er,
presented anything that could satisfy even the tragedians; and The Rivals, =
The
School for Scandal, Wheel of Fortune, Heir at Law, and a long et cetera, we=
re
successively dismissed with yet warmer objections. No piece could be propos=
ed
that did not supply somebody with a difficulty, and on one side or the othe=
r it
was a continual repetition of, "Oh no, that will never do! Let us have=
no
ranting tragedies. Too many characters. Not a tolerable woman's part in the
play. Anything but that, my dear Tom. It would be impossible to fill it up.=
One
could not expect anybody to take such a part. Nothing but buffoonery from
beginning to end. That might do, perhaps, but for the low parts. If I must =
give
my opinion, I have always thought it the most insipid play in the English
language. I do not wish to make objections; I shall be happy to be of any u=
se,
but I think we could not chuse worse."
Fanny looked on and listened, not unamused to
observe the selfishness which, more or less disguised, seemed to govern them
all, and wondering how it would end. For her own gratification she could ha=
ve
wished that something might be acted, for she had never seen even half a pl=
ay,
but everything of higher consequence was against it.
"This will never do," said Tom Bertr=
am
at last. "We are wasting time most abominably. Something must be fixed=
on.
No matter what, so that something is chosen. We must not be so nice. A few
characters too many must not frighten us. We must double them. We must desc=
end
a little. If a part is insignificant, the greater our credit in making anyt=
hing
of it. From this moment I make no difficulties. I take any part you chuse to
give me, so as it be comic. Let it but be comic, I condition for nothing
more."
For about the fifth time he then proposed the =
Heir
at Law, doubting only whether to prefer Lord Duberley or Dr. Pangloss for
himself; and very earnestly, but very unsuccessfully, trying to persuade the
others that there were some fine tragic parts in the rest of the dramatis
personae.
The pause which followed this fruitless effort=
was
ended by the same speaker, who, taking up one of the many volumes of plays =
that
lay on the table, and turning it over, suddenly exclaimed--"Lovers' Vo=
ws!
And why should not Lovers' Vows do for us as well as for the Ravenshaws? Ho=
w came
it never to be thought of before? It strikes me as if it would do exactly. =
What
say you all? Here are two capital tragic parts for Yates and Crawford, and =
here
is the rhyming Butler for me, if nobody else wants it; a trifling part, but=
the
sort of thing I should not dislike, and, as I said before, I am determined =
to
take anything and do my best. And as for the rest, they may be filled up by
anybody. It is only Count Cassel and Anhalt."
The suggestion was generally welcome. Everybody
was growing weary of indecision, and the first idea with everybody was, that
nothing had been proposed before so likely to suit them all. Mr. Yates was
particularly pleased: he had been sighing and longing to do the Baron at
Ecclesford, had grudged every rant of Lord Ravenshaw's, and been forced to
re-rant it all in his own room. The storm through Baron Wildenheim was the =
height
of his theatrical ambition; and with the advantage of knowing half the scen=
es
by heart already, he did now, with the greatest alacrity, offer his services
for the part. To do him justice, however, he did not resolve to appropriate=
it;
for remembering that there was some very good ranting-ground in Frederick, =
he
professed an equal willingness for that. Henry Crawford was ready to take
either. Whichever Mr. Yates did not chuse would perfectly satisfy him, and a
short parley of compliment ensued. Miss Bertram, feeling all the interest o=
f an
Agatha in the question, took on her to decide it, by observing to Mr. Yates
that this was a point in which height and figure ought to be considered, and
that his being the tallest, seemed to fit him peculiarly for the Baron. She=
was
acknowledged to be quite right, and the two parts being accepted accordingl=
y,
she was certain of the proper Frederick. Three of the characters were now c=
ast,
besides Mr. Rushworth, who was always answered for by Maria as willing to do
anything; when Julia, meaning, like her sister, to be Agatha, began to be
scrupulous on Miss Crawford's account.
"This is not behaving well by the
absent," said she. "Here are not women enough. Amelia and Agatha =
may
do for Maria and me, but here is nothing for your sister, Mr. Crawford.&quo=
t;
Mr. Crawford desired that might not be thought=
of:
he was very sure his sister had no wish of acting but as she might be usefu=
l,
and that she would not allow herself to be considered in the present case. =
But this
was immediately opposed by Tom Bertram, who asserted the part of Amelia to =
be
in every respect the property of Miss Crawford, if she would accept it.
"It falls as naturally, as necessarily to her," said he, "as
Agatha does to one or other of my sisters. It can be no sacrifice on their
side, for it is highly comic."
A short silence followed. Each sister looked
anxious; for each felt the best claim to Agatha, and was hoping to have it
pressed on her by the rest. Henry Crawford, who meanwhile had taken up the
play, and with seeming carelessness was turning over the first act, soon
settled the business.
"I must entreat Miss Julia Bertram,"
said he, "not to engage in the part of Agatha, or it will be the ruin =
of
all my solemnity. You must not, indeed you must not" (turning to her).
"I could not stand your countenance dressed up in woe and paleness. The
many laughs we have had together would infallibly come across me, and Frede=
rick
and his knapsack would be obliged to run away."
Pleasantly, courteously, it was spoken; but the
manner was lost in the matter to Julia's feelings. She saw a glance at Maria
which confirmed the injury to herself: it was a scheme, a trick; she was
slighted, Maria was preferred; the smile of triumph which Maria was trying =
to
suppress shewed how well it was understood; and before Julia could command =
herself
enough to speak, her brother gave his weight against her too, by saying,
"Oh yes! Maria must be Agatha. Maria will be the best Agatha. Though J=
ulia
fancies she prefers tragedy, I would not trust her in it. There is nothing =
of
tragedy about her. She has not the look of it. Her features are not tragic
features, and she walks too quick, and speaks too quick, and would not keep=
her
countenance. She had better do the old countrywoman: the Cottager's wife; y=
ou
had, indeed, Julia. Cottager's wife is a very pretty part, I assure you. The
old lady relieves the high-flown benevolence of her husband with a good dea=
l of
spirit. You shall be Cottager's wife."
"Cottager's wife!" cried Mr. Yates.
"What are you talking of? The most trivial, paltry, insignificant part;
the merest commonplace; not a tolerable speech in the whole. Your sister do
that! It is an insult to propose it. At Ecclesford the governess was to have
done it. We all agreed that it could not be offered to anybody else. A litt=
le
more justice, Mr. Manager, if you please. You do not deserve the office, if=
you
cannot appreciate the talents of your company a little better."
"Why, as to that, my good friend, till I =
and
my company have really acted there must be some guesswork; but I mean no
disparagement to Julia. We cannot have two Agathas, and we must have one
Cottager's wife; and I am sure I set her the example of moderation myself in
being satisfied with the old Butler. If the part is trifling she will have =
more
credit in making something of it; and if she is so desperately bent against
everything humorous, let her take Cottager's speeches instead of Cottager's
wife's, and so change the parts all through; he is solemn and pathetic enou=
gh,
I am sure. It could make no difference in the play, and as for Cottager
himself, when he has got his wife's speeches, I would undertake him with al=
l my
heart."
"With all your partiality for Cottager's
wife," said Henry Crawford, "it will be impossible to make anythi=
ng
of it fit for your sister, and we must not suffer her good-nature to be imp=
osed
on. We must not allow her to accept the part. She must not be left to her o=
wn
complaisance. Her talents will be wanted in Amelia. Amelia is a character m=
ore difficult
to be well represented than even Agatha. I consider Amelia is the most
difficult character in the whole piece. It requires great powers, great nic=
ety,
to give her playfulness and simplicity without extravagance. I have seen go=
od
actresses fail in the part. Simplicity, indeed, is beyond the reach of almo=
st every
actress by profession. It requires a delicacy of feeling which they have no=
t.
It requires a gentlewoman--a Julia Bertram. You will undertake it, I
hope?" turning to her with a look of anxious entreaty, which softened =
her
a little; but while she hesitated what to say, her brother again interposed
with Miss Crawford's better claim.
"No, no, Julia must not be Amelia. It is =
not
at all the part for her. She would not like it. She would not do well. She =
is
too tall and robust. Amelia should be a small, light, girlish, skipping fig=
ure.
It is fit for Miss Crawford, and Miss Crawford only. She looks the part, an=
d I am
persuaded will do it admirably."
Without attending to this, Henry Crawford
continued his supplication. "You must oblige us," said he,
"indeed you must. When you have studied the character, I am sure you w=
ill
feel it suit you. Tragedy may be your choice, but it will certainly appear =
that
comedy chuses you. You will be to visit me in prison with a basket of
provisions; you will not refuse to visit me in prison? I think I see you co=
ming
in with your basket."
The influence of his voice was felt. Julia
wavered; but was he only trying to soothe and pacify her, and make her over=
look
the previous affront? She distrusted him. The slight had been most determin=
ed.
He was, perhaps, but at treacherous play with her. She looked suspiciously =
at
her sister; Maria's countenance was to decide it: if she were vexed and
alarmed--but Maria looked all serenity and satisfaction, and Julia well knew
that on this ground Maria could not be happy but at her expense. With hasty
indignation, therefore, and a tremulous voice, she said to him, "You do
not seem afraid of not keeping your countenance when I come in with a baske=
t of
provisions--though one might have supposed--but it is only as Agatha that I=
was
to be so overpowering!" She stopped--Henry Crawford looked rather fool=
ish,
and as if he did not know what to say. Tom Bertram began again--
"Miss Crawford must be Amelia. She will b=
e an
excellent Amelia."
"Do not be afraid of my wanting the
character," cried Julia, with angry quickness: "I am not to be
Agatha, and I am sure I will do nothing else; and as to Amelia, it is of all
parts in the world the most disgusting to me. I quite detest her. An odious,
little, pert, unnatural, impudent girl. I have always protested against com=
edy,
and this is comedy in its worst form." And so saying, she walked hasti=
ly out
of the room, leaving awkward feelings to more than one, but exciting small
compassion in any except Fanny, who had been a quiet auditor of the whole, =
and
who could not think of her as under the agitations of jealousy without great
pity.
A short silence succeeded her leaving them; but
her brother soon returned to business and Lovers' Vows, and was eagerly loo=
king
over the play, with Mr. Yates's help, to ascertain what scenery would be ne=
cessary--while
Maria and Henry Crawford conversed together in an under-voice, and the
declaration with which she began of, "I am sure I would give up the pa=
rt
to Julia most willingly, but that though I shall probably do it very ill, I
feel persuaded she would do it worse," was doubtless receiving all the
compliments it called for.
When this had lasted some time, the division of
the party was completed by Tom Bertram and Mr. Yates walking off together to
consult farther in the room now beginning to be called the Theatre, and Miss
Bertram's resolving to go down to the Parsonage herself with the offer of
Amelia to Miss Crawford; and Fanny remained alone.
The first use she made of her solitude was to =
take
up the volume which had been left on the table, and begin to acquaint herse=
lf
with the play of which she had heard so much. Her curiosity was all awake, =
and
she ran through it with an eagerness which was suspended only by intervals =
of astonishment,
that it could be chosen in the present instance, that it could be proposed =
and
accepted in a private theatre! Agatha and Amelia appeared to her in their
different ways so totally improper for home representation--the situation of
one, and the language of the other, so unfit to be expressed by any woman of
modesty, that she could hardly suppose her cousins could be aware of what t=
hey
were engaging in; and longed to have them roused as soon as possible by the
remonstrance which Edmund would certainly make.
Miss Crawford accepted the part very readily; =
and
soon after Miss Bertram's return from the Parsonage, Mr. Rushworth arrived,=
and
another character was consequently cast. He had the offer of Count Cassel a=
nd
Anhalt, and at first did not know which to chuse, and wanted Miss Bertram to
direct him; but upon being made to understand the different style of the
characters, and which was which, and recollecting that he had once seen the
play in London, and had thought Anhalt a very stupid fellow, he soon decided
for the Count. Miss Bertram approved the decision, for the less he had to l=
earn
the better; and though she could not sympathise in his wish that the Count =
and
Agatha might be to act together, nor wait very patiently while he was slowly
turning over the leaves with the hope of still discovering such a scene, she
very kindly took his part in hand, and curtailed every speech that admitted
being shortened; besides pointing out the necessity of his being very much =
dressed,
and chusing his colours. Mr. Rushworth liked the idea of his finery very we=
ll,
though affecting to despise it; and was too much engaged with what his own
appearance would be to think of the others, or draw any of those conclusion=
s,
or feel any of that displeasure which Maria had been half prepared for.
Thus much was settled before Edmund, who had b=
een
out all the morning, knew anything of the matter; but when he entered the
drawing-room before dinner, the buzz of discussion was high between Tom, Ma=
ria,
and Mr. Yates; and Mr. Rushworth stepped forward with great alacrity to tell
him the agreeable news.
"We have got a play," said he. "=
;It
is to be Lovers' Vows; and I am to be Count Cassel, and am to come in first
with a blue dress and a pink satin cloak, and afterwards am to have another
fine fancy suit, by way of a shooting-dress. I do not know how I shall like
it."
Fanny's eyes followed Edmund, and her heart be=
at
for him as she heard this speech, and saw his look, and felt what his
sensations must be.
"Lovers' Vows!" in a tone of the
greatest amazement, was his only reply to Mr. Rushworth, and he turned towa=
rds
his brother and sisters as if hardly doubting a contradiction.
"Yes," cried Mr. Yates. "After = all our debatings and difficulties, we find there is nothing that will suit us altogether so well, nothing so unexceptionable, as Lovers' Vows. The wonder= is that it should not have been thought of before. My stupidity was abominable, for here we have all the advantage of what I saw at Ecclesford; and it is so useful to have anything of a model! We have cast almost every part." <= o:p>
"But what do you do for women?" said
Edmund gravely, and looking at Maria.
Maria blushed in spite of herself as she answe=
red,
"I take the part which Lady Ravenshaw was to have done, and" (wit=
h a
bolder eye) "Miss Crawford is to be Amelia."
"I should not have thought it the sort of
play to be so easily filled up, with us," replied Edmund, turning away=
to
the fire, where sat his mother, aunt, and Fanny, and seating himself with a
look of great vexation.
Mr. Rushworth followed him to say, "I com=
e in
three times, and have two-and-forty speeches. That's something, is not it? =
But
I do not much like the idea of being so fine. I shall hardly know myself in=
a
blue dress and a pink satin cloak."
Edmund could not answer him. In a few minutes =
Mr.
Bertram was called out of the room to satisfy some doubts of the carpenter;=
and
being accompanied by Mr. Yates, and followed soon afterwards by Mr. Rushwor=
th, Edmund
almost immediately took the opportunity of saying, "I cannot, before M=
r.
Yates, speak what I feel as to this play, without reflecting on his friends=
at
Ecclesford; but I must now, my dear Maria, tell you, that I think it
exceedingly unfit for private representation, and that I hope you will give=
it
up. I cannot but suppose you will when you have read it carefully over. Read
only the first act aloud to either your mother or aunt, and see how you can
approve it. It will not be necessary to send you to your father's judgment,=
I
am convinced."
"We see things very differently," cr=
ied
Maria. "I am perfectly acquainted with the play, I assure you; and wit=
h a
very few omissions, and so forth, which will be made, of course, I can see
nothing objectionable in it; and I am not the only young woman you find who=
thinks
it very fit for private representation."
"I am sorry for it," was his answer;
"but in this matter it is you who are to lead. You must set the exampl=
e.
If others have blundered, it is your place to put them right, and shew them
what true delicacy is. In all points of decorum your conduct must be law to=
the
rest of the party."
This picture of her consequence had some effec=
t,
for no one loved better to lead than Maria; and with far more good-humour s=
he
answered, "I am much obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very well, I am
sure: but I still think you see things too strongly; and I really cannot
undertake to harangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind. There would=
be
the greatest indecorum, I think."
"Do you imagine that I could have such an=
idea
in my head? No; let your conduct be the only harangue. Say that, on examini=
ng
the part, you feel yourself unequal to it; that you find it requiring more
exertion and confidence than you can be supposed to have. Say this with
firmness, and it will be quite enough. All who can distinguish will underst=
and
your motive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as it ou=
ght."
"Do not act anything improper, my dear,&q=
uot;
said Lady Bertram. "Sir Thomas would not like it.--Fanny, ring the bel=
l; I
must have my dinner.--To be sure, Julia is dressed by this time."
"I am convinced, madam," said Edmund,
preventing Fanny, "that Sir Thomas would not like it."
"There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund
says?"
"If I were to decline the part," said
Maria, with renewed zeal, "Julia would certainly take it."
"What!" cried Edmund, "if she k=
new
your reasons!"
"Oh! she might think the difference betwe=
en
us--the difference in our situations--that she need not be so scrupulous as=
I
might feel necessary. I am sure she would argue so. No; you must excuse me;=
I cannot
retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be so disappoint=
ed,
Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we shall never act
anything."
"I was just going to say the very same
thing," said Mrs. Norris. "If every play is to be objected to, you
will act nothing, and the preparations will be all so much money thrown awa=
y,
and I am sure that would be a discredit to us all. I do not know the play; =
but,
as Maria says, if there is anything a little too warm (and it is so with mo=
st
of them) it can be easily left out. We must not be over-precise, Edmund. As=
Mr.
Rushworth is to act too, there can be no harm. I only wish Tom had known his
own mind when the carpenters began, for there was the loss of half a day's =
work
about those side-doors. The curtain will be a good job, however. The maids =
do
their work very well, and I think we shall be able to send back some dozens=
of
the rings. There is no occasion to put them so very close together. I am of
some use, I hope, in preventing waste and making the most of things. There
should always be one steady head to superintend so many young ones. I forgo=
t to
tell Tom of something that happened to me this very day. I had been looking
about me in the poultry-yard, and was just coming out, when who should I see
but Dick Jackson making up to the servants' hall-door with two bits of deal=
board
in his hand, bringing them to father, you may be sure; mother had chanced to
send him of a message to father, and then father had bid him bring up them =
two
bits of board, for he could not no how do without them. I knew what all this
meant, for the servants' dinner-bell was ringing at the very moment over our
heads; and as I hate such encroaching people (the Jacksons are very
encroaching, I have always said so: just the sort of people to get all they
can), I said to the boy directly (a great lubberly fellow of ten years old,=
you
know, who ought to be ashamed of himself), 'I'll take the boards to your
father, Dick, so get you home again as fast as you can.' The boy looked very
silly, and turned away without offering a word, for I believe I might speak=
pretty
sharp; and I dare say it will cure him of coming marauding about the house =
for
one while. I hate such greediness--so good as your father is to the family,
employing the man all the year round!"
Nobody was at the trouble of an answer; the ot=
hers
soon returned; and Edmund found that to have endeavoured to set them right =
must
be his only satisfaction.
Dinner passed heavily. Mrs. Norris related aga=
in
her triumph over Dick Jackson, but neither play nor preparation were otherw=
ise
much talked of, for Edmund's disapprobation was felt even by his brother,
though he would not have owned it. Maria, wanting Henry Crawford's animatin=
g support,
thought the subject better avoided. Mr. Yates, who was trying to make himse=
lf
agreeable to Julia, found her gloom less impenetrable on any topic than tha=
t of
his regret at her secession from their company; and Mr. Rushworth, having o=
nly
his own part and his own dress in his head, had soon talked away all that c=
ould
be said of either.
But the concerns of the theatre were suspended
only for an hour or two: there was still a great deal to be settled; and the
spirits of evening giving fresh courage, Tom, Maria, and Mr. Yates, soon af=
ter
their being reassembled in the drawing-room, seated themselves in committee=
at
a separate table, with the play open before them, and were just getting dee=
p in
the subject when a most welcome interruption was given by the entrance of M=
r.
and Miss Crawford, who, late and dark and dirty as it was, could not help
coming, and were received with the most grateful joy.
"Well, how do you go on?" and "=
What
have you settled?" and "Oh! we can do nothing without you," =
followed
the first salutations; and Henry Crawford was soon seated with the other th=
ree
at the table, while his sister made her way to Lady Bertram, and with pleas=
ant
attention was complimenting her. "I must really congratulate your
ladyship," said she, "on the play being chosen; for though you ha=
ve
borne it with exemplary patience, I am sure you must be sick of all our noi=
se
and difficulties. The actors may be glad, but the bystanders must be infini=
tely
more thankful for a decision; and I do sincerely give you joy, madam, as we=
ll
as Mrs. Norris, and everybody else who is in the same predicament,"
glancing half fearfully, half slyly, beyond Fanny to Edmund.
She was very civilly answered by Lady Bertram,=
but
Edmund said nothing. His being only a bystander was not disclaimed. After
continuing in chat with the party round the fire a few minutes, Miss Crawfo=
rd
returned to the party round the table; and standing by them, seemed to inte=
rest
herself in their arrangements till, as if struck by a sudden recollection, =
she
exclaimed, "My good friends, you are most composedly at work upon these
cottages and alehouses, inside and out; but pray let me know my fate in the
meanwhile. Who is to be Anhalt? What gentleman among you am I to have the
pleasure of making love to?"
For a moment no one spoke; and then many spoke
together to tell the same melancholy truth, that they had not yet got any
Anhalt. "Mr. Rushworth was to be Count Cassel, but no one had yet
undertaken Anhalt."
"I had my choice of the parts," said=
Mr.
Rushworth; "but I thought I should like the Count best, though I do not
much relish the finery I am to have."
"You chose very wisely, I am sure,"
replied Miss Crawford, with a brightened look; "Anhalt is a heavy
part."
"The Count has two-and-forty speeches,&qu=
ot; returned
Mr. Rushworth, "which is no trifle."
"I am not at all surprised," said Mi=
ss
Crawford, after a short pause, "at this want of an Anhalt. Amelia dese=
rves
no better. Such a forward young lady may well frighten the men."
"I should be but too happy in taking the
part, if it were possible," cried Tom; "but, unluckily, the Butler
and Anhalt are in together. I will not entirely give it up, however; I will=
try
what can be done--I will look it over again."
"Your brother should take the part,"
said Mr. Yates, in a low voice. "Do not you think he would?"
"I shall not ask him," replied Tom, =
in a
cold, determined manner.
Miss Crawford talked of something else, and so=
on
afterwards rejoined the party at the fire.
"They do not want me at all," said s=
he,
seating herself. "I only puzzle them, and oblige them to make civil
speeches. Mr. Edmund Bertram, as you do not act yourself, you will be a
disinterested adviser; and, therefore, I apply to you. What shall we do for=
an
Anhalt? Is it practicable for any of the others to double it? What is your
advice?"
"My advice," said he calmly, "is
that you change the play."
"I should have no objection," she
replied; "for though I should not particularly dislike the part of Ame=
lia
if well supported, that is, if everything went well, I shall be sorry to be=
an
inconvenience; but as they do not chuse to hear your advice at that table&q=
uot;
(looking round), "it certainly will not be taken."
Edmund said no more.
"If any part could tempt you to act, I
suppose it would be Anhalt," observed the lady archly, after a short
pause; "for he is a clergyman, you know."
"That circumstance would by no means tempt
me," he replied, "for I should be sorry to make the character
ridiculous by bad acting. It must be very difficult to keep Anhalt from
appearing a formal, solemn lecturer; and the man who chuses the profession
itself is, perhaps, one of the last who would wish to represent it on the
stage."
Miss Crawford was silenced, and with some feel=
ings
of resentment and mortification, moved her chair considerably nearer the
tea-table, and gave all her attention to Mrs. Norris, who was presiding the=
re.
"Fanny," cried Tom Bertram, from the
other table, where the conference was eagerly carrying on, and the conversa=
tion
incessant, "we want your services."
Fanny was up in a moment, expecting some erran=
d;
for the habit of employing her in that way was not yet overcome, in spite of
all that Edmund could do.
"Oh! we do not want to disturb you from y=
our
seat. We do not want your present services. We shall only want you in our p=
lay.
You must be Cottager's wife."
"Me!" cried Fanny, sitting down again
with a most frightened look. "Indeed you must excuse me. I could not a=
ct
anything if you were to give me the world. No, indeed, I cannot act." =
"Indeed, but you must, for we cannot excu=
se
you. It need not frighten you: it is a nothing of a part, a mere nothing, n=
ot
above half a dozen speeches altogether, and it will not much signify if nob=
ody
hears a word you say; so you may be as creep-mouse as you like, but we must
have you to look at."
"If you are afraid of half a dozen
speeches," cried Mr. Rushworth, "what would you do with such a pa=
rt
as mine? I have forty-two to learn."
"It is not that I am afraid of learning by
heart," said Fanny, shocked to find herself at that moment the only
speaker in the room, and to feel that almost every eye was upon her; "=
but
I really cannot act."
"Yes, yes, you can act well enough for us.
Learn your part, and we will teach you all the rest. You have only two scen=
es,
and as I shall be Cottager, I'll put you in and push you about, and you wil=
l do
it very well, I'll answer for it."
"No, indeed, Mr. Bertram, you must excuse=
me.
You cannot have an idea. It would be absolutely impossible for me. If I wer=
e to
undertake it, I should only disappoint you."
"Phoo! Phoo! Do not be so shamefaced. You=
'll
do it very well. Every allowance will be made for you. We do not expect
perfection. You must get a brown gown, and a white apron, and a mob cap, an=
d we
must make you a few wrinkles, and a little of the crowsfoot at the corner of
your eyes, and you will be a very proper, little old woman."
"You must excuse me, indeed you must excu=
se
me," cried Fanny, growing more and more red from excessive agitation, =
and
looking distressfully at Edmund, who was kindly observing her; but unwillin=
g to
exasperate his brother by interference, gave her only an encouraging smile.=
Her
entreaty had no effect on Tom: he only said again what he had said before; =
and
it was not merely Tom, for the requisition was now backed by Maria, and Mr.
Crawford, and Mr. Yates, with an urgency which differed from his but in bei=
ng
more gentle or more ceremonious, and which altogether was quite overpowerin=
g to
Fanny; and before she could breathe after it, Mrs. Norris completed the who=
le
by thus addressing her in a whisper at once angry and audible--"What a
piece of work here is about nothing: I am quite ashamed of you, Fanny, to m=
ake
such a difficulty of obliging your cousins in a trifle of this sort--so kin=
d as
they are to you! Take the part with a good grace, and let us hear no more of
the matter, I entreat."
"Do not urge her, madam," said Edmun=
d.
"It is not fair to urge her in this manner. You see she does not like =
to
act. Let her chuse for herself, as well as the rest of us. Her judgment may=
be
quite as safely trusted. Do not urge her any more."
"I am not going to urge her," replied
Mrs. Norris sharply; "but I shall think her a very obstinate, ungratef=
ul
girl, if she does not do what her aunt and cousins wish her--very ungratefu=
l,
indeed, considering who and what she is."
Edmund was too angry to speak; but Miss Crawfo=
rd,
looking for a moment with astonished eyes at Mrs. Norris, and then at Fanny,
whose tears were beginning to shew themselves, immediately said, with some
keenness, "I do not like my situation: this place is too hot for me,&q=
uot;
and moved away her chair to the opposite side of the table, close to Fanny,
saying to her, in a kind, low whisper, as she placed herself, "Never m=
ind,
my dear Miss Price, this is a cross evening: everybody is cross and teasing,
but do not let us mind them"; and with pointed attention continued to =
talk
to her and endeavour to raise her spirits, in spite of being out of spirits
herself. By a look at her brother she prevented any farther entreaty from t=
he
theatrical board, and the really good feelings by which she was almost pure=
ly
governed were rapidly restoring her to all the little she had lost in Edmun=
d's
favour.
Fanny did not love Miss Crawford; but she felt
very much obliged to her for her present kindness; and when, from taking no=
tice
of her work, and wishing she could work as well, and begging for the patter=
n,
and supposing Fanny was now preparing for her appearance, as of course she =
would
come out when her cousin was married, Miss Crawford proceeded to inquire if=
she
had heard lately from her brother at sea, and said that she had quite a
curiosity to see him, and imagined him a very fine young man, and advised F=
anny
to get his picture drawn before he went to sea again--she could not help
admitting it to be very agreeable flattery, or help listening, and answering
with more animation than she had intended.
The consultation upon the play still went on, =
and
Miss Crawford's attention was first called from Fanny by Tom Bertram's tell=
ing
her, with infinite regret, that he found it absolutely impossible for him t=
o undertake
the part of Anhalt in addition to the Butler: he had been most anxiously tr=
ying
to make it out to be feasible, but it would not do; he must give it up.
"But there will not be the smallest difficulty in filling it," he
added. "We have but to speak the word; we may pick and chuse. I could
name, at this moment, at least six young men within six miles of us, who are
wild to be admitted into our company, and there are one or two that would n=
ot
disgrace us: I should not be afraid to trust either of the Olivers or Charl=
es
Maddox. Tom Oliver is a very clever fellow, and Charles Maddox is as
gentlemanlike a man as you will see anywhere, so I will take my horse early
to-morrow morning and ride over to Stoke, and settle with one of them."=
;
While he spoke, Maria was looking apprehensive=
ly
round at Edmund in full expectation that he must oppose such an enlargement=
of
the plan as this: so contrary to all their first protestations; but Edmund =
said
nothing. After a moment's thought, Miss Crawford calmly replied, "As f=
ar
as I am concerned, I can have no objection to anything that you all think e=
ligible.
Have I ever seen either of the gentlemen? Yes, Mr. Charles Maddox dined at =
my sister's
one day, did not he, Henry? A quiet-looking young man. I remember him. Let =
him
be applied to, if you please, for it will be less unpleasant to me than to =
have
a perfect stranger."
Charles Maddox was to be the man. Tom repeated=
his
resolution of going to him early on the morrow; and though Julia, who had
scarcely opened her lips before, observed, in a sarcastic manner, and with a
glance first at Maria and then at Edmund, that "the Mansfield theatric=
als
would enliven the whole neighbourhood exceedingly," Edmund still held =
his peace,
and shewed his feelings only by a determined gravity.
"I am not very sanguine as to our play,&q=
uot;
said Miss Crawford, in an undervoice to Fanny, after some consideration;
"and I can tell Mr. Maddox that I shall shorten some of his speeches, =
and
a great many of my own, before we rehearse together. It will be very
disagreeable, and by no means what I expected."
It was not in Miss Crawford's power to talk Fa=
nny
into any real forgetfulness of what had passed. When the evening was over, =
she
went to bed full of it, her nerves still agitated by the shock of such an
attack from her cousin Tom, so public and so persevered in, and her spirits=
sinking
under her aunt's unkind reflection and reproach. To be called into notice in
such a manner, to hear that it was but the prelude to something so infinite=
ly
worse, to be told that she must do what was so impossible as to act; and th=
en
to have the charge of obstinacy and ingratitude follow it, enforced with su=
ch a
hint at the dependence of her situation, had been too distressing at the ti=
me
to make the remembrance when she was alone much less so, especially with th=
e superadded
dread of what the morrow might produce in continuation of the subject. Miss
Crawford had protected her only for the time; and if she were applied to ag=
ain
among themselves with all the authoritative urgency that Tom and Maria were
capable of, and Edmund perhaps away, what should she do? She fell asleep be=
fore
she could answer the question, and found it quite as puzzling when she awoke
the next morning. The little white attic, which had continued her sleeping-=
room
ever since her first entering the family, proving incompetent to suggest any
reply, she had recourse, as soon as she was dressed, to another apartment m=
ore
spacious and more meet for walking about in and thinking, and of which she =
had
now for some time been almost equally mistress. It had been their school-ro=
om;
so called till the Miss Bertrams would not allow it to be called so any lon=
ger,
and inhabited as such to a later period. There Miss Lee had lived, and there
they had read and written, and talked and laughed, till within the last thr=
ee
years, when she had quitted them. The room had then become useless, and for
some time was quite deserted, except by Fanny, when she visited her plants,=
or
wanted one of the books, which she was still glad to keep there, from the d=
eficiency
of space and accommodation in her little chamber above: but gradually, as h=
er
value for the comforts of it increased, she had added to her possessions, a=
nd
spent more of her time there; and having nothing to oppose her, had so
naturally and so artlessly worked herself into it, that it was now generally
admitted to be hers. The East room, as it had been called ever since Maria =
Bertram
was sixteen, was now considered Fanny's, almost as decidedly as the white
attic: the smallness of the one making the use of the other so evidently
reasonable that the Miss Bertrams, with every superiority in their own
apartments which their own sense of superiority could demand, were entirely
approving it; and Mrs. Norris, having stipulated for there never being a fi=
re
in it on Fanny's account, was tolerably resigned to her having the use of w=
hat
nobody else wanted, though the terms in which she sometimes spoke of the in=
dulgence
seemed to imply that it was the best room in the house.
The aspect was so favourable that even without=
a
fire it was habitable in many an early spring and late autumn morning to su=
ch a
willing mind as Fanny's; and while there was a gleam of sunshine she hoped =
not
to be driven from it entirely, even when winter came. The comfort of it in =
her
hours of leisure was extreme. She could go there after anything unpleasant
below, and find immediate consolation in some pursuit, or some train of tho=
ught
at hand. Her plants, her books--of which she had been a collector from the
first hour of her commanding a shilling--her writing-desk, and her works of
charity and ingenuity, were all within her reach; or if indisposed for
employment, if nothing but musing would do, she could scarcely see an objec=
t in
that room which had not an interesting remembrance connected with it.
Everything was a friend, or bore her thoughts to a friend; and though there=
had
been sometimes much of suffering to her; though her motives had often been
misunderstood, her feelings disregarded, and her comprehension undervalued;
though she had known the pains of tyranny, of ridicule, and neglect, yet al=
most
every recurrence of either had led to something consolatory: her aunt Bertr=
am
had spoken for her, or Miss Lee had been encouraging, or, what was yet more
frequent or more dear, Edmund had been her champion and her friend: he had
supported her cause or explained her meaning, he had told her not to cry, or
had given her some proof of affection which made her tears delightful; and =
the
whole was now so blended together, so harmonised by distance, that every fo=
rmer
affliction had its charm. The room was most dear to her, and she would not =
have
changed its furniture for the handsomest in the house, though what had been
originally plain had suffered all the ill-usage of children; and its greate=
st
elegancies and ornaments were a faded footstool of Julia's work, too ill do=
ne for
the drawing-room, three transparencies, made in a rage for transparencies, =
for
the three lower panes of one window, where Tintern Abbey held its station
between a cave in Italy and a moonlight lake in Cumberland, a collection of
family profiles, thought unworthy of being anywhere else, over the mantelpi=
ece,
and by their side, and pinned against the wall, a small sketch of a ship se=
nt
four years ago from the Mediterranean by William, with H.M.S. Antwerp at the
bottom, in letters as tall as the mainmast.
To this nest of comforts Fanny now walked down=
to
try its influence on an agitated, doubting spirit, to see if by looking at
Edmund's profile she could catch any of his counsel, or by giving air to her
geraniums she might inhale a breeze of mental strength herself. But she had
more than fears of her own perseverance to remove: she had begun to feel un=
decided
as to what she ought to do; and as she walked round the room her doubts were
increasing. Was she right in refusing what was so warmly asked, so strongly
wished for--what might be so essential to a scheme on which some of those to
whom she owed the greatest complaisance had set their hearts? Was it not
ill-nature, selfishness, and a fear of exposing herself? And would Edmund's
judgment, would his persuasion of Sir Thomas's disapprobation of the whole,=
be
enough to justify her in a determined denial in spite of all the rest? It w=
ould
be so horrible to her to act that she was inclined to suspect the truth and
purity of her own scruples; and as she looked around her, the claims of her
cousins to being obliged were strengthened by the sight of present upon pre=
sent
that she had received from them. The table between the windows was covered =
with
work-boxes and netting-boxes which had been given her at different times,
principally by Tom; and she grew bewildered as to the amount of the debt wh=
ich
all these kind remembrances produced. A tap at the door roused her in the m=
idst
of this attempt to find her way to her duty, and her gentle "Come in&q=
uot;
was answered by the appearance of one, before whom all her doubts were wont=
to
be laid. Her eyes brightened at the sight of Edmund.
"Can I speak with you, Fanny, for a few
minutes?" said he.
"Yes, certainly."
"I want to consult. I want your
opinion."
"My opinion!" she cried, shrinking f=
rom
such a compliment, highly as it gratified her.
"Yes, your advice and opinion. I do not k=
now
what to do. This acting scheme gets worse and worse, you see. They have cho=
sen
almost as bad a play as they could, and now, to complete the business, are
going to ask the help of a young man very slightly known to any of us. This=
is
the end of all the privacy and propriety which was talked about at first. I
know no harm of Charles Maddox; but the excessive intimacy which must spring
from his being admitted among us in this manner is highly objectionable, the
more than intimacy--the familiarity. I cannot think of it with any patience;
and it does appear to me an evil of such magnitude as must, if possible, be
prevented. Do not you see it in the same light?"
"Yes; but what can be done? Your brother =
is
so determined."
"There is but one thing to be done, Fanny=
. I
must take Anhalt myself. I am well aware that nothing else will quiet
Tom."
Fanny could not answer him.
"It is not at all what I like," he
continued. "No man can like being driven into the appearance of such
inconsistency. After being known to oppose the scheme from the beginning, t=
here
is absurdity in the face of my joining them now, when they are exceeding th=
eir
first plan in every respect; but I can think of no other alternative. Can y=
ou,
Fanny?"
"No," said Fanny slowly, "not
immediately, but--"
"But what? I see your judgment is not with
me. Think it a little over. Perhaps you are not so much aware as I am of the
mischief that may, of the unpleasantness that must arise from a young man's
being received in this manner: domesticated among us; authorised to come at=
all
hours, and placed suddenly on a footing which must do away all restraints. =
To think
only of the licence which every rehearsal must tend to create. It is all ve=
ry
bad! Put yourself in Miss Crawford's place, Fanny. Consider what it would b=
e to
act Amelia with a stranger. She has a right to be felt for, because she
evidently feels for herself. I heard enough of what she said to you last ni=
ght
to understand her unwillingness to be acting with a stranger; and as she
probably engaged in the part with different expectations--perhaps without
considering the subject enough to know what was likely to be--it would be
ungenerous, it would be really wrong to expose her to it. Her feelings ough=
t to
be respected. Does it not strike you so, Fanny? You hesitate."
"I am sorry for Miss Crawford; but I am m=
ore
sorry to see you drawn in to do what you had resolved against, and what you=
are
known to think will be disagreeable to my uncle. It will be such a triumph =
to
the others!"
"They will not have much cause of triumph
when they see how infamously I act. But, however, triumph there certainly w=
ill
be, and I must brave it. But if I can be the means of restraining the publi=
city
of the business, of limiting the exhibition, of concentrating our folly, I
shall be well repaid. As I am now, I have no influence, I can do nothing: I
have offended them, and they will not hear me; but when I have put them in =
good-humour
by this concession, I am not without hopes of persuading them to confine the
representation within a much smaller circle than they are now in the high r=
oad
for. This will be a material gain. My object is to confine it to Mrs. Rushw=
orth
and the Grants. Will not this be worth gaining?"
"Yes, it will be a great point."
"But still it has not your approbation. C=
an
you mention any other measure by which I have a chance of doing equal
good?"
"No, I cannot think of anything else.&quo=
t;
"Give me your approbation, then, Fanny. I=
am
not comfortable without it."
"Oh, cousin!"
"If you are against me, I ought to distru=
st
myself, and yet--But it is absolutely impossible to let Tom go on in this w=
ay,
riding about the country in quest of anybody who can be persuaded to act--no
matter whom: the look of a gentleman is to be enough. I thought you would h=
ave entered
more into Miss Crawford's feelings."
"No doubt she will be very glad. It must =
be a
great relief to her," said Fanny, trying for greater warmth of manner.=
"She never appeared more amiable than in =
her
behaviour to you last night. It gave her a very strong claim on my
goodwill."
"She was very kind, indeed, and I am glad=
to
have her spared"...
She could not finish the generous effusion. Her
conscience stopt her in the middle, but Edmund was satisfied.
"I shall walk down immediately after
breakfast," said he, "and am sure of giving pleasure there. And n=
ow,
dear Fanny, I will not interrupt you any longer. You want to be reading. Bu=
t I
could not be easy till I had spoken to you, and come to a decision. Sleepin=
g or
waking, my head has been full of this matter all night. It is an evil, but =
I am
certainly making it less than it might be. If Tom is up, I shall go to him =
directly
and get it over, and when we meet at breakfast we shall be all in high good=
-humour
at the prospect of acting the fool together with such unanimity. You, in the
meanwhile, will be taking a trip into China, I suppose. How does Lord Macar=
tney
go on?"--opening a volume on the table and then taking up some others.
"And here are Crabbe's Tales, and the Idler, at hand to relieve you, if
you tire of your great book. I admire your little establishment exceedingly;
and as soon as I am gone, you will empty your head of all this nonsense of
acting, and sit comfortably down to your table. But do not stay here to be
cold."
He went; but there was no reading, no China, no composure for Fanny. He had told her the most extraordinary, the most inconceivable, the most unwelcome news; and she could think of nothing else= . To be acting! After all his objections--objections so just and so public! After all that she had heard him say, and seen him look, and known him to be feel= ing. Could it be possible? Edmund so inconsistent! Was he not deceiving himself?= Was he not wrong? Alas! it was all Miss Crawford's doing. She had seen her influence in every speech, and was miserable. The doubts and alarms as to h= er own conduct, which had previously distressed her, and which had all slept w= hile she listened to him, were become of little consequence now. This deeper anx= iety swallowed them up. Things should take their course; she cared not how it en= ded. Her cousins might attack, but could hardly tease her. She was beyond their reach; and if at last obliged to yield--no matter--it was all misery now. <= o:p>
It was, indeed, a triumphant day to Mr. Bertram
and Maria. Such a victory over Edmund's discretion had been beyond their ho=
pes,
and was most delightful. There was no longer anything to disturb them in th=
eir darling
project, and they congratulated each other in private on the jealous weakne=
ss
to which they attributed the change, with all the glee of feelings gratifie=
d in
every way. Edmund might still look grave, and say he did not like the schem=
e 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 on=
ly.
Edmund had descended from that moral elevation which he had maintained befo=
re,
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 intrusio=
n 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 certain=
ly
will not act."
"Oh! very well." And not another word
was said; but Fanny felt herself again in danger, and her indifference to t=
he
danger was beginning to fail her already.
There were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage t=
han
at the Park on this change in Edmund; Miss Crawford looked very lovely in h=
ers,
and entered with such an instantaneous renewal of cheerfulness into the who=
le affair
as could have but one effect on him. "He was certainly right in respec=
ting
such feelings; he was glad he had determined on it." And the morning w=
ore
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 h=
ere.
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 h=
is
unsteadiness, and his happiness under it made her wretched. She was full of
jealousy and agitation. Miss Crawford came with looks of gaiety which seeme=
d an
insult, with friendly expressions towards herself which she could hardly an=
swer
calmly. Everybody around her was gay and busy, prosperous and important; ea=
ch
had their object of interest, their part, their dress, their favourite scen=
e,
their friends and confederates: all were finding employment in consultations
and comparisons, or diversion in the playful conceits they suggested. She a=
lone
was sad and insignificant: she had no share in anything; she might go or st=
ay;
she might be in the midst of their noise, or retreat from it to the solitud=
e 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 enti=
tled
to respect, which could never have belonged to her; and that, had she recei=
ved
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 sadd=
ened
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 submitte=
d to
it without any alarm for Maria's situation, or any endeavour at rational tr=
anquillity
for herself. She either sat in gloomy silence, wrapt in such gravity as not=
hing
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 gallant=
ry
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 th=
an
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 rai=
sed
expectations in more than Mrs. Grant. She was not pleased to see Julia excl=
uded
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 Jul=
ia
had ever had a serious thought of each other, she could only renew her form=
er
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 brou=
ght
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 g=
ive
him a hint of it. Think of Mr. Rushworth!"
"You had better tell Miss Bertram to thin=
k 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 esca=
pe 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 thi=
ngs
when he comes home," said Mary, after a pause. "Do you remember
Hawkins Browne's 'Address to Tobacco,' in imitation of Pope?--
B=
lest
leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense To Templars modesty, to Parsons sens=
e.
I will parody them--
B=
lest
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 o=
f 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. Yate=
s;
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 supe=
rior
to the hope of some distressing end to the attentions which were still carr=
ying
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 differe=
nce
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 pri=
nciple
enough to make them merciful or just, to give them honour or compassion. Ma=
ria
felt her triumph, and pursued her purpose, careless of Julia; and Julia cou=
ld
never see Maria distinguished by Henry Crawford without trusting that it wo=
uld
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 onl=
y by
Fanny's consciousness.
The inattention of the two brothers and the au=
nt
to Julia's discomposure, and their blindness to its true cause, must be imp=
uted
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 re=
late
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 directi=
ng
the general little matters of the company, superintending their various dre=
sses
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.
Everything was now in a regular train: theatre,
actors, actresses, and dresses, were all getting forward; but though no oth=
er
great impediments arose, Fanny found, before many days were past, that it w=
as
not all uninterrupted enjoyment to the party themselves, and that she had n=
ot
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 m=
any.
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 ecl=
at
of their proceedings; and his brother, instead of being really guided by hi=
m as
to the privacy of the representation, was giving an invitation to every fam=
ily who
came in his way. Tom himself began to fret over the scene-painter's slow pr=
ogress,
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 be=
gan
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 distres=
ses
of most of them. She knew that Mr. Yates was in general thought to rant dre=
adfully;
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 anyb=
ody
to rehearse with him: his complaint came before her as well as the rest; an=
d so
decided to her eye was her cousin Maria's avoidance of him, and so needless=
ly
often the rehearsal of the first scene between her and Mr. Crawford, that s=
he
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 wou=
ld
remember on which side they were to come in; nobody but the complainer would
observe any directions.
Fanny believed herself to derive as much innoc=
ent
enjoyment from the play as any of them; Henry Crawford acted well, and it w=
as 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 tw=
o,
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 w=
as
considerably the best actor of all: he had more confidence than Edmund, mor=
e judgment
than Tom, more talent and taste than Mr. Yates. She did not like him as a m=
an,
but she must admit him to be the best actor, and on this point there were n=
ot
many who differed from her. Mr. Yates, indeed, exclaimed against his tamene=
ss
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 for=
mer
jealousy, which Maria, from increasing hopes of Crawford, was at little pai=
ns
to remove; and the chances of Mr. Rushworth's ever attaining to the knowled=
ge
of his two-and-forty speeches became much less. As to his ever making anyth=
ing tolerable
of them, nobody had the smallest idea of that except his mother; she, indee=
d,
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 g=
reat
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 feel=
ings
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 havin=
g no
demand on her leisure as on her compassion. The gloom of her first anticipa=
tions
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 don=
e,
moreover, in which her help was wanted; and that Mrs. Norris thought her qu=
ite
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 sh=
ould
be delighted: it is all new to her, you know; you and I used to be very fon=
d of
a play ourselves, and so am I still; and as soon as I am a little more at l=
eisure,
I mean to look in at their rehearsals too. What is the play about, Fanny? y=
ou
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 abo=
ut
Lovers' Vows."
"I believe," said Fanny to her aunt
Bertram, "there will be three acts rehearsed to-morrow evening, and th=
at
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." <= o:p>
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 long=
ing 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 shor=
t 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 representatio=
n of
it as a circumstance almost too interesting. She did not believe they had y=
et 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 h=
er silence
concealed a very absent, anxious mind; and about noon she made her escape w=
ith
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 purpos=
e to
entreat your help."
Fanny, quite surprised, endeavoured to shew
herself mistress of the room by her civilities, and looked at the bright ba=
rs
of her empty grate with concern.
"Thank you; I am quite warm, very warm. A=
llow
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 sh=
ould
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 cou=
ld
go through it with him, till I have hardened myself a little; for really th=
ere
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 pa=
rt 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 speec=
h,
and that, and that. How am I ever to look him in the face and say such thin=
gs?
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 great=
est
readiness; but I must read the part, for I can say very little of it."=
"None of it, I suppose. You are to have t=
he
book, of course. Now for it. We must have two chairs at hand for you to bri=
ng
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 go=
verness
and your uncle say to see them used for such a purpose? Could Sir Thomas lo=
ok
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 happe=
ned
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 turn=
ed
it off as well as I could, by whispering to him, 'We shall have an excellen=
t 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 mo=
dest
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 bro=
ught
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 pleasu=
re
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 ne=
arly
nothing to both to have any comfort in having been sought by either. They m=
ust
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 saf=
ety
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; b=
ut
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 rec=
all
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 ve=
ry
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 Crawfor=
ds
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 gene=
ral diffusion
of cheerfulness on the occasion. Tom was enjoying such an advance towards t=
he
end; Edmund was in spirits from the morning's rehearsal, and little vexatio=
ns
seemed everywhere smoothed away. All were alert and impatient; the ladies m=
oved
soon, the gentlemen soon followed them, and with the exception of Lady Bert=
ram,
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 m=
ock
solemnity. "He has been ill ever since he did not eat any of the pheas=
ant
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 h=
er.
The comfort of the whole evening was destroyed. What was to be done? Tom, a=
s 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 g=
ood
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," sa=
id
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 d=
ay
in twenty places. Fanny, I am sure you know the part."
Fanny could not say she did not; and as they a=
ll
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. Every=
body
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."
How is the consternation of the party to be
described? To the greater number it was a moment of absolute horror. Sir Th=
omas
in the house! All felt the instantaneous conviction. Not a hope of impositi=
on
or mistake was harboured anywhere. Julia's looks were an evidence of the fa=
ct
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 footst=
eps.
Julia was the first to move and speak again.
Jealousy and bitterness had been suspended: selfishness was lost in the com=
mon
cause; but at the moment of her appearance, Frederick was listening with lo=
oks
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 w=
ords,
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 bef=
ore
him."
Her going roused the rest; and at the same mom=
ent
the two brothers stepped forward, feeling the necessity of doing something.=
A
very few words between them were sufficient. The case admitted no differenc=
e 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 earnes=
t 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 wit=
h 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 id=
ea
of classing herself with his children, she was glad to remain behind and ga=
in a
little breathing-time. Her agitation and alarm exceeded all that was endure=
d 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 h=
er
uncle was returning, and with it compassion for him and for almost every on=
e 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 s=
uch
an unlooked-for premature arrival as a most untoward event, and without mer=
cy
wishing poor Sir Thomas had been twice as long on his passage, or were stil=
l in
Antigua.
The Crawfords were more warm on the subject th=
an
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; whi=
le
Mr. Yates considered it only as a temporary interruption, a disaster for th=
e 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 s=
oon
agreed on the propriety of their walking quietly home and leaving the famil=
y 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 ot=
hers
to have everybody run away."
Fanny was just beginning to collect herself, a=
nd
to feel that if she staid longer behind it might seem disrespectful, when t=
his
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-r=
oom
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 t=
he
lock in desperation, and the lights of the drawing-room, and all the collec=
ted family,
were before her. As she entered, her own name caught her ear. Sir Thomas wa=
s 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 a=
ll
that had been awful in his dignity seemed lost in tenderness. He led her ne=
arer
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 s=
poke
sufficiently on that point. A fine blush having succeeded the previous pale=
ness
of her face, he was justified in his belief of her equal improvement in hea=
lth
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 vexati=
on
was probably ready to burst on him.
Sir Thomas was indeed the life of the party, w=
ho
at his suggestion now seated themselves round the fire. He had the best rig=
ht
to be the talker; and the delight of his sensations in being again in his o=
wn 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 informa=
tion
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 passa=
ge
thither in a private vessel, instead of waiting for the packet; and all the
little particulars of his proceedings and events, his arrivals and departur=
es, 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 wis=
hed,
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 wi=
th
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 a=
s 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 who=
le 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 cautio=
n 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 ve=
xed
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 ha=
ppy
news through the house, Sir Thomas, with a very reasonable dependence, perh=
aps,
on the nerves of his wife and children, had sought no confidant but the but=
ler,
and had been following him almost instantaneously into the drawing-room. Mr=
s.
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 t=
roublesome
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 urgi=
ng
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 ba=
sin
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 sp=
eak
for tea directly; suppose you hurry Baddeley a little; he seems behindhand
to-night." She carried this point, and Sir Thomas's narrative proceede=
d.
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?&q=
uot;
"Oh! they'll tell you all about it."=
"The all will soon be told," cried T= om hastily, and with affected unconcern; "but it is not worth while to bo= re my father with it now. You will hear enough of it to-morrow, sir. We have j= ust 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 s= port 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 Eas= ton, and we brought home six brace between us, and might each have killed six ti= mes as many, but we respect your pheasants, sir, I assure you, as much as you c= ould 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 th= is year. I hope you will take a day's sport there yourself, sir, soon." <= o:p>
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 t=
he
house without just looking into his own dear room, every agitation was retu=
rning.
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. <= o:p>
"It is time to think of our visitors,&quo=
t;
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 t=
heir
message.
"Then poor Yates is all alone," crie=
d 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 cast=
ing
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 tim=
e to
feel astonished at all this, before there were sounds from the billiard-roo=
m to
astonish him still farther. Some one was talking there in a very loud accen=
t;
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 s=
uch
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 wi=
th
the greatest eclat.
There was little time, however, for the indulg=
ence
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 h=
is
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 ange=
r on
finding himself thus bewildered in his own house, making part of a ridiculo=
us
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 t=
he
first five minutes seemed to mark him the most at home of the two.
Tom understood his father's thoughts, and hear=
tily
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 t=
here
might be some ground of offence, that there might be some reason for the gl=
ance
his father gave towards the ceiling and stucco of the room; and that when h=
e inquired
with mild gravity after the fate of the billiard-table, he was not proceedi=
ng
beyond a very allowable curiosity. A few minutes were enough for such
unsatisfactory sensations on each side; and Sir Thomas having exerted himse=
lf
so far as to speak a few words of calm approbation in reply to an eager app=
eal
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 gravi=
ty
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 surpri=
se,
as I had not the smallest suspicion of your acting having assumed so seriou=
s 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 domesti=
c 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 l=
ead
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 w=
hole
history of his disappointment at Ecclesford. Sir Thomas listened most polit=
ely,
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 bro=
ught
the infection from Ecclesford, and it spread--as those things always spread,
you know, sir--the faster, probably, from your having so often encouraged t=
he 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 do=
ne
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; relati=
ng
everything with so blind an interest as made him not only totally unconscio=
us
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 fr=
om
seeing the expression of the face on which his own eyes were fixed--from se=
eing
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 l=
anguage,
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 so=
fa,
and, screened from notice herself, saw all that was passing before her. Suc=
h 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 depend=
ed;
what have you been about?" She knelt in spirit to her uncle, and her b=
osom
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 th=
is
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 g=
one
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 res=
ult.
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 lett=
ers
from Mansfield. Do you find them agreeable acquaintance?"
Tom was the only one at all ready with an answ=
er,
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, prett=
y,
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-look=
ing
man."
Sir Thomas did not quite understand this, and
looked with some surprise at the speaker.
"If I must say what I think," contin=
ued
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 acti=
ng
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 y=
our
time of life to feel all this, is a most favourable circumstance for yourse=
lf,
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 mu=
st
not expect a genius in Mr. Rushworth; but as a well-judging, steady young m=
an,
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 opin=
ion
a little longer.
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 ingenu=
ousness,
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 noth=
ing
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, excep=
ting
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 e=
ver
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 resto=
red 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, w=
hom
he could not leave to learn his sentiments merely through his conduct. He c=
ould
not help giving Mrs. Norris a hint of his having hoped that her advice migh=
t have
been interposed to prevent what her judgment must certainly have disapprove=
d.
The young people had been very inconsiderate in forming the plan; they ough=
t 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 measure=
s,
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 asha=
med
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--th=
at
she might have talked in vain. Her only resource was to get out of the subj=
ect
as fast as possible, and turn the current of Sir Thomas's ideas into a happ=
ier
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 fr=
om
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 dea=
l of
encouragement, and there were girls enough on the catch for him if we had b=
een
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 the=
m, though
we had the four horses of course; and poor old coachman would attend us, ou=
t of
his great love and kindness, though he was hardly able to sit the box on ac=
count
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 mu=
ch
better not go; your Lady and I shall be very safe; you know how steady Step=
hen
is, and Charles has been upon the leaders so often now, that I am sure ther=
e is
no fear.' But, however, I soon found it would not do; he was bent upon goin=
g,
and as I hate to be worrying and officious, I said no more; but my heart qu=
ite
ached for him at every jolt, and when we got into the rough lanes about Sto=
ke,
where, what with frost and snow upon beds of stones, it was worse than anyt=
hing
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 w=
ill
laugh at me; but I got out and walked up. I did indeed. It might not be sav=
ing
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 acquain=
tance
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 exact=
ly 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 qu=
ite
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 w=
ith
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 baili=
ff;
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 hous=
e 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 dismiss=
al
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 floo=
r 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 anot=
her
day or two would suffice to wipe away every outward memento of what had bee=
n, 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 T=
om
had taken the opportunity of explaining, with proper apologies for his fath=
er's
particularity, what was to be expected. Mr. Yates felt it as acutely as mig=
ht
be supposed. To be a second time disappointed in the same way was an instan=
ce
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 whi=
le
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 sh=
ould
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 expec=
ting
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 Parson=
age,
not a creature, and had heard no tidings beyond a friendly note of congratu=
lation
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 mom=
ents
of feverish enjoyment were followed by hours of acute suffering. Henry Craw=
ford
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 la=
tter
in an undervoice whether there were any plans for resuming the play after t=
he
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 req=
uired
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, wherev=
er I
may be," said he; "I will attend you from any place in England, a=
t an
hour's notice."
It was well at that moment that Tom had to spe=
ak,
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 th=
ere."
"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 discussio=
n,
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 regr=
et.
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 lon=
g 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 gene=
ral
civilities soon called his notice from her, and the farewell visit, as it t=
hen
became openly acknowledged, was a very short one. He was gone--he had touch=
ed
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 pres=
ence
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 t=
o 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 ot=
hers
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 unconcer=
n 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 ind=
ifferent
to Mr. Crawford's going or staying: but his good wishes for Mr. Yates's hav=
ing
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 h=
im
of its existence.
Mrs. Norris contrived to remove one article fr=
om
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 cottag=
e,
where she happened to be particularly in want of green baize.
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 int=
ercourse
with the Parsonage. Sir Thomas, drawing back from intimacies in general, was
particularly disinclined, at this time, for any engagements but in one quar=
ter.
The Rushworths were the only addition to his own domestic circle which he c=
ould
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 fa=
ther
were more sensible of their very great attention to my mother and sisters w=
hile
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 deserve=
s;
for they are in fact exactly the sort of people he would like. We are somet=
imes
a little in want of animation among ourselves: my sisters seem out of spiri=
ts,
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 tend=
ency
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 tow=
n.
No young people's are, I suppose, when those they look up to are at home&qu=
ot;.
"I believe you are right, Fanny," was
his reply, after a short consideration. "I believe our evenings are ra=
ther
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 wi=
ll
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 lo=
ve
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 peop=
le
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 complime=
nts
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 impro=
ved!--and
you have gained so much countenance!--and your figure--nay, Fanny, do not t=
urn
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 i=
dea
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 t=
hat
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 o=
ne
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?&qu=
ot;
"I did--and was in hopes the question wou=
ld
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 suc=
h 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 daught=
ers
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 Parson=
age,
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 par=
t of
those who have known you so long; and with regard to some others, I can per=
ceive,
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 do=
es
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 on=
ly
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 sor=
t 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 Chelten=
ham
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 com=
es
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 evi=
l 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; a=
nd
beginning to feel grave on Maria's account, tried to understand her feeling=
s.
Little observation there was necessary to tell him that indifference was th=
e most
favourable state they could be in. Her behaviour to Mr. Rushworth was carel=
ess
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. M=
r.
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 suppos=
ing
she had the smallest desire of breaking through her engagement, or was sens=
ible
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 h=
ave
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 impro=
ve.
Mr. Rushworth must and would improve in good society; and if Maria could no=
w 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 comf=
orts
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 e=
lse
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 Sother=
ton
to Mansfield must naturally hold out the greatest temptation, and would, in=
all
probability, be a continual supply of the most amiable and innocent enjoyme=
nts.
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, determ=
ined
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 h=
er
feelings were at all tranquillised, before she had given up every hope of h=
im,
or absolutely resolved on enduring his rival, her answer might have been di=
fferent;
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 separati=
on,
her mind became cool enough to seek all the comfort that pride and self rev=
enge
could give.
Henry Crawford had destroyed her happiness, bu=
t 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 pini=
ng
in the retirement of Mansfield for him, rejecting Sotherton and London, ind=
ependence
and splendour, for his sake. Independence was more needful than ever; the w=
ant
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 hom=
e, 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 ha=
ve
fairer play.
The principals being all agreed in this respec=
t,
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 Sother=
ton
in her evening parties; enjoying them as thoroughly, perhaps, in the animat=
ion
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 mistre=
ss.
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. Noth=
ing could
be objected to when it came under the discussion of the neighbourhood, exce=
pt
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 f=
or 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 fe=
lt
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 drinki=
ng
the health of Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth in a supernumerary glass or two, was a=
ll joyous
delight; for she had made the match; she had done everything; and no one wo=
uld
have supposed, from her confident triumph, that she had ever heard of conju=
gal
infelicity in her life, or could have the smallest insight into the disposi=
tion
of the niece who had been brought up under her eye.
The plan of the young couple was to proceed, a=
fter
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 summe=
r.
When the novelty of amusement there was over, it would be time for the wide=
r 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!
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 no=
t 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 h=
er
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 vis=
its
there, beginning by chance, were continued by solicitation. Mrs. Grant, rea=
lly
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 ca=
lls.
Fanny, having been sent into the village on so=
me
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, sigh=
ing
over the ruin of all her plan of exercise for that morning, and of every ch=
ance
of seeing a single creature beyond themselves for the next twenty-four hour=
s,
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 d=
ay
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 clot=
hes;
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 t=
he
rain continued, the blessing of something fresh to see and think of was thu=
s 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 havi=
ng
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 mi=
ght 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, wh=
ich
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 h=
ad
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?" we=
re
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 t=
he
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 M=
iss
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 Fan=
ny.
"I have been watching them. This weather is all from the south." =
"South or north, I know a black cloud whe=
n I
see it; and you must not set forward while it is so threatening. And beside=
s, 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.&q=
uot;
Fanny felt that she must; and though she had n=
ot
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 ag=
ain 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 whatev=
er
was liked by him, she was more sincerely impatient to go away at the conclu=
sion
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 a=
nd
hear more of the harp, that she felt it necessary to be done, if no objecti=
on
arose at home.
Such was the origin of the sort of intimacy wh=
ich
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 mi=
ld
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 t=
he
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 becomi=
ng
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 anot=
her 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 wea=
k;
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 q=
uiet
simplicity in the plan of the walk! Not too much attempted!"
"Yes," replied Miss Crawford careles=
sly,
"it does very well for a place of this sort. One does not think of ext=
ent
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 t=
he
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 welcom=
e,
how wonderful the evergreen! When one thinks of it, how astonishing a varie=
ty
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 s=
ort
of wondering strain. One cannot fix one's eyes on the commonest natural pro=
duction
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 X=
IV.;
and may declare that I see no wonder in this shrubbery equal to seeing myse=
lf
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 sh=
ould
not have believed them. I have now been here nearly five months; and, moreo=
ver,
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, w=
ith
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 centr=
e of
family connexions; continual engagements among them; commanding the first s=
ociety
in the neighbourhood; looked up to, perhaps, as leading it even more than t=
hose
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 Pri=
ce?
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 u=
s to
be severe on Mrs. Rushworth, for I look forward to our owing her a great ma=
ny
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; f=
or
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 i=
nto
thoughtfulness, till suddenly looking up at the end of a few minutes, she
exclaimed, "Ah! here he is." It was not Mr. Rushworth, however, b=
ut
Edmund, who then appeared walking towards them with Mrs. Grant. "My si=
ster
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 Fan=
ny.
"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. Thoma=
s.
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 w=
as
the first time of his seeing them together since the beginning of that bett=
er
acquaintance which he had been hearing of with great satisfaction. A friend=
ship
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 a=
ny
means consider Fanny as the only, or even as the greater gainer by such a
friendship.
"Well," said Miss Crawford, "an=
d 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 thou=
ght
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 ev=
er
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 v=
ery 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 a=
re
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 he=
re
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 t=
ill
Sunday, because I know how much more Dr. Grant would enjoy it on Sunday aft=
er
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.&quo=
t;
"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 remotene=
ss
and unpunctuality, or their exorbitant charges and frauds, will be drawing =
forth
bitter lamentations."
"I mean to be too rich to lament or to fe=
el
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.&quo=
t;
"You intend to be very rich?" said
Edmund, with a look which, to Fanny's eye, had a great deal of serious mean=
ing.
"To be sure. Do not you? Do not we all?&q=
uot;
"I cannot intend anything which it must b=
e 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 ca=
n 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 hav=
e 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 thin=
k I
shall even respect you. I have a much greater respect for those that are ho=
nest
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 tha=
t 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 ch=
ance--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 g=
reat
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 whe=
ther
she should take leave or not just then, and how, to a very speedy issue. Wi=
th
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 h=
ad
walked down to the Parsonage on purpose to bring her back.
Fanny's hurry increased; and without in the le=
ast
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 mea=
n 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 h=
im
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 perfe=
ctly
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 f=
or
his opinion and help. But Edmund, delighted with her having such an happine=
ss
offered, and ascertaining with half a look, and half a sentence, that she h=
ad
no objection but on her aunt's account, could not imagine that his mother w=
ould
make any difficulty of sparing her, and therefore gave his decided open adv=
ice
that the invitation should be accepted; and though Fanny would not venture,
even on his encouragement, to such a flight of audacious independence, it w=
as
soon settled, that if nothing were heard to the contrary, Mrs. Grant might
expect her.
"And you know what your dinner will be,&q=
uot;
said Mrs. Grant, smiling--"the turkey, and I assure you a very fine on=
e;
for, my dear," turning to her husband, "cook insists upon the
turkey's being dressed to-morrow."
"Very well, very well," cried Dr. Gr=
ant,
"all the better; I am glad to hear you have anything so good in the ho=
use.
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 fin=
e dinner,
is all we have in view. A turkey, or a goose, or a leg of mutton, or whatev=
er
you and your cook chuse to give us."
The two cousins walked home together; and, exc=
ept
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 h=
aving
finished that subject, he grew thoughtful and indisposed for any other.
"But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?&quo=
t;
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 su=
re
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 t=
hink
of asking her? She never did before. She used to ask your sisters now and t=
hen,
but she never asked Fanny."
"If you cannot do without me, ma'am--&quo=
t;
said Fanny, in a self-denying tone.
"But my mother will have my father with h=
er
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, Edmun=
d. 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. Gran=
t,
as well as by Fanny, that being the first invitation it should be
accepted."
"I do not know. We will ask him. But he w=
ill
be very much surprised that Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all."
There was nothing more to be said, or that cou=
ld
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 look=
ing
in for a minute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room, she ca=
lled
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 t=
he
trouble of raising her voice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Tho=
mas
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 w=
ere
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 ha=
ve
something to tell you that will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to
dinner."
"Well," said Sir Thomas, as if waiti=
ng
more to accomplish the surprise.
"Edmund wants her to go. But how can I sp=
are
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 ad=
d,
"So strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her."
"But is it not very natural," observ=
ed
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 explanati=
on.
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, s=
ince
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?&qu=
ot;
"Indeed I think you may."
"She always makes tea, you know, when my
sister is not here."
"Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed o=
n to
spend the day with us, and I shall certainly be at home."
"Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund.&q=
uot;
The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocke=
d 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 opinio=
n.
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, s=
he
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 novel=
ty
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 t=
hree
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; f=
or
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 luc=
k 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 a=
ll
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 bette=
r!
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 ca=
me
away, as anybody in their senses would have done, instead of having that ab=
surd
new one of his own, which is wider, literally wider than the dinner-table h=
ere,
how infinitely better it would have been! and how much more he would have b=
een
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 tabl=
e. 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 stepp=
ing
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 forw=
ard,
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 anythi=
ng
else."
"And if it should rain, which I think
exceedingly likely, for I never saw it more threatening for a wet evening i=
n 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 wh=
at
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 t=
ime
would you have the carriage come round?" she felt a degree of astonish=
ment
which made it impossible for her to speak.
"My dear Sir Thomas!" cried Mrs. Nor=
ris,
red with anger, "Fanny can walk."
"Walk!" repeated Sir Thomas, in a to=
ne
of most unanswerable dignity, and coming farther into the room. "My ni=
ece
walk to a dinner engagement at this time of the year! Will twenty minutes a=
fter
four suit you?"
"Yes, sir," was Fanny's humble answe=
r,
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 follo=
wed
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 hoars=
e on
Thursday night."
But this could not impose on Fanny. She felt t=
hat
the carriage was for herself, and herself alone: and her uncle's considerat=
ion
of her, coming immediately after such representations from her aunt, cost h=
er
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 scrupul=
ous
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 though=
t 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 barou=
che,
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 F=
anny
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 v=
ery
cordial meeting passed between him and Edmund; and with the exception of Fa=
nny,
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 favouri=
te
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 lad=
y 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 hunt=
ing,
so much of politics between Mr. Crawford and Dr. Grant, and of everything a=
nd
all together between Mr. Crawford and Mrs. Grant, as to leave her the faire=
st
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, advise=
d 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 o=
n.
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 befo=
re,
and apparently as willing to stay and be happy without the Miss Bertrams, a=
s 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-r=
oom,
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 fortni=
ght,
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. Ya=
tes.
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 wi=
th
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 be=
st
friend. Your kindness and patience can never be forgotten, your indefatigab=
le
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 res=
t 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 o=
f the
day. Always some little objection, some little doubt, some little anxiety t=
o be
got over. I never was happier."
With silent indignation Fanny repeated to hers=
elf,
"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 Edmu=
nd,
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 i=
f 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 m=
oments'
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 answ=
ers
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 int=
o 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 w=
ill still
live at home, it will be all for his menus plaisirs; and a sermon at Christ=
mas
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 everyb=
ody
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. Bertra=
m 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 o=
f;
but she checked herself and let it pass; and tried to look calm and unconce=
rned
when the two gentlemen shortly afterwards joined them.
"Bertram," said Henry Crawford, &quo=
t;I
shall make a point of coming to Mansfield to hear you preach your first ser=
mon.
I shall come on purpose to encourage a young beginner. When is it to be? Mi=
ss
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 disconce=
rt
me, and I should be more sorry to see you trying at it than almost any other
man."
"Will he not feel this?" thought Fan=
ny.
"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. Gr=
ant,
by his attentive wife, though it was not to be supposed so--and Miss Crawfo=
rd 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 m=
atch
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.
Henry Crawford had quite made up his mind by t=
he
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 r=
ound
at his sister as he sealed and threw the letter from him, and seeing the co=
ast
clear of the rest of the family, said, with a smile, "And how do you t=
hink
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.&qu=
ot;
"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, y=
ou
none of you seemed sensible of the wonderful improvement that has taken pla=
ce
in her looks within the last six weeks. You see her every day, and therefor=
e 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 g=
irl,
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 observe=
d 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 w=
ere
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 wonde=
rful
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 accusati=
on,
and soon afterwards said, "I do not quite know what to make of Miss Fa=
nny.
I do not understand her. I could not tell what she would be at yesterday. W=
hat
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 succee=
d 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 char=
ms
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 ha=
s 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 whe=
n I
go away that she shall be never happy again. I want nothing more."
"Moderation itself!" said Mary. &quo=
t;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 remonstranc=
e,
she left Fanny to her fate, a fate which, had not Fanny's heart been guarde=
d in
a way unsuspected by Miss Crawford, might have been a little harder than sh=
e 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 wi=
th
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 onl=
y of
a fortnight) of such a man as Crawford, in spite of there being some previo=
us
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; an=
d 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 cam=
e 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 h=
and,
which he had hoped would bring the first tidings, he found her trembling wi=
th
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 ma=
de
himself thoroughly master of the subject, or had in fact become at all awar=
e of
her having such a brother, or his being in such a ship, but the interest th=
en excited
had been very properly lively, determining him on his return to town to app=
ly
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 acknowledg=
ed:
quite thankfully and warmly, for she was elevated beyond the common timidit=
y 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, m=
ust
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 m=
ost
for his support and advancement; and accordingly the reply to her reply, fi=
xing
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 t=
he
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 t=
he
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 t=
he
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 res=
pectful
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 minute=
s 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 year=
ning
to do through many a past year. That time, however, did gradually come, for=
warded
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 w=
as 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 Thom=
as
could not but observe with complacency, even before Edmund had pointed it o=
ut
to him.
Excepting the moments of peculiar delight, whi=
ch
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 an=
d 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 n=
oisy
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 sam=
e 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 enti=
rely
outlived. Too often, alas! it is so. Fraternal love, sometimes almost
everything, is at others worse than nothing. But with William and Fanny Pri=
ce
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; a=
nd
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 che=
ek,
the brightness of her eye, the deep interest, the absorbed attention, while=
her
brother was describing any of the imminent hazards, or terrific scenes, whi=
ch
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 countenan=
ce
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 s=
tay
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 co=
uld
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 qu=
est
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 attent=
ive;
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 disagre=
eable!
I wonder anybody can ever go to sea."
To Henry Crawford they gave a different feelin=
g.
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 e=
ndurance,
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, inst=
ead
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 foun=
d 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 conferri=
ng 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 scru=
ples
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 vari=
ous
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 fa=
lls,
that he was at all equal to the management of a high-fed hunter in an Engli=
sh
fox-chase; nor till he returned safe and well, without accident or discredi=
t,
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 produc=
e.
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 entire=
ly
so long as he remained in Northamptonshire.
The intercourse of the two families was at this
period more nearly restored to what it had been in the autumn, than any mem=
ber
of the old intimacy had thought ever likely to be again. The return of Henr=
y 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 t=
he
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 wor=
th
visiting; and though infinitely above scheming or contriving for any the mo=
st
advantageous matrimonial establishment that could be among the apparent
possibilities of any one most dear to him, and disdaining even as a littlen=
ess
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 deb=
ates
and many doubts as to whether it were worth while, "because Sir Thomas
seemed so ill inclined, and Lady Bertram was so indolent!" proceeded f=
rom good-breeding
and goodwill alone, and had nothing to do with Mr. Crawford, but as being o=
ne
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 wo=
uld
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 al=
l 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 contr=
ive
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 b=
eing
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 s=
oon
found herself in the critical situation of being applied to for her own cho=
ice
between the games, and being required either to draw a card for whist or no=
t.
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, recommen=
ded
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 aga=
in;
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, a=
nd
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 dignit=
y,
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 c=
ompetition
with William, was a work of some difficulty; and as for Lady Bertram, he mu=
st
continue in charge of all her fame and fortune through the whole evening; a=
nd
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 enjoyme=
nt
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 Mr=
s. Grant
was able, at the end of the first rubber, to go to her and pay her complime=
nts.
"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 car=
ds;
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." Th=
ey
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, H=
enry
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, w=
ith
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 lit=
tle
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 ston=
e'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 entire=
ly,
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 me=
an,
must be on that side, where the view is really very pretty; I am sure it ma=
y be
done. And there must be your approach, through what is at present the garde=
n. 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 grou=
nd
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 b=
e.
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, o=
f 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--somethi=
ng
must be done with the stream; but I could not quite determine what. I had t=
wo
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 c=
are
about me."
Miss Crawford, a little suspicious and resentf=
ul
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 Pr=
ice;
and securing his knave at an exorbitant rate, exclaimed, "There, I wil=
l stake
my last like a woman of spirit. No cold prudence for me. I am not born to s=
it
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 dese=
rves
it, and you will find yourself not satisfied with much less than it is capa=
ble
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; fo=
r,
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 hund=
reds
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 anythin=
g.
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 up=
on
my plan, though, by the bye, I doubt anybody's striking out a better) you m=
ay
give it a higher character. You may raise it into a place. From being the m=
ere
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 s=
et
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 se=
en
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 drivi=
ng
as hard a bargain, and imposing on her as much as he could; but Crawford pu=
rsued
with "No, no, you must not part with the queen. You have bought her to=
o dearly,
and your brother does not offer half her value. No, no, sir, hands off, han=
ds
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 w=
hat
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 w=
ent,
and there we came home again; and what was done there is not to be told!&qu=
ot;
Fanny's eyes were turned on Crawford for a mom=
ent
with an expression more than grave--even reproachful; but on catching his, =
were
instantly withdrawn. With something of consciousness he shook his head at h=
is 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 pow=
ers
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 ha=
nds,
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 a=
re
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 of=
f,
you ought to go over and pay your respects to them; and I could send a litt=
le
parcel by you that I want to get conveyed to your cousins."
"I should be very happy, aunt; but Bright=
on
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.&quo=
t;
Mrs. Norris was beginning an eager assurance of
the affability he might depend on, when she was stopped by Sir Thomas's say=
ing
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 M=
r. Rushworth
most sincerely disposed to regard all the connexions of our family as his
own."
"I would rather find him private secretar=
y 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 t=
he
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 ha=
ve 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 considerati=
on
had certainly some weight, feeling as he did that, in spite of all Dr. Gran=
t'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 P=
ark
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, t=
hat
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 sti=
ll
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 natu=
ral
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 constant=
ly
resident, and which no proxy can be capable of satisfying to the same exten=
t.
Edmund might, in the common phrase, do the duty of Thornton, that is, he mi=
ght read
prayers and preach, without giving up Mansfield Park: he might ride over ev=
ery
Sunday, to a house nominally inhabited, and go through divine service; he m=
ight
be the clergyman of Thornton Lacey every seventh day, for three or four hou=
rs,
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 m=
ight
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 o=
f 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 s=
hut
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 characte=
r and
manner commanded, and from not daring to relieve herself by a single attemp=
t 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 s=
he
was glad to find it necessary to come to a conclusion, and be able to refre=
sh
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 Fan=
ny
were the most detached. They remained together at the otherwise deserted
card-table, talking very comfortably, and not thinking of the rest, till so=
me
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 minu=
tes;
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 Portsmou=
th,
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 n=
ot
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 t=
he
greatest admirals have all experienced, more or less, in their time. You mu=
st
think of that, you must try to make up your mind to it as one of the hardsh=
ips
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 lieutenan=
t!
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 everythin=
g 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." <= o:p>
"I should like to go to a ball with you a=
nd
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 pret=
ty
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 ans=
wer.
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; b=
ut 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 y=
our
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 danc= ing; and Sir Thomas, by no means displeased, prolonged the conversation on danci= ng 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. <= o:p>
"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 h=
is
own arrangement, previously communicated to his wife and sister; but that
seemed forgotten by Mrs. Norris, who must fancy that she settled it all her=
self.
Fanny's last feeling in the visit was
disappointment: for the shawl which Edmund was quietly taking from the serv=
ant
to bring and put round her shoulders was seized by Mr. Crawford's quicker h=
and,
and she was obliged to be indebted to his more prominent attention.
William's desire of seeing Fanny dance made mo=
re
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 genera=
l;
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 t=
he
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 au=
nt.
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 sa=
y.
If dear Julia were at home, or dearest Mrs. Rushworth at Sotherton, to affo=
rd 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, Will=
iam,
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 undoubtedl=
y 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 s=
aw
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 happine=
ss
and thanks were all expressed.
Edmund, William, and Fanny did, in their diffe=
rent
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 h=
ad
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 afra=
id
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 yo=
ung
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 t=
herefore
be the last day of his visit; but where the days were so few it would be un=
wise
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 hers=
elf,
as by far the best day for the purpose.
The ball was now a settled thing, and before t=
he
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 posses=
sion,
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 t=
he
other young ladies would appear in? And yet not to wear it! William had wan=
ted
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 ba=
ll
given principally for her gratification.
The preparations meanwhile went on, and Lady
Bertram continued to sit on her sofa without any inconvenience from them. S=
he
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, "the=
re
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 matr=
imony--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 dut=
ies
would be established, but the wife who was to share, and animate, and rewar=
d those
duties, might yet be unattainable. He knew his own mind, but he was not alw=
ays
perfectly assured of knowing Miss Crawford's. There were points on which th=
ey
did not quite agree; there were moments in which she did not seem propitiou=
s;
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 k=
new
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 stro=
ng;
he could look back on a long course of encouragement, and she was as perfec=
t 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 Lond=
on
life, what could he expect but a determined rejection? unless it were an
acceptance even more to be deprecated, demanding such sacrifices of situati=
on
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, w=
hich
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 d=
ear
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 l=
eave
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 eq=
ual
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 t=
he
two families might be. In every meeting there was a hope of receiving farth=
er
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 Wedne=
sday
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. G=
rant
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 b=
e so
kind as to give her opinion, it might be all talked over as well without do=
ors
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 m=
ight
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 subj=
ect.
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 s=
poke
she was undoing a small parcel, which Fanny had observed in her hand when t=
hey
met. Fanny acknowledged her wishes and doubts on this point: she did not kn=
ow 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 ke=
ep
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 obl=
iged
to yield, that she might not be accused of pride or indifference, or some o=
ther
littleness; and having with modest reluctance given her consent, proceeded =
to
make the selection. She looked and looked, longing to know which might be l=
east
valuable; and was determined in her choice at last, by fancying there was o=
ne
necklace more frequently placed before her eyes than the rest. It was of go=
ld, 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 w=
hat
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 aga=
inst
its becomingness, and, excepting what remained of her scruples, was exceedi=
ngly
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 C=
rawford
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 withou=
t bringing
the brother too."
Fanny, in great astonishment and confusion, wo=
uld
have returned the present instantly. To take what had been the gift of anot=
her
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 seei=
ng
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"--look=
ing
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 again=
st
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 fo=
und
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 qu=
ite 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 i=
t;
and though you would be most heartily welcome to any other in my trinket-bo=
x,
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 aga=
inst
it, I entreat you. Such a trifle is not worth half so many words."
Fanny dared not make any farther opposition; a=
nd
with renewed but less happy thanks accepted the necklace again, for there w=
as
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 tranquill=
ity
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 satisfacti=
on,
she now walked home again, with a change rather than a diminution of cares =
since
her treading that path before.
On reaching home Fanny went immediately upstai=
rs
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 h=
is
seat and his pen, and meeting her with something in his hand, "I beg y=
our
pardon for being here. I came to look for you, and after waiting a little w=
hile
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 sp=
eak
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 h=
as been
a delay from my brother's not being in town by several days so soon as I ex=
pected;
and I have only just now received it at Northampton. I hope you will like t=
he
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 Fa=
nny,
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&qu=
ot;
smiling and turning away again.
"No, no, it is not. I want to consult
you."
Almost unconsciously she had now undone the pa=
rcel
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 h=
ad a
desire to possess. It will exactly suit my cross. They must and shall be wo=
rn
together. It comes, too, in such an acceptable moment. Oh, cousin, you do n=
ot
know how acceptable it is."
"My dear Fanny, you feel these things a g=
reat
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 contributin=
g 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 sayi=
ng,
"But what is it that you want to consult me about?"
It was about the necklace, which she was now m=
ost
earnestly longing to return, and hoped to obtain his approbation of her doi=
ng.
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 wha=
t Miss
Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidence of conduct between th=
em,
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 w=
as
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 deser=
ving
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 mak=
es
no difference; for as she was not prevented from offering, nor you from tak=
ing
it on that account, it ought not to prevent you from keeping it. No doubt i=
t 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 sacrif=
ice
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 entit=
led to--I
am the last person to think that could be, but they have been invariable; a=
nd
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 l=
et
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 grea=
test
pleasure, and in whose characters there is so much general resemblance in t=
rue
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 voi=
ce
sinking a little, "between the two dearest objects I have on earth.&qu=
ot;
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 ope=
nly
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 on=
e 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--h=
ow
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 des=
erve
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 p=
art
of the gift. It was the only thing approaching to a letter which she had ev=
er
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 has=
te 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, c=
ame;
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 le=
ave
Mansfield half a day earlier than had been proposed, he would accept a plac=
e in
his carriage. Mr. Crawford meant to be in town by his uncle's accustomary l=
ate
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 frien=
d;
and, in likening it to going up with despatches, was saying at once everyth=
ing in
favour of its happiness and dignity which his imagination could suggest; and
Fanny, from a different motive, was exceedingly pleased; for the original p=
lan
was that William should go up by the mail from Northampton the following ni=
ght,
which would not have allowed him an hour's rest before he must have got int=
o 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 o=
f 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 v=
ery
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 o=
ught
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 cir=
cumstances
of less novelty, less interest, less peculiar gratification, than would be
attributed to her. Miss Price, known only by name to half the people invite=
d,
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 le=
ssened
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 wi=
th
Edmund, and not a great deal with Mr. Crawford, to see William enjoy himsel=
f,
and be able to keep away from her aunt Norris, was the height of her ambiti=
on,
and seemed to comprehend her greatest possibility of happiness. As these we=
re
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 da=
y 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 t=
he
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 wh=
en
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 shar=
e 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 fanc=
y.
"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 easies=
t 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 Edmu=
nd
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 s=
ick
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 somet=
hing
like an inquiry as to the result.
"Yes," he answered, "she is eng=
aged
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 th=
ink,
I hope, I am sure she is not serious; but I would rather not hear it. She n=
ever
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 d=
ay
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 serious=
ly,
"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 mann=
er
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, t=
hat
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 w=
as
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 shou=
ld
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 m=
ay
be sorry for. The time may come--"
The colour rushed into her cheeks as she spoke=
.
"Dearest Fanny!" cried Edmund, press=
ing
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 he=
re.
The time will never come. No such time as you allude to will ever come. I b=
egin
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 ea=
rth
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 h=
ad
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 b=
een
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 w=
as, 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 i=
n a
state absolutely the reverse; there had been no comfort around, no hope wit=
hin
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 eve=
ning
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: s=
he
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 Craw=
ford
would by no means go through the ring of the cross. She had, to oblige Edmu=
nd,
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 t=
hem
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 tr=
uer
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 o=
ccasion
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, a=
nd
only civilities were necessary; but Fanny felt her aunt's attention almost =
as
much as Lady Bertram or Mrs. Chapman could do themselves.
Her uncle and both her aunts were in the
drawing-room when Fanny went down. To the former she was an interesting obj=
ect,
and he saw with pleasure the general elegance of her appearance, and her be=
ing
in remarkably good looks. The neatness and propriety of her dress was all t=
hat
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. Nor=
ris,
"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 y=
ou
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 marr=
ied.
What would she have been if we had not taken her by the hand?"
Sir Thomas said no more; but when they sat dow=
n 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.&q=
uot;
She had nothing more to wish for. She had hardly ever been in a state so ne=
arly
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 charm=
ing,
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 gra=
vity
and formality of the first great circle, which the manners of neither Sir T=
homas
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 h=
er
uncle, and forced to be spoken to, and to curtsey, and speak again. This wa=
s 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 lo=
veliness--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 t=
hink
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 wretche=
d.
And though there was no second glance to disturb her, though his object see=
med
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 h=
ad
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 smi=
les
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 s=
tory
over, hastened to give the explanation of the second necklace: the real cha=
in.
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 wou=
ld
have thought of it. I honour him beyond expression." And she looked ar=
ound
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 taki=
ng
an arm of each, they followed with the rest.
Fanny's heart sunk, but there was no leisure f=
or
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 a=
sked
if she were engaged; and the "Yes, sir; to Mr. Crawford," was exa=
ctly
what he had intended to hear. Mr. Crawford was not far off; Sir Thomas brou=
ght
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. W=
henever
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 for=
med.
She could hardly believe it. To be placed abov=
e 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 u=
nfeigned
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 w=
ould
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 dan=
cing
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 excell=
ent
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 no=
t disposed
to praise her. She was attractive, she was modest, she was Sir Thomas's nie=
ce,
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 a=
ll
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 thought=
s 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 st=
epping
aside to say something agreeable of Fanny. Her praise was warm, and he rece=
ived
it as she could wish, joining in it as far as discretion, and politeness, a=
nd
slowness of speech would allow, and certainly appearing to greater advantag=
e 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 s=
he
was so much more struck with her own kindness in sending Chapman to her, th=
at
she could not get it out of her head.
Miss Crawford knew Mrs. Norris too well to thi=
nk
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 t=
he chaperons
to a better part of the room.
Miss Crawford blundered most towards Fanny her=
self
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; an=
d, misinterpreting
Fanny's blushes, still thought she must be doing so when she went to her af=
ter
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 ther=
e,
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 h=
er
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 lit=
tle
to do with it. She would much rather not have been asked by him again so ve=
ry
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 w=
as
unpleasantly done, that there was indelicacy or ostentation in his manner; =
and
sometimes, when he talked of William, he was really not unagreeable, and sh=
ewed
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 knowi=
ng
herself admired; and she was happy in having the two dances with Edmund sti=
ll
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 continu=
al
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 bei=
ng
the friend with whom it could find repose. "I am worn out with
civility," said he. "I have been talking incessantly all night, a=
nd
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 bringi=
ng
up no wife for his younger son.
The evening had afforded Edmund little pleasur=
e.
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 ag=
ain,
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 b=
een
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, h=
ad
seen enough to be tolerably satisfied. It was barbarous to be happy when Ed=
mund
was suffering. Yet some happiness must and would arise from the very convic=
tion
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 Thoma=
s,
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. F=
rom
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." <= o:p>
"Oh! William."
"What! Did she think of being up before y=
ou
set off?"
"Oh! yes, sir," cried Fanny, rising
eagerly from her seat to be nearer her uncle; "I must get up and break=
fast
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 f=
or
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 invitat=
ion
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 hope=
d to
have William all to herself the last morning. It would have been an unspeak=
able
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 co=
uld
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 immediatel=
y to
bed. "Advise" was his word, but it was the advice of absolute pow=
er,
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 Hal=
l,
"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 m=
ight
not be thinking merely of her health. It might occur to him that Mr. Crawfo=
rd
had been sitting by her long enough, or he might mean to recommend her as a
wife by shewing her persuadableness.
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 exerci=
se
her tender enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold pork bones and mustard i=
n 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 c=
on
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 ne=
ver
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 h=
er
of having done and said and thought everything by William that was due to h=
im
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 hor=
se
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 li=
ttle
of what had passed, and had so little curiosity, that it was heavy work. La=
dy
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 n=
ot
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 ca=
nnot
think what is the matter with me," said Lady Bertram, when the tea-thi=
ngs
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 himse=
lf,
no sounds were heard in the room for the next two hours beyond the reckonin=
gs
of the game--"And that makes thirty-one; four in hand and eight in cri=
b.
You are to deal, ma'am; shall I deal for you?" Fanny thought and thoug=
ht again
of the difference which twenty-four hours had made in that room, and all th=
at
part of the house. Last night it had been hope and smiles, bustle and motio=
n, 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 aff=
orded
her an opportunity of talking over Thursday night with Mrs. Grant and Miss
Crawford, in a very handsome style, with all the heightenings of imaginatio=
n,
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 ever=
yday
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 a=
nd 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 t=
hat
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 kn=
own.
"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 healt=
h;
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," add=
ed
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 w=
ould
stay at home."
This wish was levelled principally at Julia, w=
ho
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, La=
dy
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 complimen=
t 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 Sothe=
rton
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 Parsonag=
e.
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 w=
ant
of it to derive anything but irritation from considering the object for whi=
ch
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 keen=
ly.
They were now a miserable trio, confined within doors by a series of rain a=
nd
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 h=
er
(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 t=
hat
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 th=
is
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 promi=
sed 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 con=
tend
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 a=
way
at a time when, according to all preceding plans, she was to remove to Lond=
on,
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 wal=
king
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 La=
dy
Bertram were together, and unless she had Fanny to herself she could hope f=
or
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 suffere=
r. 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. H=
e 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 so=
rt
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 wa=
s 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 n=
ot
quite sure which."
"Oh! if he wrote to his father; but I tho=
ught
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 writte=
n 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.&quo=
t;
"That is the first question, you know,&qu=
ot;
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 foolis=
h 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 accompli=
shed
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 sin=
g,
or would sing if they were taught, or sing all the better for not being tau=
ght;
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 wi=
ll
find Mansfield very quiet; all the noisy ones gone, your brother and mine a=
nd
myself. I do not like the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant now the time draws nea=
r.
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 wan=
ting
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 b=
e 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 da=
re
say they are trying for it. And they are quite in the light, for it would b=
e a
very pretty establishment for them. I do not at all wonder or blame them. I=
t is
everybody's duty to do as well for themselves as they can. Sir Thomas Bertr=
am's
son is somebody; and now he is in their own line. Their father is a clergym=
an, and
their brother is a clergyman, and they are all clergymen together. He is th=
eir
lawful property; he fairly belongs to them. You don't speak, Fanny; Miss Pr=
ice,
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 wi=
th
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 no=
t 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 gather=
ing
greater spirit from the blush soon produced from such a look, only said,
"He is best off as he is," and turned the subject.
Miss Crawford's uneasiness was much lightened =
by
this conversation, and she walked home again in spirits which might have de=
fied
almost another week of the same small party in the same bad weather, had th=
ey
been put to the proof; but as that very evening brought her brother down fr=
om 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!&qu=
ot;
exclaimed Mary.
But this was only the beginning of her surpris=
e.
"Yes, Mary," said he, drawing her arm
within his, and walking along the sweep as if not knowing where he was: &qu=
ot;I
could not get away sooner; Fanny looked so lovely! I am quite determined, M=
ary.
My mind is entirely made up. Will it astonish you? No: you must be aware th=
at 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 t=
he 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 bega=
n;
but this is the end of them. I have, I flatter myself, made no inconsiderab=
le
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, tha=
t 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 de=
votion.
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, in=
deed!
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 ask=
ed.
"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 cho=
se
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," contin=
ued
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 indee=
d 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 bu=
siness
yet."
"Well, well, I am satisfied. I know now to
whom it must relate, and am in no hurry for the rest. Fanny Price! wonderfu=
l,
quite wonderful! That Mansfield should have done so much for--that you shou=
ld
have found your fate in Mansfield! But you are quite right; you could not h=
ave 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 opportuni=
ty.
Mary, she is not like her cousins; but I think I shall not ask in vain.&quo=
t;
"Oh no! you cannot. Were you even less
pleasing--supposing her not to love you already (of which, however, I can h=
ave
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 e=
ssential
a part of every woman's worth in the judgment of man, that though he someti=
mes
loves where it is not, he can never believe it absent. Her temper he had go=
od
reason to depend on and to praise. He had often seen it tried. Was there on=
e of
the family, excepting Edmund, who had not in some way or other continually
exercised her patience and forbearance? Her affections were evidently stron=
g.
To see her with her brother! What could more delightfully prove that the wa=
rmth
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 mode=
st
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 whe=
n he
talked of her having such a steadiness and regularity of conduct, such a hi=
gh
notion of honour, and such an observance of decorum as might warrant any ma=
n 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 yo=
u, 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 g=
ood
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 lame=
nt
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 wi=
ll
not take her from Northamptonshire. I shall let Everingham, and rent a plac=
e 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 t=
hree
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 hersel=
f,
and wished it unsaid; but there was no need of confusion; for her brother s=
aw
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 ri=
ght
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 advant=
age
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 y=
ou
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 m=
ore
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 a=
nother."
Mary refrained from saying what she felt, that
there could not be two persons in existence whose characters and manners we=
re
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, t=
hat
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 happies=
t 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 t=
he
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,&quo=
t;
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 col=
our
beautifully heightened as she leant over the work, then returning to her se=
at
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 n=
ot
have implied the possibility of her power over my heart ever ceasing."=
"My dearest Henry," cried Mary, stop=
ping
short, and smiling in his face, "how glad I am to see you so much in l=
ove!
It quite delights me. But what will Mrs. Rushworth and Julia say?"
"I care neither what they say nor what th=
ey
feel. They will now see what sort of woman it is that can attach me, that c=
an
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. Rushwo=
rth
will be very angry. It will be a bitter pill to her; that is, like other bi=
tter
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 last=
ing
than other women's, though I was the object of them. Yes, Mary, my Fanny wi=
ll
feel a difference indeed: a daily, hourly difference, in the behaviour of e=
very
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 o=
f 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 dignit=
y in
the world, to what I shall do?"
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 d=
oor,
and not chusing by any means to take so much trouble in vain, she still wen=
t 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 wat=
ched
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 h=
ave
any idea. Knowing as I do what your feelings as a sister are, I could hardl=
y have
borne that any one in the house should share with you in the first knowledg=
e 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. He=
re
are the letters which announce it, this moment come to hand. You will, perh=
aps,
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 undert=
aken,
the promotion of young Price, and enclosing two more, one from the Secretar=
y of
the First Lord to a friend, whom the Admiral had set to work in the busines=
s,
the other from that friend to himself, by which it appeared that his lordsh=
ip
had the very great happiness of attending to the recommendation of Sir Char=
les;
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 lette=
rs,
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,&quo=
t;
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 s=
ince
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 cruell=
y 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 immediate=
ly,
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 kne=
w he
would, after seeing your brother. He was delighted with him. I would not al=
low
myself yesterday to say how delighted, or to repeat half that the Admiral s=
aid
in his praise. I deferred it all till his praise should be proved the prais=
e 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 u=
ncle
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 i=
t 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 intelligi=
ble,
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 Admir=
al 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 syll=
able
of it even to Mary; while uncertain of the issue, he could not have borne a=
ny
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 remaine=
d 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 w=
hat
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, dea=
rest
William!" She jumped up and moved in haste towards the door, crying ou=
t,
"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 fai=
r,
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 sensati=
ons
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 una=
ble to
speak. She considered it all as nonsense, as mere trifling and gallantry, w=
hich
meant only to deceive for the hour; she could not but feel that it was trea=
ting
her improperly and unworthily, and in such a way as she had not deserved; b=
ut
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 co=
uld
make a trifle to her. While her heart was still bounding with joy and grati=
tude
on William's behalf, she could not be severely resentful of anything that i=
njured
only herself; and after having twice drawn back her hand, and twice attempt=
ed
in vain to turn away from him, she got up, and said only, with much agitati=
on,
"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.&q=
uot;
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, n=
o,
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 preassur=
ed 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 wal=
king
up and down the East room in the utmost confusion of contrary feeling, befo=
re
Sir Thomas's politeness or apologies were over, or he had reached the begin=
ning
of the joyful intelligence which his visitor came to communicate.
She was feeling, thinking, trembling about
everything; agitated, happy, miserable, infinitely obliged, absolutely angr=
y.
It was all beyond belief! He was inexcusable, incomprehensible! But such we=
re his
habits that he could do nothing without a mixture of evil. He had previousl=
y made
her the happiest of human beings, and now he had insulted--she knew not wha=
t 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 fo=
rget
all the rest. Mr. Crawford would certainly never address her so again: he m=
ust 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 j=
oy 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 co=
uld
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 he=
r 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 loo=
k 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 Pri=
ce
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 difficult=
ies
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 afterno=
on,
and send him back to me even happier than he goes.--Yours affectionately, M.
C."
These were not expressions to do Fanny any goo=
d;
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 wretchedn=
ess
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 oth=
ers.
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 a=
way
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 tur=
n 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 finis=
hed
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 un=
cle,
for it was unknown how much he had cost his uncle; and, indeed, it would ma=
ke
some difference in her presents too. She was very glad that she had given W=
illiam
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 rat=
her
considerable; that is, for her, with her limited means, for now it would al=
l 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 mot=
her
would be able to put him in the way of getting everything very cheap; but s=
he
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 pounds."
"Indeed!" cried Mrs. Norris, reddeni=
ng.
"Upon my word, he must have gone off with his pockets well lined, and =
at
no expense for his journey to London either!"
"Sir Thomas told me 10 pounds would be
enough."
Mrs. Norris, being not at all inclined to ques=
tion
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 not=
hing
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 th=
ink
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 plea=
se
him; who thought so slightly, so carelessly, so unfeelingly on all such poi=
nts;
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 nat=
ure in
such a quarter? Nothing could be more unnatural in either. Fanny was ashame=
d 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 th=
is
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 ha=
ve
said that it meant something very earnest, very pointed. But she still trie=
d to
believe it no more than what he might often have expressed towards her cous=
ins
and fifty other women.
She thought he was wishing to speak to her unh=
eard
by the rest. She fancied he was trying for it the whole evening at interval=
s,
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, i=
f it
be only a line."
"Oh yes! certainly," cried Fanny, ri=
sing
in haste, the haste of embarrassment and of wanting to get away--"I wi=
ll
write directly."
She went accordingly to the table, where she w=
as
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 on=
ce,
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 M=
iss
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 t=
he
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 recei=
ving
the note, was coming towards her.
"You cannot think I mean to hurry you,&qu=
ot;
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 hur=
ry
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 w=
ill
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 gre=
ater
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. S=
he
had no doubt that her note must appear excessively ill-written, that the
language would disgrace a child, for her distress had allowed no arrangemen=
t;
but at least it would assure them both of her being neither imposed on nor
gratified by Mr. Crawford's attentions.
Fanny had by no means forgotten Mr. Crawford w=
hen
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 M=
r. 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 purpos=
e 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 wh=
at
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 resol=
ved 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 want=
ed.
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 appr=
oach
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, whate=
ver might
be the subject. It was indeed Sir Thomas who opened the door and asked if s=
he
were there, and if he might come in. The terror of his former occasional vi=
sits
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 c=
hair
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 sitt=
ing
in a shawl. She hesitated.
"I am not cold, sir: I never sit here lon=
g 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. He=
re
is some great misapprehension which must be rectified. It is highly unfit f=
or
you to sit, be it only half an hour a day, without a fire. You are not stro=
ng. 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 b=
est,
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 w=
ill influence
her in her opinion of the wants of others. And on another account, too, I c=
an
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 sup=
pose
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 conditi=
on
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.&quo=
t;
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 with=
out
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 Tho=
mas,
feeling, moreover, his own replies, and his own remarks to have been very m=
uch to
the purpose, was exceedingly happy to give the particulars of their convers=
ation;
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 ro=
om,
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 yester=
day,
and I told him without disguise that it was very disagreeable to me, and qu=
ite
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 opin=
ion?
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 you=
ng
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 discreti=
on
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 wron=
g;
"you are quite mistaken. How could Mr. Crawford say such a thing? I ga=
ve
him no encouragement yesterday. On the contrary, I told him, I cannot recol=
lect
my exact words, but I am sure I told him that I would not listen to him, th=
at
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, imput=
ing
more than might be intended. I thought it might all pass for nothing with
him."
She could say no more; her breath was almost g=
one.
"Am I to understand," said Sir Thoma=
s,
after a few moments' silence, "that you mean to refuse Mr. Crawford?&q=
uot;
"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 Tho=
mas,
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 addres=
ses
to you, with everything to recommend him: not merely situation in life,
fortune, and character, but with more than common agreeableness, with addre=
ss
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. <= o:p>
"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 rece=
ived
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. Yo=
ung
as you are, and having seen scarcely any one, it is hardly possible that yo=
ur
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. W=
ell,
there is nothing more to be said."
And for a few minutes he did say nothing. He w=
as
deep in thought. His niece was deep in thought likewise, trying to harden a=
nd
prepare herself against farther questioning. She would rather die than own =
the
truth; and she hoped, by a little reflection, to fortify herself beyond bet=
raying
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 recommendato=
ry
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, settl=
e 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 d=
id
his niece no service: as her unaccountableness was confirmed his displeasur=
e 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 d=
are 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 charac=
ter,
such as she believed it, without betraying them. She had hoped that, to a m=
an
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 sa=
t 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 cond=
uct,
that you have disappointed every expectation I had formed, and proved yours=
elf
of a character the very reverse of what I had supposed. For I had, Fanny, a=
s 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 whic=
h 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 dec=
ide
for yourself, without any consideration or deference for those who have sur=
ely
some right to guide you, without even asking their advice. You have shewn
yourself very, very different from anything that I had imagined. The advant=
age
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 li=
ttle
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, eligib=
ly,
honourably, nobly settled, as will, probably, never occur to you again. Her=
e 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 y=
ears
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 momen=
t'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 d=
uty
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 su=
ch
accusations, so heavy, so multiplied, so rising in dreadful gradation!
Self-willed, obstinate, selfish, and ungrateful. He thought her all this. S=
he
had deceived his expectations; she had lost his good opinion. What was to b=
ecome
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.&quo=
t;
"If it were possible for me to do otherwi=
se"
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.&q=
uot;
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 fr=
om
the personal entreaty of the young man himself. He knew her to be very timi=
d,
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 wo=
rk
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 co=
me
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 le=
ss;
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 consideratio=
n,
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 he=
r 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 v=
ery
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 f=
or
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 return=
ed;
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 co=
mfort,
too, in his words, as well as his manner, for he began with, "Mr. Craw=
ford
is gone: he has just left me. I need not repeat what has passed. I do not w=
ant
to add to anything you may now be feeling, by an account of what he has fel=
t.
Suffice it, that he has behaved in the most gentlemanlike and generous mann=
er,
and has confirmed me in a most favourable opinion of his understanding, hea=
rt,
and temper. Upon my representation of what you were suffering, he immediate=
ly,
and with the greatest delicacy, ceased to urge to see you for the
present."
Here Fanny, who had looked up, looked down aga=
in.
"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 fi=
xed;
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 aga=
in
for a moment), "I shall make no mention below of what has passed; I sh=
all
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 wou=
ld
be less overpowering.
She walked out directly, as her uncle recommen=
ded,
and followed his advice throughout, as far as she could; did check her tear=
s;
did earnestly try to compose her spirits and strengthen her mind. She wishe=
d to
prove to him that she did desire his comfort, and sought to regain his favo=
ur;
and he had given her another strong motive for exertion, in keeping the who=
le
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 anyt=
hing
that might save her from her aunt Norris.
She was struck, quite struck, when, on returni=
ng
from her walk and going into the East room again, the first thing which cau=
ght
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 th=
ere
should be any change, and that it was only her own conscience that could fa=
ncy 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 sho=
uld
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 mi=
ght
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 momen=
t'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 t=
here
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 he=
r 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 expressi=
ng
the same sentiments himself, and he tried to turn the conversation: tried
repeatedly before he could succeed; for Mrs. Norris had not discernment eno=
ugh
to perceive, either now, or at any other time, to what degree he thought we=
ll
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 fir=
st place,
that she had done right: that her judgment had not misled her. For the puri=
ty
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 consider=
ed
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 wou=
ld
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 reappea=
red
ten minutes afterwards, and advancing decidedly towards herself, said, &quo=
t;Sir
Thomas wishes to speak with you, ma'am, in his own room." Then it occu=
rred
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, wh=
en
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 y=
ou
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, Baddele=
y, 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 answ=
er
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 w=
ith
Mr. Crawford.
The conference was neither so short nor so
conclusive as the lady had designed. The gentleman was not so easily satisf=
ied.
He had all the disposition to persevere that Sir Thomas could wish him. He =
had
vanity, which strongly inclined him in the first place to think she did lov=
e him,
though she might not know it herself; and which, secondly, when constrained=
at
last to admit that she did know her own present feelings, convinced him tha=
t he
should be able in time to make those feelings what he wished.
He was in love, very much in love; and it was a
love which, operating on an active, sanguine spirit, of more warmth than
delicacy, made her affection appear of greater consequence because it was
withheld, and determined him to have the glory, as well as the felicity, of
forcing her to love him.
He would not despair: he would not desist. He =
had
every well-grounded reason for solid attachment; he knew her to have all the
worth that could justify the warmest hopes of lasting happiness with her; h=
er conduct
at this very time, by speaking the disinterestedness and delicacy of her
character (qualities which he believed most rare indeed), was of a sort to
heighten all his wishes, and confirm all his resolutions. He knew not that =
he
had a pre-engaged heart to attack. Of that he had no suspicion. He consider=
ed
her rather as one who had never thought on the subject enough to be in dang=
er;
who had been guarded by youth, a youth of mind as lovely as of person; whose
modesty had prevented her from understanding his attentions, and who was st=
ill overpowered
by the suddenness of addresses so wholly unexpected, and the novelty of a
situation which her fancy had never taken into account.
Must it not follow of course, that, when he was
understood, he should succeed? He believed it fully. Love such as his, in a=
man
like himself, must with perseverance secure a return, and at no great dista=
nce;
and he had so much delight in the idea of obliging her to love him in a ver=
y short
time, that her not loving him now was scarcely regretted. A little difficul=
ty
to be overcome was no evil to Henry Crawford. He rather derived spirits from
it. He had been apt to gain hearts too easily. His situation was new and
animating.
To Fanny, however, who had known too much
opposition all her life to find any charm in it, all this was unintelligibl=
e.
She found that he did mean to persevere; but how he could, after such langu=
age
from her as she felt herself obliged to use, was not to be understood. She =
told
him that she did not love him, could not love him, was sure she never should
love him; that such a change was quite impossible; that the subject was mos=
t painful
to her; that she must entreat him never to mention it again, to allow her to
leave him at once, and let it be considered as concluded for ever. And when
farther pressed, had added, that in her opinion their dispositions were so
totally dissimilar as to make mutual affection incompatible; and that they =
were
unfitted for each other by nature, education, and habit. All this she had s=
aid,
and with the earnestness of sincerity; yet this was not enough, for he
immediately denied there being anything uncongenial in their characters, or
anything unfriendly in their situations; and positively declared, that he w=
ould
still love, and still hope!
Fanny knew her own meaning, but was no judge of
her own manner. Her manner was incurably gentle; and she was not aware how =
much
it concealed the sternness of her purpose. Her diffidence, gratitude, and
softness made every expression of indifference seem almost an effort of sel=
f-denial;
seem, at least, to be giving nearly as much pain to herself as to him. Mr.
Crawford was no longer the Mr. Crawford who, as the clandestine, insidious,
treacherous admirer of Maria Bertram, had been her abhorrence, whom she had
hated to see or to speak to, in whom she could believe no good quality to
exist, and whose power, even of being agreeable, she had barely acknowledge=
d.
He was now the Mr. Crawford who was addressing herself with ardent,
disinterested love; whose feelings were apparently become all that was
honourable and upright, whose views of happiness were all fixed on a marria=
ge
of attachment; who was pouring out his sense of her merits, describing and
describing again his affection, proving as far as words could prove it, and=
in
the language, tone, and spirit of a man of talent too, that he sought her f=
or
her gentleness and her goodness; and to complete the whole, he was now the =
Mr.
Crawford who had procured William's promotion!
Here was a change, and here were claims which
could not but operate! She might have disdained him in all the dignity of a=
ngry
virtue, in the grounds of Sotherton, or the theatre at Mansfield Park; but =
he approached
her now with rights that demanded different treatment. She must be courteou=
s,
and she must be compassionate. She must have a sensation of being honoured,=
and
whether thinking of herself or her brother, she must have a strong feeling =
of
gratitude. The effect of the whole was a manner so pitying and agitated, and
words intermingled with her refusal so expressive of obligation and concern,
that to a temper of vanity and hope like Crawford's, the truth, or at least=
the
strength of her indifference, might well be questionable; and he was not so=
irrational
as Fanny considered him, in the professions of persevering, assiduous, and =
not
desponding attachment which closed the interview.
It was with reluctance that he suffered her to=
go;
but there was no look of despair in parting to belie his words, or give her
hopes of his being less unreasonable than he professed himself.
Now she was angry. Some resentment did arise a=
t a
perseverance so selfish and ungenerous. Here was again a want of delicacy a=
nd
regard for others which had formerly so struck and disgusted her. Here was
again a something of the same Mr. Crawford whom she had so reprobated befor=
e. How
evidently was there a gross want of feeling and humanity where his own plea=
sure
was concerned; and alas! how always known no principle to supply as a duty =
what
the heart was deficient in! Had her own affections been as free as perhaps =
they
ought to have been, he never could have engaged them.
So thought Fanny, in good truth and sober sadn=
ess,
as she sat musing over that too great indulgence and luxury of a fire upsta=
irs:
wondering at the past and present; wondering at what was yet to come, and i=
n a nervous
agitation which made nothing clear to her but the persuasion of her being n=
ever
under any circumstances able to love Mr. Crawford, and the felicity of havi=
ng a
fire to sit over and think of it.
Sir Thomas was obliged, or obliged himself, to
wait till the morrow for a knowledge of what had passed between the young
people. He then saw Mr. Crawford, and received his account. The first feeli=
ng
was disappointment: he had hoped better things; he had thought that an hour=
's
entreaty from a young man like Crawford could not have worked so little cha=
nge
on a gentle-tempered girl like Fanny; but there was speedy comfort in the
determined views and sanguine perseverance of the lover; and when seeing su=
ch
confidence of success in the principal, Sir Thomas was soon able to depend =
on
it himself.
Nothing was omitted, on his side, of civility,
compliment, or kindness, that might assist the plan. Mr. Crawford's steadin=
ess
was honoured, and Fanny was praised, and the connexion was still the most
desirable in the world. At Mansfield Park Mr. Crawford would always be welc=
ome;
he had only to consult his own judgment and feelings as to the frequency of=
his
visits, at present or in future. In all his niece's family and friends, the=
re
could be but one opinion, one wish on the subject; the influence of all who
loved her must incline one way.
Everything was said that could encourage, every
encouragement received with grateful joy, and the gentlemen parted the best=
of
friends.
Satisfied that the cause was now on a footing =
the
most proper and hopeful, Sir Thomas resolved to abstain from all farther
importunity with his niece, and to shew no open interference. Upon her
disposition he believed kindness might be the best way of working. Entreaty
should be from one quarter only. The forbearance of her family on a point, =
respecting
which she could be in no doubt of their wishes, might be their surest means=
of
forwarding it. Accordingly, on this principle, Sir Thomas took the first
opportunity of saying to her, with a mild gravity, intended to be overcomin=
g,
"Well, Fanny, I have seen Mr. Crawford again, and learn from him exact=
ly
how matters stand between you. He is a most extraordinary young man, and
whatever be the event, you must feel that you have created an attachment of=
no
common character; though, young as you are, and little acquainted with the
transient, varying, unsteady nature of love, as it generally exists, you ca=
nnot
be struck as I am with all that is wonderful in a perseverance of this sort
against discouragement. With him it is entirely a matter of feeling: he cla=
ims no
merit in it; perhaps is entitled to none. Yet, having chosen so well, his
constancy has a respectable stamp. Had his choice been less unexceptionable=
, I
should have condemned his persevering."
"Indeed, sir," said Fanny, "I am
very sorry that Mr. Crawford should continue to know that it is paying me a
very great compliment, and I feel most undeservedly honoured; but I am so
perfectly convinced, and I have told him so, that it never will be in my
power--"
"My dear," interrupted Sir Thomas,
"there is no occasion for this. Your feelings are as well known to me =
as
my wishes and regrets must be to you. There is nothing more to be said or d=
one.
From this hour the subject is never to be revived between us. You will have
nothing to fear, or to be agitated about. You cannot suppose me capable of
trying to persuade you to marry against your inclinations. Your happiness a=
nd advantage
are all that I have in view, and nothing is required of you but to bear with
Mr. Crawford's endeavours to convince you that they may not be incompatible
with his. He proceeds at his own risk. You are on safe ground. I have engag=
ed
for your seeing him whenever he calls, as you might have done had nothing of
this sort occurred. You will see him with the rest of us, in the same manne=
r,
and, as much as you can, dismissing the recollection of everything unpleasa=
nt.
He leaves Northamptonshire so soon, that even this slight sacrifice cannot =
be often
demanded. The future must be very uncertain. And now, my dear Fanny, this
subject is closed between us."
The promised departure was all that Fanny could
think of with much satisfaction. Her uncle's kind expressions, however, and
forbearing manner, were sensibly felt; and when she considered how much of =
the truth
was unknown to him, she believed she had no right to wonder at the line of
conduct he pursued. He, who had married a daughter to Mr. Rushworth: romant=
ic
delicacy was certainly not to be expected from him. She must do her duty, a=
nd
trust that time might make her duty easier than it now was.
She could not, though only eighteen, suppose M=
r.
Crawford's attachment would hold out for ever; she could not but imagine th=
at
steady, unceasing discouragement from herself would put an end to it in tim=
e. How
much time she might, in her own fancy, allot for its dominion, is another
concern. It would not be fair to inquire into a young lady's exact estimate=
of
her own perfections.
In spite of his intended silence, Sir Thomas f=
ound
himself once more obliged to mention the subject to his niece, to prepare h=
er
briefly for its being imparted to her aunts; a measure which he would still
have avoided, if possible, but which became necessary from the totally oppo=
site
feelings of Mr. Crawford as to any secrecy of proceeding. He had no idea of
concealment. It was all known at the Parsonage, where he loved to talk over=
the
future with both his sisters, and it would be rather gratifying to him to h=
ave
enlightened witnesses of the progress of his success. When Sir Thomas
understood this, he felt the necessity of making his own wife and sister-in=
-law
acquainted with the business without delay; though, on Fanny's account, he
almost dreaded the effect of the communication to Mrs. Norris as much as Fa=
nny
herself. He deprecated her mistaken but well-meaning zeal. Sir Thomas, inde=
ed,
was, by this time, not very far from classing Mrs. Norris as one of those w=
ell-meaning
people who are always doing mistaken and very disagreeable things.
Mrs. Norris, however, relieved him. He pressed=
for
the strictest forbearance and silence towards their niece; she not only
promised, but did observe it. She only looked her increased ill-will. Angry=
she
was: bitterly angry; but she was more angry with Fanny for having received =
such
an offer than for refusing it. It was an injury and affront to Julia, who o=
ught
to have been Mr. Crawford's choice; and, independently of that, she disliked
Fanny, because she had neglected her; and she would have grudged such an
elevation to one whom she had been always trying to depress.
Sir Thomas gave her more credit for discretion=
on
the occasion than she deserved; and Fanny could have blessed her for allowi=
ng
her only to see her displeasure, and not to hear it.
Lady Bertram took it differently. She had been=
a
beauty, and a prosperous beauty, all her life; and beauty and wealth were a=
ll
that excited her respect. To know Fanny to be sought in marriage by a man o=
f fortune,
raised her, therefore, very much in her opinion. By convincing her that Fan=
ny
was very pretty, which she had been doubting about before, and that she wou=
ld
be advantageously married, it made her feel a sort of credit in calling her
niece.
"Well, Fanny," said she, as soon as =
they
were alone together afterwards, and she really had known something like
impatience to be alone with her, and her countenance, as she spoke, had
extraordinary animation; "Well, Fanny, I have had a very agreeable
surprise this morning. I must just speak of it once, I told Sir Thomas I mu=
st
once, and then I shall have done. I give you joy, my dear niece." And
looking at her complacently, she added, "Humph, we certainly are a
handsome family!"
Fanny coloured, and doubted at first what to s=
ay;
when, hoping to assail her on her vulnerable side, she presently answered--=
"My dear aunt, you cannot wish me to do
differently from what I have done, I am sure. You cannot wish me to marry; =
for
you would miss me, should not you? Yes, I am sure you would miss me too muc=
h for
that."
"No, my dear, I should not think of missi=
ng
you, when such an offer as this comes in your way. I could do very well wit=
hout
you, if you were married to a man of such good estate as Mr. Crawford. And =
you
must be aware, Fanny, that it is every young woman's duty to accept such a =
very
unexceptionable offer as this."
This was almost the only rule of conduct, the =
only
piece of advice, which Fanny had ever received from her aunt in the course =
of
eight years and a half. It silenced her. She felt how unprofitable contenti=
on
would be. If her aunt's feelings were against her, nothing could be hoped f=
rom attacking
her understanding. Lady Bertram was quite talkative.
"I will tell you what, Fanny," said =
she,
"I am sure he fell in love with you at the ball; I am sure the mischief
was done that evening. You did look remarkably well. Everybody said so. Sir
Thomas said so. And you know you had Chapman to help you to dress. I am very
glad I sent Chapman to you. I shall tell Sir Thomas that I am sure it was d=
one that
evening." And still pursuing the same cheerful thoughts, she soon afte=
rwards
added, "And will tell you what, Fanny, which is more than I did for Ma=
ria:
the next time Pug has a litter you shall have a puppy."
Edmund had great things to hear on his return.
Many surprises were awaiting him. The first that occurred was not least in
interest: the appearance of Henry Crawford and his sister walking together
through the village as he rode into it. He had concluded--he had meant them=
to
be far distant. His absence had been extended beyond a fortnight purposely =
to
avoid Miss Crawford. He was returning to Mansfield with spirits ready to fe=
ed
on melancholy remembrances, and tender associations, when her own fair self=
was
before him, leaning on her brother's arm, and he found himself receiving a
welcome, unquestionably friendly, from the woman whom, two moments before, =
he
had been thinking of as seventy miles off, and as farther, much farther, fr=
om
him in inclination than any distance could express.
Her reception of him was of a sort which he co=
uld
not have hoped for, had he expected to see her. Coming as he did from such a
purport fulfilled as had taken him away, he would have expected anything ra=
ther
than a look of satisfaction, and words of simple, pleasant meaning. It was
enough to set his heart in a glow, and to bring him home in the properest s=
tate
for feeling the full value of the other joyful surprises at hand.
William's promotion, with all its particulars,=
he
was soon master of; and with such a secret provision of comfort within his =
own
breast to help the joy, he found in it a source of most gratifying sensation
and unvarying cheerfulness all dinner-time.
After dinner, when he and his father were alon=
e,
he had Fanny's history; and then all the great events of the last fortnight,
and the present situation of matters at Mansfield were known to him.
Fanny suspected what was going on. They sat so
much longer than usual in the dining-parlour, that she was sure they must be
talking of her; and when tea at last brought them away, and she was to be s=
een
by Edmund again, she felt dreadfully guilty. He came to her, sat down by he=
r,
took her hand, and pressed it kindly; and at that moment she thought that, =
but
for the occupation and the scene which the tea-things afforded, she must ha=
ve
betrayed her emotion in some unpardonable excess.
He was not intending, however, by such action,=
to
be conveying to her that unqualified approbation and encouragement which her
hopes drew from it. It was designed only to express his participation in all
that interested her, and to tell her that he had been hearing what quickene=
d every
feeling of affection. He was, in fact, entirely on his father's side of the
question. His surprise was not so great as his father's at her refusing
Crawford, because, so far from supposing her to consider him with anything =
like
a preference, he had always believed it to be rather the reverse, and could
imagine her to be taken perfectly unprepared, but Sir Thomas could not rega=
rd
the connexion as more desirable than he did. It had every recommendation to
him; and while honouring her for what she had done under the influence of h=
er
present indifference, honouring her in rather stronger terms than Sir Thoma=
s could
quite echo, he was most earnest in hoping, and sanguine in believing, that =
it
would be a match at last, and that, united by mutual affection, it would ap=
pear
that their dispositions were as exactly fitted to make them blessed in each
other, as he was now beginning seriously to consider them. Crawford had been
too precipitate. He had not given her time to attach herself. He had begun =
at
the wrong end. With such powers as his, however, and such a disposition as
hers, Edmund trusted that everything would work out a happy conclusion.
Meanwhile, he saw enough of Fanny's embarrassment to make him scrupulously
guard against exciting it a second time, by any word, or look, or movement.=
Crawford called the next day, and on the score=
of
Edmund's return, Sir Thomas felt himself more than licensed to ask him to s=
tay
dinner; it was really a necessary compliment. He staid of course, and Edmund
had then ample opportunity for observing how he sped with Fanny, and what
degree of immediate encouragement for him might be extracted from her manne=
rs; and
it was so little, so very, very little--every chance, every possibility of =
it,
resting upon her embarrassment only; if there was not hope in her confusion,
there was hope in nothing else--that he was almost ready to wonder at his
friend's perseverance. Fanny was worth it all; he held her to be worth every
effort of patience, every exertion of mind, but he did not think he could h=
ave
gone on himself with any woman breathing, without something more to warm his
courage than his eyes could discern in hers. He was very willing to hope th=
at
Crawford saw clearer, and this was the most comfortable conclusion for his
friend that he could come to from all that he observed to pass before, and =
at, and
after dinner.
In the evening a few circumstances occurred wh=
ich
he thought more promising. When he and Crawford walked into the drawing-roo=
m,
his mother and Fanny were sitting as intently and silently at work as if th=
ere were
nothing else to care for. Edmund could not help noticing their apparently d=
eep
tranquillity.
"We have not been so silent all the
time," replied his mother. "Fanny has been reading to me, and only
put the book down upon hearing you coming." And sure enough there was a
book on the table which had the air of being very recently closed: a volume=
of
Shakespeare. "She often reads to me out of those books; and she was in=
the
middle of a very fine speech of that man's--what's his name, Fanny?--when we
heard your footsteps."
Crawford took the volume. "Let me have the
pleasure of finishing that speech to your ladyship," said he. "I
shall find it immediately." And by carefully giving way to the inclina=
tion
of the leaves, he did find it, or within a page or two, quite near enough to
satisfy Lady Bertram, who assured him, as soon as he mentioned the name of
Cardinal Wolsey, that he had got the very speech. Not a look or an offer of
help had Fanny given; not a syllable for or against. All her attention was =
for
her work. She seemed determined to be interested by nothing else. But taste=
was
too strong in her. She could not abstract her mind five minutes: she was fo=
rced
to listen; his reading was capital, and her pleasure in good reading extrem=
e.
To good reading, however, she had been long used: her uncle read well, her
cousins all, Edmund very well, but in Mr. Crawford's reading there was a
variety of excellence beyond what she had ever met with. The King, the Quee=
n,
Buckingham, Wolsey, Cromwell, all were given in turn; for with the happiest
knack, the happiest power of jumping and guessing, he could always alight at
will on the best scene, or the best speeches of each; and whether it were
dignity, or pride, or tenderness, or remorse, or whatever were to be expres=
sed,
he could do it with equal beauty. It was truly dramatic. His acting had fir=
st
taught Fanny what pleasure a play might give, and his reading brought all h=
is acting
before her again; nay, perhaps with greater enjoyment, for it came
unexpectedly, and with no such drawback as she had been used to suffer in
seeing him on the stage with Miss Bertram.
Edmund watched the progress of her attention, =
and
was amused and gratified by seeing how she gradually slackened in the
needlework, which at the beginning seemed to occupy her totally: how it fell
from her hand while she sat motionless over it, and at last, how the eyes w=
hich
had appeared so studiously to avoid him throughout the day were turned and =
fixed
on Crawford--fixed on him for minutes, fixed on him, in short, till the
attraction drew Crawford's upon her, and the book was closed, and the charm=
was
broken. Then she was shrinking again into herself, and blushing and working=
as
hard as ever; but it had been enough to give Edmund encouragement for his
friend, and as he cordially thanked him, he hoped to be expressing Fanny's
secret feelings too.
"That play must be a favourite with
you," said he; "you read as if you knew it well."
"It will be a favourite, I believe, from =
this
hour," replied Crawford; "but I do not think I have had a volume =
of
Shakespeare in my hand before since I was fifteen. I once saw Henry the Eig=
hth
acted, or I have heard of it from somebody who did, I am not certain which.=
But
Shakespeare one gets acquainted with without knowing how. It is a part of a=
n Englishman's
constitution. His thoughts and beauties are so spread abroad that one touch=
es
them everywhere; one is intimate with him by instinct. No man of any brain =
can
open at a good part of one of his plays without falling into the flow of his
meaning immediately."
"No doubt one is familiar with Shakespear=
e in
a degree," said Edmund, "from one's earliest years. His celebrated
passages are quoted by everybody; they are in half the books we open, and we
all talk Shakespeare, use his similes, and describe with his descriptions; =
but this
is totally distinct from giving his sense as you gave it. To know him in bi=
ts
and scraps is common enough; to know him pretty thoroughly is, perhaps, not
uncommon; but to read him well aloud is no everyday talent."
"Sir, you do me honour," was Crawfor=
d's
answer, with a bow of mock gravity.
Both gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see i=
f a
word of accordant praise could be extorted from her; yet both feeling that =
it
could not be. Her praise had been given in her attention; that must content=
them.
Lady Bertram's admiration was expressed, and
strongly too. "It was really like being at a play," said she. &qu=
ot;I
wish Sir Thomas had been here."
Crawford was excessively pleased. If Lady Bert=
ram,
with all her incompetency and languor, could feel this, the inference of wh=
at
her niece, alive and enlightened as she was, must feel, was elevating.
"You have a great turn for acting, I am s=
ure,
Mr. Crawford," said her ladyship soon afterwards; "and I will tell
you what, I think you will have a theatre, some time or other, at your hous=
e in
Norfolk. I mean when you are settled there. I do indeed. I think you will f=
it
up a theatre at your house in Norfolk."
"Do you, ma'am?" cried he, with
quickness. "No, no, that will never be. Your ladyship is quite mistake=
n.
No theatre at Everingham! Oh no!" And he looked at Fanny with an
expressive smile, which evidently meant, "That lady will never allow a
theatre at Everingham."
Edmund saw it all, and saw Fanny so determined=
not
to see it, as to make it clear that the voice was enough to convey the full
meaning of the protestation; and such a quick consciousness of compliment, =
such
a ready comprehension of a hint, he thought, was rather favourable than not=
.
The subject of reading aloud was farther
discussed. The two young men were the only talkers, but they, standing by t=
he
fire, talked over the too common neglect of the qualification, the total
inattention to it, in the ordinary school-system for boys, the consequently
natural, yet in some instances almost unnatural, degree of ignorance and
uncouthness of men, of sensible and well-informed men, when suddenly called=
to
the necessity of reading aloud, which had fallen within their notice, givin=
g instances
of blunders, and failures with their secondary causes, the want of manageme=
nt
of the voice, of proper modulation and emphasis, of foresight and judgment,=
all
proceeding from the first cause: want of early attention and habit; and Fan=
ny
was listening again with great entertainment.
"Even in my profession," said Edmund,
with a smile, "how little the art of reading has been studied! how lit=
tle
a clear manner, and good delivery, have been attended to! I speak rather of=
the
past, however, than the present. There is now a spirit of improvement abroa=
d;
but among those who were ordained twenty, thirty, forty years ago, the larg=
er number,
to judge by their performance, must have thought reading was reading, and
preaching was preaching. It is different now. The subject is more justly
considered. It is felt that distinctness and energy may have weight in
recommending the most solid truths; and besides, there is more general
observation and taste, a more critical knowledge diffused than formerly; in
every congregation there is a larger proportion who know a little of the
matter, and who can judge and criticise."
Edmund had already gone through the service on= ce since his ordination; and upon this being understood, he had a variety of questions from Crawford as to his feelings and success; questions, which be= ing made, though with the vivacity of friendly interest and quick taste, withou= t any touch of that spirit of banter or air of levity which Edmund knew to be most offensive to Fanny, he had true pleasure in satisfying; and when Crawford proceeded to ask his opinion and give his own as to the properest manner in which particular passages in the service should be delivered, shewing it to= be a subject on which he had thought before, and thought with judgment, Edmund= was still more and more pleased. This would be the way to Fanny's heart. She was not to be won by all that gallantry and wit and good-nature together could = do; or, at least, she would not be won by them nearly so soon, without the assistance of sentiment and feeling, and seriousness on serious subjects. <= o:p>
"Our liturgy," observed Crawford,
"has beauties, which not even a careless, slovenly style of reading can
destroy; but it has also redundancies and repetitions which require good
reading not to be felt. For myself, at least, I must confess being not alwa=
ys
so attentive as I ought to be" (here was a glance at Fanny); "that
nineteen times out of twenty I am thinking how such a prayer ought to be re=
ad,
and longing to have it to read myself. Did you speak?" stepping eagerl=
y to
Fanny, and addressing her in a softened voice; and upon her saying
"No," he added, "Are you sure you did not speak? I saw your =
lips
move. I fancied you might be going to tell me I ought to be more attentive,=
and
not allow my thoughts to wander. Are not you going to tell me so?"
"No, indeed, you know your duty too well =
for
me to--even supposing--"
She stopt, felt herself getting into a puzzle,=
and
could not be prevailed on to add another word, not by dint of several minut=
es
of supplication and waiting. He then returned to his former station, and we=
nt
on as if there had been no such tender interruption.
"A sermon, well delivered, is more uncomm=
on
even than prayers well read. A sermon, good in itself, is no rare thing. It=
is
more difficult to speak well than to compose well; that is, the rules and t=
rick
of composition are oftener an object of study. A thoroughly good sermon, th=
oroughly
well delivered, is a capital gratification. I can never hear such a one wit=
hout
the greatest admiration and respect, and more than half a mind to take orde=
rs
and preach myself. There is something in the eloquence of the pulpit, when =
it
is really eloquence, which is entitled to the highest praise and honour. The
preacher who can touch and affect such an heterogeneous mass of hearers, on
subjects limited, and long worn threadbare in all common hands; who can say
anything new or striking, anything that rouses the attention without offend=
ing
the taste, or wearing out the feelings of his hearers, is a man whom one co=
uld
not, in his public capacity, honour enough. I should like to be such a
man."
Edmund laughed.
"I should indeed. I never listened to a
distinguished preacher in my life without a sort of envy. But then, I must =
have
a London audience. I could not preach but to the educated; to those who were
capable of estimating my composition. And I do not know that I should be fo=
nd
of preaching often; now and then, perhaps once or twice in the spring, after
being anxiously expected for half a dozen Sundays together; but not for a
constancy; it would not do for a constancy."
Here Fanny, who could not but listen,
involuntarily shook her head, and Crawford was instantly by her side again,
entreating to know her meaning; and as Edmund perceived, by his drawing in a
chair, and sitting down close by her, that it was to be a very thorough att=
ack,
that looks and undertones were to be well tried, he sank as quietly as poss=
ible
into a corner, turned his back, and took up a newspaper, very sincerely wis=
hing
that dear little Fanny might be persuaded into explaining away that shake of
the head to the satisfaction of her ardent lover; and as earnestly trying to
bury every sound of the business from himself in murmurs of his own, over t=
he
various advertisements of "A most desirable Estate in South Wales"=
;;
"To Parents and Guardians"; and a "Capital season'd
Hunter."
Fanny, meanwhile, vexed with herself for not
having been as motionless as she was speechless, and grieved to the heart to
see Edmund's arrangements, was trying by everything in the power of her mod=
est,
gentle nature, to repulse Mr. Crawford, and avoid both his looks and inquir=
ies;
and he, unrepulsable, was persisting in both.
"What did that shake of the head mean?&qu=
ot;
said he. "What was it meant to express? Disapprobation, I fear. But of
what? What had I been saying to displease you? Did you think me speaking
improperly, lightly, irreverently on the subject? Only tell me if I was. On=
ly
tell me if I was wrong. I want to be set right. Nay, nay, I entreat you; for
one moment put down your work. What did that shake of the head mean?" =
In vain was her "Pray, sir, don't; pray, =
Mr.
Crawford," repeated twice over; and in vain did she try to move away. =
In
the same low, eager voice, and the same close neighbourhood, he went on,
reurging the same questions as before. She grew more agitated and displease=
d.
"How can you, sir? You quite astonish me;=
I
wonder how you can--"
"Do I astonish you?" said he. "=
Do
you wonder? Is there anything in my present entreaty that you do not
understand? I will explain to you instantly all that makes me urge you in t=
his
manner, all that gives me an interest in what you look and do, and excites =
my
present curiosity. I will not leave you to wonder long."
In spite of herself, she could not help half a
smile, but she said nothing.
"You shook your head at my acknowledging =
that
I should not like to engage in the duties of a clergyman always for a
constancy. Yes, that was the word. Constancy: I am not afraid of the word. I
would spell it, read it, write it with anybody. I see nothing alarming in t=
he
word. Did you think I ought?"
"Perhaps, sir," said Fanny, wearied =
at
last into speaking--"perhaps, sir, I thought it was a pity you did not
always know yourself as well as you seemed to do at that moment."
Crawford, delighted to get her to speak at any
rate, was determined to keep it up; and poor Fanny, who had hoped to silence
him by such an extremity of reproof, found herself sadly mistaken, and that=
it
was only a change from one object of curiosity and one set of words to anot=
her.
He had always something to entreat the explanation of. The opportunity was =
too
fair. None such had occurred since his seeing her in her uncle's room, none
such might occur again before his leaving Mansfield. Lady Bertram's being j=
ust
on the other side of the table was a trifle, for she might always be consid=
ered
as only half-awake, and Edmund's advertisements were still of the first
utility.
"Well," said Crawford, after a cours=
e of
rapid questions and reluctant answers; "I am happier than I was, becau=
se I
now understand more clearly your opinion of me. You think me unsteady: easi=
ly
swayed by the whim of the moment, easily tempted, easily put aside. With su=
ch
an opinion, no wonder that. But we shall see. It is not by protestations th=
at I
shall endeavour to convince you I am wronged; it is not by telling you that=
my affections
are steady. My conduct shall speak for me; absence, distance, time shall sp=
eak
for me. They shall prove that, as far as you can be deserved by anybody, I =
do
deserve you. You are infinitely my superior in merit; all that I know. You =
have
qualities which I had not before supposed to exist in such a degree in any
human creature. You have some touches of the angel in you beyond what--not
merely beyond what one sees, because one never sees anything like it--but
beyond what one fancies might be. But still I am not frightened. It is not =
by
equality of merit that you can be won. That is out of the question. It is h=
e who
sees and worships your merit the strongest, who loves you most devotedly, t=
hat
has the best right to a return. There I build my confidence. By that right =
I do
and will deserve you; and when once convinced that my attachment is what I
declare it, I know you too well not to entertain the warmest hopes. Yes,
dearest, sweetest Fanny. Nay" (seeing her draw back displeased),
"forgive me. Perhaps I have as yet no right; but by what other name ca=
n I
call you? Do you suppose you are ever present to my imagination under any
other? No, it is 'Fanny' that I think of all day, and dream of all night. Y=
ou
have given the name such reality of sweetness, that nothing else can now be
descriptive of you."
Fanny could hardly have kept her seat any long=
er,
or have refrained from at least trying to get away in spite of all the too
public opposition she foresaw to it, had it not been for the sound of
approaching relief, the very sound which she had been long watching for, and
long thinking strangely delayed.
The solemn procession, headed by Baddeley, of
tea-board, urn, and cake-bearers, made its appearance, and delivered her fr=
om a
grievous imprisonment of body and mind. Mr. Crawford was obliged to move. S=
he was
at liberty, she was busy, she was protected.
Edmund was not sorry to be admitted again among
the number of those who might speak and hear. But though the conference had
seemed full long to him, and though on looking at Fanny he saw rather a flu=
sh
of vexation, he inclined to hope that so much could not have been said and
listened to without some profit to the speaker.
Edmund had determined that it belonged entirel=
y to
Fanny to chuse whether her situation with regard to Crawford should be
mentioned between them or not; and that if she did not lead the way, it sho=
uld never
be touched on by him; but after a day or two of mutual reserve, he was indu=
ced
by his father to change his mind, and try what his influence might do for h=
is
friend.
A day, and a very early day, was actually fixed
for the Crawfords' departure; and Sir Thomas thought it might be as well to
make one more effort for the young man before he left Mansfield, that all h=
is professions
and vows of unshaken attachment might have as much hope to sustain them as
possible.
Sir Thomas was most cordially anxious for the
perfection of Mr. Crawford's character in that point. He wished him to be a
model of constancy; and fancied the best means of effecting it would be by =
not trying
him too long.
Edmund was not unwilling to be persuaded to en=
gage
in the business; he wanted to know Fanny's feelings. She had been used to
consult him in every difficulty, and he loved her too well to bear to be de=
nied
her confidence now; he hoped to be of service to her, he thought he must be=
of
service to her; whom else had she to open her heart to? If she did not need
counsel, she must need the comfort of communication. Fanny estranged from h=
im,
silent and reserved, was an unnatural state of things; a state which he must
break through, and which he could easily learn to think she was wanting him=
to
break through.
"I will speak to her, sir: I will take the
first opportunity of speaking to her alone," was the result of such
thoughts as these; and upon Sir Thomas's information of her being at that v=
ery
time walking alone in the shrubbery, he instantly joined her.
"I am come to walk with you, Fanny,"
said he. "Shall I?" Drawing her arm within his. "It is a long
while since we have had a comfortable walk together."
She assented to it all rather by look than wor=
d.
Her spirits were low.
"But, Fanny," he presently added,
"in order to have a comfortable walk, something more is necessary than
merely pacing this gravel together. You must talk to me. I know you have
something on your mind. I know what you are thinking of. You cannot suppose=
me
uninformed. Am I to hear of it from everybody but Fanny herself?"
Fanny, at once agitated and dejected, replied,
"If you hear of it from everybody, cousin, there can be nothing for me=
to
tell."
"Not of facts, perhaps; but of feelings,
Fanny. No one but you can tell me them. I do not mean to press you, however=
. If
it is not what you wish yourself, I have done. I had thought it might be a
relief."
"I am afraid we think too differently for=
me
to find any relief in talking of what I feel."
"Do you suppose that we think differently=
? I
have no idea of it. I dare say that, on a comparison of our opinions, they
would be found as much alike as they have been used to be: to the point--I
consider Crawford's proposals as most advantageous and desirable, if you co=
uld
return his affection. I consider it as most natural that all your family sh=
ould
wish you could return it; but that, as you cannot, you have done exactly as=
you
ought in refusing him. Can there be any disagreement between us here?"=
"Oh no! But I thought you blamed me. I
thought you were against me. This is such a comfort!"
"This comfort you might have had sooner,
Fanny, had you sought it. But how could you possibly suppose me against you?
How could you imagine me an advocate for marriage without love? Were I even
careless in general on such matters, how could you imagine me so where your
happiness was at stake?"
"My uncle thought me wrong, and I knew he=
had
been talking to you."
"As far as you have gone, Fanny, I think =
you
perfectly right. I may be sorry, I may be surprised--though hardly that, for
you had not had time to attach yourself--but I think you perfectly right. C=
an
it admit of a question? It is disgraceful to us if it does. You did not love
him; nothing could have justified your accepting him."
Fanny had not felt so comfortable for days and
days.
"So far your conduct has been faultless, =
and
they were quite mistaken who wished you to do otherwise. But the matter does
not end here. Crawford's is no common attachment; he perseveres, with the h=
ope
of creating that regard which had not been created before. This, we know, m=
ust
be a work of time. But" (with an affectionate smile) "let him suc=
ceed
at last, Fanny, let him succeed at last. You have proved yourself upright a=
nd
disinterested, prove yourself grateful and tender-hearted; and then you wil=
l be
the perfect model of a woman which I have always believed you born for.&quo=
t;
"Oh! never, never, never! he never will
succeed with me." And she spoke with a warmth which quite astonished
Edmund, and which she blushed at the recollection of herself, when she saw =
his
look, and heard him reply, "Never! Fanny!--so very determined and
positive! This is not like yourself, your rational self."
"I mean," she cried, sorrowfully
correcting herself, "that I think I never shall, as far as the future =
can
be answered for; I think I never shall return his regard."
"I must hope better things. I am aware, m=
ore
aware than Crawford can be, that the man who means to make you love him (you
having due notice of his intentions) must have very uphill work, for there =
are
all your early attachments and habits in battle array; and before he can get
your heart for his own use he has to unfasten it from all the holds upon th=
ings
animate and inanimate, which so many years' growth have confirmed, and which
are considerably tightened for the moment by the very idea of separation. I
know that the apprehension of being forced to quit Mansfield will for a tim=
e be
arming you against him. I wish he had not been obliged to tell you what he =
was
trying for. I wish he had known you as well as I do, Fanny. Between us, I t=
hink
we should have won you. My theoretical and his practical knowledge together
could not have failed. He should have worked upon my plans. I must hope,
however, that time, proving him (as I firmly believe it will) to deserve yo=
u by
his steady affection, will give him his reward. I cannot suppose that you h=
ave
not the wish to love him--the natural wish of gratitude. You must have some
feeling of that sort. You must be sorry for your own indifference."
"We are so totally unlike," said Fan=
ny,
avoiding a direct answer, "we are so very, very different in all our
inclinations and ways, that I consider it as quite impossible we should eve=
r be
tolerably happy together, even if I could like him. There never were two pe=
ople
more dissimilar. We have not one taste in common. We should be miserable.&q=
uot;
"You are mistaken, Fanny. The dissimilari=
ty
is not so strong. You are quite enough alike. You have tastes in common. You
have moral and literary tastes in common. You have both warm hearts and
benevolent feelings; and, Fanny, who that heard him read, and saw you liste=
n to
Shakespeare the other night, will think you unfitted as companions? You for=
get
yourself: there is a decided difference in your tempers, I allow. He is liv=
ely,
you are serious; but so much the better: his spirits will support yours. It=
is
your disposition to be easily dejected and to fancy difficulties greater th=
an
they are. His cheerfulness will counteract this. He sees difficulties nowhe=
re:
and his pleasantness and gaiety will be a constant support to you. Your bei=
ng
so far unlike, Fanny, does not in the smallest degree make against the prob=
ability
of your happiness together: do not imagine it. I am myself convinced that i=
t is
rather a favourable circumstance. I am perfectly persuaded that the tempers=
had
better be unlike: I mean unlike in the flow of the spirits, in the manners,=
in
the inclination for much or little company, in the propensity to talk or to=
be
silent, to be grave or to be gay. Some opposition here is, I am thoroughly
convinced, friendly to matrimonial happiness. I exclude extremes, of course;
and a very close resemblance in all those points would be the likeliest way=
to
produce an extreme. A counteraction, gentle and continual, is the best
safeguard of manners and conduct."
Full well could Fanny guess where his thoughts
were now: Miss Crawford's power was all returning. He had been speaking of =
her
cheerfully from the hour of his coming home. His avoiding her was quite at =
an
end. He had dined at the Parsonage only the preceding day.
After leaving him to his happier thoughts for =
some
minutes, Fanny, feeling it due to herself, returned to Mr. Crawford, and sa=
id,
"It is not merely in temper that I consider him as totally unsuited to=
myself;
though, in that respect, I think the difference between us too great,
infinitely too great: his spirits often oppress me; but there is something =
in
him which I object to still more. I must say, cousin, that I cannot approve=
his
character. I have not thought well of him from the time of the play. I then=
saw
him behaving, as it appeared to me, so very improperly and unfeelingly--I m=
ay
speak of it now because it is all over--so improperly by poor Mr. Rushworth,
not seeming to care how he exposed or hurt him, and paying attentions to my
cousin Maria, which--in short, at the time of the play, I received an
impression which will never be got over."
"My dear Fanny," replied Edmund,
scarcely hearing her to the end, "let us not, any of us, be judged by =
what
we appeared at that period of general folly. The time of the play is a time
which I hate to recollect. Maria was wrong, Crawford was wrong, we were all
wrong together; but none so wrong as myself. Compared with me, all the rest
were blameless. I was playing the fool with my eyes open."
"As a bystander," said Fanny,
"perhaps I saw more than you did; and I do think that Mr. Rushworth was
sometimes very jealous."
"Very possibly. No wonder. Nothing could =
be
more improper than the whole business. I am shocked whenever I think that M=
aria
could be capable of it; but, if she could undertake the part, we must not be
surprised at the rest."
"Before the play, I am much mistaken if J=
ulia
did not think he was paying her attentions."
"Julia! I have heard before from some one=
of
his being in love with Julia; but I could never see anything of it. And, Fa=
nny,
though I hope I do justice to my sisters' good qualities, I think it very
possible that they might, one or both, be more desirous of being admired by
Crawford, and might shew that desire rather more unguardedly than was perfe=
ctly
prudent. I can remember that they were evidently fond of his society; and w=
ith
such encouragement, a man like Crawford, lively, and it may be, a little
unthinking, might be led on to--there could be nothing very striking, becau=
se
it is clear that he had no pretensions: his heart was reserved for you. And=
I
must say, that its being for you has raised him inconceivably in my opinion=
. It
does him the highest honour; it shews his proper estimation of the blessing=
of
domestic happiness and pure attachment. It proves him unspoilt by his uncle=
. It
proves him, in short, everything that I had been used to wish to believe hi=
m,
and feared he was not."
"I am persuaded that he does not think, a=
s he
ought, on serious subjects."
"Say, rather, that he has not thought at =
all
upon serious subjects, which I believe to be a good deal the case. How coul=
d it
be otherwise, with such an education and adviser? Under the disadvantages,
indeed, which both have had, is it not wonderful that they should be what t=
hey are?
Crawford's feelings, I am ready to acknowledge, have hitherto been too much=
his
guides. Happily, those feelings have generally been good. You will supply t=
he
rest; and a most fortunate man he is to attach himself to such a creature--=
to a
woman who, firm as a rock in her own principles, has a gentleness of charac=
ter
so well adapted to recommend them. He has chosen his partner, indeed, with =
rare
felicity. He will make you happy, Fanny; I know he will make you happy; but=
you
will make him everything."
"I would not engage in such a charge,&quo=
t;
cried Fanny, in a shrinking accent; "in such an office of high
responsibility!"
"As usual, believing yourself unequal to
anything! fancying everything too much for you! Well, though I may not be a=
ble
to persuade you into different feelings, you will be persuaded into them, I
trust. I confess myself sincerely anxious that you may. I have no common
interest in Crawford's well-doing. Next to your happiness, Fanny, his has t=
he
first claim on me. You are aware of my having no common interest in
Crawford."
Fanny was too well aware of it to have anythin=
g to
say; and they walked on together some fifty yards in mutual silence and
abstraction. Edmund first began again--
"I was very much pleased by her manner of
speaking of it yesterday, particularly pleased, because I had not depended =
upon
her seeing everything in so just a light. I knew she was very fond of you; =
but
yet I was afraid of her not estimating your worth to her brother quite as it
deserved, and of her regretting that he had not rather fixed on some woman =
of
distinction or fortune. I was afraid of the bias of those worldly maxims, w=
hich
she has been too much used to hear. But it was very different. She spoke of
you, Fanny, just as she ought. She desires the connexion as warmly as your
uncle or myself. We had a long talk about it. I should not have mentioned t=
he
subject, though very anxious to know her sentiments; but I had not been in =
the
room five minutes before she began introducing it with all that openness of
heart, and sweet peculiarity of manner, that spirit and ingenuousness which=
are
so much a part of herself. Mrs. Grant laughed at her for her rapidity."=
;
"Was Mrs. Grant in the room, then?" =
"Yes, when I reached the house I found the
two sisters together by themselves; and when once we had begun, we had not =
done
with you, Fanny, till Crawford and Dr. Grant came in."
"It is above a week since I saw Miss
Crawford."
"Yes, she laments it; yet owns it may have
been best. You will see her, however, before she goes. She is very angry wi=
th
you, Fanny; you must be prepared for that. She calls herself very angry, but
you can imagine her anger. It is the regret and disappointment of a sister,=
who
thinks her brother has a right to everything he may wish for, at the first
moment. She is hurt, as you would be for William; but she loves and esteems=
you
with all her heart."
"I knew she would be very angry with
me."
"My dearest Fanny," cried Edmund,
pressing her arm closer to him, "do not let the idea of her anger dist=
ress
you. It is anger to be talked of rather than felt. Her heart is made for lo=
ve
and kindness, not for resentment. I wish you could have overheard her tribu=
te
of praise; I wish you could have seen her countenance, when she said that y=
ou should
be Henry's wife. And I observed that she always spoke of you as 'Fanny,' wh=
ich
she was never used to do; and it had a sound of most sisterly cordiality.&q=
uot;
"And Mrs. Grant, did she say--did she spe=
ak;
was she there all the time?"
"Yes, she was agreeing exactly with her
sister. The surprise of your refusal, Fanny, seems to have been unbounded. =
That
you could refuse such a man as Henry Crawford seems more than they can
understand. I said what I could for you; but in good truth, as they stated =
the
case--you must prove yourself to be in your senses as soon as you can by a
different conduct; nothing else will satisfy them. But this is teasing you.=
I
have done. Do not turn away from me."
"I should have thought," said Fanny,
after a pause of recollection and exertion, "that every woman must have
felt the possibility of a man's not being approved, not being loved by some=
one
of her sex at least, let him be ever so generally agreeable. Let him have a=
ll
the perfections in the world, I think it ought not to be set down as certain
that a man must be acceptable to every woman he may happen to like himself.
But, even supposing it is so, allowing Mr. Crawford to have all the claims =
which
his sisters think he has, how was I to be prepared to meet him with any fee=
ling
answerable to his own? He took me wholly by surprise. I had not an idea that
his behaviour to me before had any meaning; and surely I was not to be teac=
hing
myself to like him only because he was taking what seemed very idle notice =
of
me. In my situation, it would have been the extreme of vanity to be forming
expectations on Mr. Crawford. I am sure his sisters, rating him as they do,
must have thought it so, supposing he had meant nothing. How, then, was I t=
o be--to
be in love with him the moment he said he was with me? How was I to have an
attachment at his service, as soon as it was asked for? His sisters should =
consider
me as well as him. The higher his deserts, the more improper for me ever to
have thought of him. And, and--we think very differently of the nature of
women, if they can imagine a woman so very soon capable of returning an
affection as this seems to imply."
"My dear, dear Fanny, now I have the trut=
h. I
know this to be the truth; and most worthy of you are such feelings. I had
attributed them to you before. I thought I could understand you. You have n=
ow
given exactly the explanation which I ventured to make for you to your frie=
nd
and Mrs. Grant, and they were both better satisfied, though your warm-heart=
ed friend
was still run away with a little by the enthusiasm of her fondness for Henr=
y. I
told them that you were of all human creatures the one over whom habit had =
most
power and novelty least; and that the very circumstance of the novelty of
Crawford's addresses was against him. Their being so new and so recent was =
all
in their disfavour; that you could tolerate nothing that you were not used =
to;
and a great deal more to the same purpose, to give them a knowledge of your
character. Miss Crawford made us laugh by her plans of encouragement for her
brother. She meant to urge him to persevere in the hope of being loved in t=
ime,
and of having his addresses most kindly received at the end of about ten ye=
ars'
happy marriage."
Fanny could with difficulty give the smile that
was here asked for. Her feelings were all in revolt. She feared she had been
doing wrong: saying too much, overacting the caution which she had been
fancying necessary; in guarding against one evil, laying herself open to
another; and to have Miss Crawford's liveliness repeated to her at such a
moment, and on such a subject, was a bitter aggravation.
Edmund saw weariness and distress in her face,=
and
immediately resolved to forbear all farther discussion; and not even to men=
tion
the name of Crawford again, except as it might be connected with what must =
be agreeable
to her. On this principle, he soon afterwards observed--"They go on Mo=
nday.
You are sure, therefore, of seeing your friend either to-morrow or Sunday. =
They
really go on Monday; and I was within a trifle of being persuaded to stay at
Lessingby till that very day! I had almost promised it. What a difference it
might have made! Those five or six days more at Lessingby might have been f=
elt
all my life."
"You were near staying there?"
"Very. I was most kindly pressed, and had
nearly consented. Had I received any letter from Mansfield, to tell me how =
you
were all going on, I believe I should certainly have staid; but I knew noth=
ing
that had happened here for a fortnight, and felt that I had been away long =
enough."
"You spent your time pleasantly there?&qu=
ot;
"Yes; that is, it was the fault of my own
mind if I did not. They were all very pleasant. I doubt their finding me so=
. I
took uneasiness with me, and there was no getting rid of it till I was in
Mansfield again."
"The Miss Owens--you liked them, did not
you?"
"Yes, very well. Pleasant, good-humoured,
unaffected girls. But I am spoilt, Fanny, for common female society.
Good-humoured, unaffected girls will not do for a man who has been used to
sensible women. They are two distinct orders of being. You and Miss Crawford
have made me too nice."
Still, however, Fanny was oppressed and wearie=
d;
he saw it in her looks, it could not be talked away; and attempting it no m=
ore,
he led her directly, with the kind authority of a privileged guardian, into=
the
house.
Edmund now believed himself perfectly acquaint=
ed
with all that Fanny could tell, or could leave to be conjectured of her
sentiments, and he was satisfied. It had been, as he before presumed, too h=
asty
a measure on Crawford's side, and time must be given to make the idea first=
familiar,
and then agreeable to her. She must be used to the consideration of his bei=
ng
in love with her, and then a return of affection might not be very distant.=
He gave this opinion as the result of the
conversation to his father; and recommended there being nothing more said to
her: no farther attempts to influence or persuade; but that everything shou=
ld
be left to Crawford's assiduities, and the natural workings of her own mind=
.
Sir Thomas promised that it should be so. Edmu=
nd's
account of Fanny's disposition he could believe to be just; he supposed she=
had
all those feelings, but he must consider it as very unfortunate that she ha=
d; for,
less willing than his son to trust to the future, he could not help fearing
that if such very long allowances of time and habit were necessary for her,=
she
might not have persuaded herself into receiving his addresses properly befo=
re
the young man's inclination for paying them were over. There was nothing to=
be
done, however, but to submit quietly and hope the best.
The promised visit from "her friend,"=
; as
Edmund called Miss Crawford, was a formidable threat to Fanny, and she live=
d in
continual terror of it. As a sister, so partial and so angry, and so little
scrupulous of what she said, and in another light so triumphant and secure,=
she
was in every way an object of painful alarm. Her displeasure, her penetrati=
on, and
her happiness were all fearful to encounter; and the dependence of having
others present when they met was Fanny's only support in looking forward to=
it.
She absented herself as little as possible from Lady Bertram, kept away from
the East room, and took no solitary walk in the shrubbery, in her caution to
avoid any sudden attack.
She succeeded. She was safe in the breakfast-r=
oom,
with her aunt, when Miss Crawford did come; and the first misery over, and =
Miss
Crawford looking and speaking with much less particularity of expression th=
an
she had anticipated, Fanny began to hope there would be nothing worse to be=
endured
than a half-hour of moderate agitation. But here she hoped too much; Miss
Crawford was not the slave of opportunity. She was determined to see Fanny
alone, and therefore said to her tolerably soon, in a low voice, "I mu=
st
speak to you for a few minutes somewhere"; words that Fanny felt all o=
ver
her, in all her pulses and all her nerves. Denial was impossible. Her habit=
s of
ready submission, on the contrary, made her almost instantly rise and lead =
the
way out of the room. She did it with wretched feelings, but it was inevitab=
le.
They were no sooner in the hall than all restr=
aint
of countenance was over on Miss Crawford's side. She immediately shook her =
head
at Fanny with arch, yet affectionate reproach, and taking her hand, seemed
hardly able to help beginning directly. She said nothing, however, but,
"Sad, sad girl! I do not know when I shall have done scolding you,&quo=
t;
and had discretion enough to reserve the rest till they might be secure of =
having
four walls to themselves. Fanny naturally turned upstairs, and took her gue=
st
to the apartment which was now always fit for comfortable use; opening the
door, however, with a most aching heart, and feeling that she had a more
distressing scene before her than ever that spot had yet witnessed. But the
evil ready to burst on her was at least delayed by the sudden change in Miss
Crawford's ideas; by the strong effect on her mind which the finding hersel=
f in
the East room again produced.
"Ha!" she cried, with instant animat=
ion,
"am I here again? The East room! Once only was I in this room
before"; and after stopping to look about her, and seemingly to retrace
all that had then passed, she added, "Once only before. Do you remember
it? I came to rehearse. Your cousin came too; and we had a rehearsal. You w=
ere
our audience and prompter. A delightful rehearsal. I shall never forget it.=
Here
we were, just in this part of the room: here was your cousin, here was I, h=
ere
were the chairs. Oh! why will such things ever pass away?"
Happily for her companion, she wanted no answe=
r.
Her mind was entirely self-engrossed. She was in a reverie of sweet
remembrances.
"The scene we were rehearsing was so very
remarkable! The subject of it so very--very--what shall I say? He was to be
describing and recommending matrimony to me. I think I see him now, trying =
to
be as demure and composed as Anhalt ought, through the two long speeches. '=
When
two sympathetic hearts meet in the marriage state, matrimony may be called a
happy life.' I suppose no time can ever wear out the impression I have of h=
is
looks and voice as he said those words. It was curious, very curious, that =
we
should have such a scene to play! If I had the power of recalling any one w=
eek
of my existence, it should be that week--that acting week. Say what you wou=
ld,
Fanny, it should be that; for I never knew such exquisite happiness in any
other. His sturdy spirit to bend as it did! Oh! it was sweet beyond express=
ion.
But alas, that very evening destroyed it all. That very evening brought you=
r most
unwelcome uncle. Poor Sir Thomas, who was glad to see you? Yet, Fanny, do n=
ot
imagine I would now speak disrespectfully of Sir Thomas, though I certainly=
did
hate him for many a week. No, I do him justice now. He is just what the hea=
d of
such a family should be. Nay, in sober sadness, I believe I now love you
all." And having said so, with a degree of tenderness and consciousness
which Fanny had never seen in her before, and now thought only too becoming,
she turned away for a moment to recover herself. "I have had a little =
fit
since I came into this room, as you may perceive," said she presently,
with a playful smile, "but it is over now; so let us sit down and be
comfortable; for as to scolding you, Fanny, which I came fully intending to=
do,
I have not the heart for it when it comes to the point." And embracing=
her
very affectionately, "Good, gentle Fanny! when I think of this being t=
he last
time of seeing you for I do not know how long, I feel it quite impossible t=
o do
anything but love you."
Fanny was affected. She had not foreseen anyth=
ing
of this, and her feelings could seldom withstand the melancholy influence of
the word "last." She cried as if she had loved Miss Crawford more
than she possibly could; and Miss Crawford, yet farther softened by the sig=
ht
of such emotion, hung about her with fondness, and said, "I hate to le=
ave you.
I shall see no one half so amiable where I am going. Who says we shall not =
be
sisters? I know we shall. I feel that we are born to be connected; and those
tears convince me that you feel it too, dear Fanny."
Fanny roused herself, and replying only in par=
t,
said, "But you are only going from one set of friends to another. You =
are
going to a very particular friend."
"Yes, very true. Mrs. Fraser has been my
intimate friend for years. But I have not the least inclination to go near =
her.
I can think only of the friends I am leaving: my excellent sister, yourself,
and the Bertrams in general. You have all so much more heart among you than=
one
finds in the world at large. You all give me a feeling of being able to tru=
st
and confide in you, which in common intercourse one knows nothing of. I wis=
h I
had settled with Mrs. Fraser not to go to her till after Easter, a much bet=
ter
time for the visit, but now I cannot put her off. And when I have done with=
her
I must go to her sister, Lady Stornaway, because she was rather my most par=
ticular
friend of the two, but I have not cared much for her these three years.&quo=
t;
After this speech the two girls sat many minut=
es
silent, each thoughtful: Fanny meditating on the different sorts of friends=
hip
in the world, Mary on something of less philosophic tendency. She first spo=
ke again.
"How perfectly I remember my resolving to
look for you upstairs, and setting off to find my way to the East room, wit=
hout
having an idea whereabouts it was! How well I remember what I was thinking =
of
as I came along, and my looking in and seeing you here sitting at this tabl=
e at
work; and then your cousin's astonishment, when he opened the door, at seei=
ng
me here! To be sure, your uncle's returning that very evening! There never =
was
anything quite like it."
Another short fit of abstraction followed, whe=
n,
shaking it off, she thus attacked her companion.
"Why, Fanny, you are absolutely in a reve=
rie.
Thinking, I hope, of one who is always thinking of you. Oh! that I could
transport you for a short time into our circle in town, that you might
understand how your power over Henry is thought of there! Oh! the envyings =
and
heartburnings of dozens and dozens; the wonder, the incredulity that will be
felt at hearing what you have done! For as to secrecy, Henry is quite the h=
ero of
an old romance, and glories in his chains. You should come to London to know
how to estimate your conquest. If you were to see how he is courted, and ho=
w I
am courted for his sake! Now, I am well aware that I shall not be half so
welcome to Mrs. Fraser in consequence of his situation with you. When she c=
omes
to know the truth she will, very likely, wish me in Northamptonshire again;=
for
there is a daughter of Mr. Fraser, by a first wife, whom she is wild to get
married, and wants Henry to take. Oh! she has been trying for him to such a
degree. Innocent and quiet as you sit here, you cannot have an idea of the =
sensation
that you will be occasioning, of the curiosity there will be to see you, of=
the
endless questions I shall have to answer! Poor Margaret Fraser will be at me
for ever about your eyes and your teeth, and how you do your hair, and who
makes your shoes. I wish Margaret were married, for my poor friend's sake, =
for
I look upon the Frasers to be about as unhappy as most other married people.
And yet it was a most desirable match for Janet at the time. We were all
delighted. She could not do otherwise than accept him, for he was rich, and=
she
had nothing; but he turns out ill-tempered and exigeant, and wants a young
woman, a beautiful young woman of five-and-twenty, to be as steady as himse=
lf. And
my friend does not manage him well; she does not seem to know how to make t=
he
best of it. There is a spirit of irritation which, to say nothing worse, is
certainly very ill-bred. In their house I shall call to mind the conjugal
manners of Mansfield Parsonage with respect. Even Dr. Grant does shew a
thorough confidence in my sister, and a certain consideration for her judgm=
ent,
which makes one feel there is attachment; but of that I shall see nothing w=
ith
the Frasers. I shall be at Mansfield for ever, Fanny. My own sister as a wi=
fe,
Sir Thomas Bertram as a husband, are my standards of perfection. Poor Janet=
has
been sadly taken in, and yet there was nothing improper on her side: she did
not run into the match inconsiderately; there was no want of foresight. She
took three days to consider of his proposals, and during those three days a=
sked
the advice of everybody connected with her whose opinion was worth having, =
and
especially applied to my late dear aunt, whose knowledge of the world made =
her
judgment very generally and deservedly looked up to by all the young people=
of
her acquaintance, and she was decidedly in favour of Mr. Fraser. This seems=
as
if nothing were a security for matrimonial comfort. I have not so much to s=
ay
for my friend Flora, who jilted a very nice young man in the Blues for the =
sake
of that horrid Lord Stornaway, who has about as much sense, Fanny, as Mr.
Rushworth, but much worse-looking, and with a blackguard character. I had my
doubts at the time about her being right, for he has not even the air of a
gentleman, and now I am sure she was wrong. By the bye, Flora Ross was dying
for Henry the first winter she came out. But were I to attempt to tell you =
of
all the women whom I have known to be in love with him, I should never have
done. It is you, only you, insensible Fanny, who can think of him with anyt=
hing
like indifference. But are you so insensible as you profess yourself? No, n=
o, I
see you are not."
There was, indeed, so deep a blush over Fanny's
face at that moment as might warrant strong suspicion in a predisposed mind=
.
"Excellent creature! I will not tease you.
Everything shall take its course. But, dear Fanny, you must allow that you =
were
not so absolutely unprepared to have the question asked as your cousin fanc=
ies.
It is not possible but that you must have had some thoughts on the subject,
some surmises as to what might be. You must have seen that he was trying to=
please
you by every attention in his power. Was not he devoted to you at the ball?=
And
then before the ball, the necklace! Oh! you received it just as it was mean=
t.
You were as conscious as heart could desire. I remember it perfectly."=
"Do you mean, then, that your brother kne=
w of
the necklace beforehand? Oh! Miss Crawford, that was not fair."
"Knew of it! It was his own doing entirel=
y,
his own thought. I am ashamed to say that it had never entered my head, but=
I
was delighted to act on his proposal for both your sakes."
"I will not say," replied Fanny,
"that I was not half afraid at the time of its being so, for there was
something in your look that frightened me, but not at first; I was as
unsuspicious of it at first--indeed, indeed I was. It is as true as that I =
sit
here. And had I had an idea of it, nothing should have induced me to accept=
the
necklace. As to your brother's behaviour, certainly I was sensible of a
particularity: I had been sensible of it some little time, perhaps two or t=
hree
weeks; but then I considered it as meaning nothing: I put it down as simply
being his way, and was as far from supposing as from wishing him to have an=
y serious
thoughts of me. I had not, Miss Crawford, been an inattentive observer of w=
hat
was passing between him and some part of this family in the summer and autu=
mn.
I was quiet, but I was not blind. I could not but see that Mr. Crawford all=
owed
himself in gallantries which did mean nothing."
"Ah! I cannot deny it. He has now and then
been a sad flirt, and cared very little for the havoc he might be making in
young ladies' affections. I have often scolded him for it, but it is his on=
ly
fault; and there is this to be said, that very few young ladies have any af=
fections
worth caring for. And then, Fanny, the glory of fixing one who has been sho=
t at
by so many; of having it in one's power to pay off the debts of one's sex! =
Oh!
I am sure it is not in woman's nature to refuse such a triumph."
Fanny shook her head. "I cannot think wel=
l of
a man who sports with any woman's feelings; and there may often be a great =
deal
more suffered than a stander-by can judge of."
"I do not defend him. I leave him entirel=
y to
your mercy, and when he has got you at Everingham, I do not care how much y=
ou
lecture him. But this I will say, that his fault, the liking to make girls a
little in love with him, is not half so dangerous to a wife's happiness as =
a tendency
to fall in love himself, which he has never been addicted to. And I do
seriously and truly believe that he is attached to you in a way that he nev=
er
was to any woman before; that he loves you with all his heart, and will love
you as nearly for ever as possible. If any man ever loved a woman for ever,=
I
think Henry will do as much for you."
Fanny could not avoid a faint smile, but had
nothing to say.
"I cannot imagine Henry ever to have been
happier," continued Mary presently, "than when he had succeeded in
getting your brother's commission."
She had made a sure push at Fanny's feelings h=
ere.
"Oh! yes. How very, very kind of him.&quo=
t;
"I know he must have exerted himself very
much, for I know the parties he had to move. The Admiral hates trouble, and
scorns asking favours; and there are so many young men's claims to be atten=
ded
to in the same way, that a friendship and energy, not very determined, is
easily put by. What a happy creature William must be! I wish we could see
him."
Poor Fanny's mind was thrown into the most
distressing of all its varieties. The recollection of what had been done for
William was always the most powerful disturber of every decision against Mr.
Crawford; and she sat thinking deeply of it till Mary, who had been first
watching her complacently, and then musing on something else, suddenly call=
ed her
attention by saying: "I should like to sit talking with you here all d=
ay,
but we must not forget the ladies below, and so good-bye, my dear, my amiab=
le,
my excellent Fanny, for though we shall nominally part in the
breakfast-parlour, I must take leave of you here. And I do take leave, long=
ing
for a happy reunion, and trusting that when we meet again, it will be under
circumstances which may open our hearts to each other without any remnant or
shadow of reserve."
A very, very kind embrace, and some agitation =
of
manner, accompanied these words.
"I shall see your cousin in town soon: he
talks of being there tolerably soon; and Sir Thomas, I dare say, in the cou=
rse
of the spring; and your eldest cousin, and the Rushworths, and Julia, I am =
sure
of meeting again and again, and all but you. I have two favours to ask, Fan=
ny:
one is your correspondence. You must write to me. And the other, that you w=
ill often
call on Mrs. Grant, and make her amends for my being gone."
The first, at least, of these favours Fanny wo=
uld
rather not have been asked; but it was impossible for her to refuse the
correspondence; it was impossible for her even not to accede to it more rea=
dily
than her own judgment authorised. There was no resisting so much apparent a=
ffection.
Her disposition was peculiarly calculated to value a fond treatment, and fr=
om
having hitherto known so little of it, she was the more overcome by Miss
Crawford's. Besides, there was gratitude towards her, for having made their
tete-a-tete so much less painful than her fears had predicted.
It was over, and she had escaped without
reproaches and without detection. Her secret was still her own; and while t=
hat
was the case, she thought she could resign herself to almost everything.
In the evening there was another parting. Henry
Crawford came and sat some time with them; and her spirits not being previo=
usly
in the strongest state, her heart was softened for a while towards him, bec=
ause
he really seemed to feel. Quite unlike his usual self, he scarcely said any=
thing.
He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny must grieve for him, though hoping she
might never see him again till he were the husband of some other woman.
When it came to the moment of parting, he would
take her hand, he would not be denied it; he said nothing, however, or noth=
ing
that she heard, and when he had left the room, she was better pleased that =
such
a token of friendship had passed.
On the morrow the Crawfords were gone.
Mr. Crawford gone, Sir Thomas's next object was
that he should be missed; and he entertained great hope that his niece would
find a blank in the loss of those attentions which at the time she had felt=
, or
fancied, an evil. She had tasted of consequence in its most flattering form;
and he did hope that the loss of it, the sinking again into nothing, would
awaken very wholesome regrets in her mind. He watched her with this idea; b=
ut
he could hardly tell with what success. He hardly knew whether there were a=
ny
difference in her spirits or not. She was always so gentle and retiring that
her emotions were beyond his discrimination. He did not understand her: he =
felt
that he did not; and therefore applied to Edmund to tell him how she stood
affected on the present occasion, and whether she were more or less happy t=
han
she had been.
Edmund did not discern any symptoms of regret,=
and
thought his father a little unreasonable in supposing the first three or fo=
ur
days could produce any.
What chiefly surprised Edmund was, that Crawfo=
rd's
sister, the friend and companion who had been so much to her, should not be
more visibly regretted. He wondered that Fanny spoke so seldom of her, and =
had
so little voluntarily to say of her concern at this separation.
Alas! it was this sister, this friend and
companion, who was now the chief bane of Fanny's comfort. If she could have
believed Mary's future fate as unconnected with Mansfield as she was determ=
ined
the brother's should be, if she could have hoped her return thither to be as
distant as she was much inclined to think his, she would have been light of=
heart
indeed; but the more she recollected and observed, the more deeply was she
convinced that everything was now in a fairer train for Miss Crawford's
marrying Edmund than it had ever been before. On his side the inclination w=
as
stronger, on hers less equivocal. His objections, the scruples of his
integrity, seemed all done away, nobody could tell how; and the doubts and
hesitations of her ambition were equally got over--and equally without appa=
rent
reason. It could only be imputed to increasing attachment. His good and her=
bad
feelings yielded to love, and such love must unite them. He was to go to to=
wn
as soon as some business relative to Thornton Lacey were completed--perhaps
within a fortnight; he talked of going, he loved to talk of it; and when on=
ce with
her again, Fanny could not doubt the rest. Her acceptance must be as certai=
n as
his offer; and yet there were bad feelings still remaining which made the
prospect of it most sorrowful to her, independently, she believed,
independently of self.
In their very last conversation, Miss Crawford=
, in
spite of some amiable sensations, and much personal kindness, had still been
Miss Crawford; still shewn a mind led astray and bewildered, and without any
suspicion of being so; darkened, yet fancying itself light. She might love,=
but
she did not deserve Edmund by any other sentiment. Fanny believed there was
scarcely a second feeling in common between them; and she may be forgiven by
older sages for looking on the chance of Miss Crawford's future improvement=
as
nearly desperate, for thinking that if Edmund's influence in this season of
love had already done so little in clearing her judgment, and regulating her
notions, his worth would be finally wasted on her even in years of matrimon=
y.
Experience might have hoped more for any young
people so circumstanced, and impartiality would not have denied to Miss
Crawford's nature that participation of the general nature of women which w=
ould
lead her to adopt the opinions of the man she loved and respected as her ow=
n.
But as such were Fanny's persuasions, she suffered very much from them, and=
could
never speak of Miss Crawford without pain.
Sir Thomas, meanwhile, went on with his own ho=
pes
and his own observations, still feeling a right, by all his knowledge of hu=
man nature,
to expect to see the effect of the loss of power and consequence on his nie=
ce's
spirits, and the past attentions of the lover producing a craving for their
return; and he was soon afterwards able to account for his not yet complete=
ly
and indubitably seeing all this, by the prospect of another visitor, whose
approach he could allow to be quite enough to support the spirits he was
watching. William had obtained a ten days' leave of absence, to be given to
Northamptonshire, and was coming, the happiest of lieutenants, because the
latest made, to shew his happiness and describe his uniform.
He came; and he would have been delighted to s=
hew
his uniform there too, had not cruel custom prohibited its appearance excep=
t on
duty. So the uniform remained at Portsmouth, and Edmund conjectured that be=
fore
Fanny had any chance of seeing it, all its own freshness and all the freshn=
ess of
its wearer's feelings must be worn away. It would be sunk into a badge of
disgrace; for what can be more unbecoming, or more worthless, than the unif=
orm
of a lieutenant, who has been a lieutenant a year or two, and sees others m=
ade
commanders before him? So reasoned Edmund, till his father made him the
confidant of a scheme which placed Fanny's chance of seeing the second
lieutenant of H.M.S. Thrush in all his glory in another light.
This scheme was that she should accompany her
brother back to Portsmouth, and spend a little time with her own family. It=
had
occurred to Sir Thomas, in one of his dignified musings, as a right and
desirable measure; but before he absolutely made up his mind, he consulted =
his son.
Edmund considered it every way, and saw nothing but what was right. The thi=
ng
was good in itself, and could not be done at a better time; and he had no d=
oubt
of it being highly agreeable to Fanny. This was enough to determine Sir Tho=
mas;
and a decisive "then so it shall be" closed that stage of the
business; Sir Thomas retiring from it with some feelings of satisfaction, a=
nd
views of good over and above what he had communicated to his son; for his p=
rime
motive in sending her away had very little to do with the propriety of her
seeing her parents again, and nothing at all with any idea of making her ha=
ppy.
He certainly wished her to go willingly, but he as certainly wished her to =
be heartily
sick of home before her visit ended; and that a little abstinence from the =
elegancies
and luxuries of Mansfield Park would bring her mind into a sober state, and
incline her to a juster estimate of the value of that home of greater
permanence, and equal comfort, of which she had the offer.
It was a medicinal project upon his niece's
understanding, which he must consider as at present diseased. A residence of
eight or nine years in the abode of wealth and plenty had a little disorder=
ed
her powers of comparing and judging. Her father's house would, in all
probability, teach her the value of a good income; and he trusted that she
would be the wiser and happier woman, all her life, for the experiment he h=
ad devised.
Had Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she
must have had a strong attack of them when she first understood what was in=
tended,
when her uncle first made her the offer of visiting the parents, and brothe=
rs, and
sisters, from whom she had been divided almost half her life; of returning =
for
a couple of months to the scenes of her infancy, with William for the prote=
ctor
and companion of her journey, and the certainty of continuing to see Willia=
m to
the last hour of his remaining on land. Had she ever given way to bursts of
delight, it must have been then, for she was delighted, but her happiness w=
as
of a quiet, deep, heart-swelling sort; and though never a great talker, she=
was
always more inclined to silence when feeling most strongly. At the moment s=
he could
only thank and accept. Afterwards, when familiarised with the visions of
enjoyment so suddenly opened, she could speak more largely to William and
Edmund of what she felt; but still there were emotions of tenderness that c=
ould
not be clothed in words. The remembrance of all her earliest pleasures, and=
of
what she had suffered in being torn from them, came over her with renewed
strength, and it seemed as if to be at home again would heal every pain that
had since grown out of the separation. To be in the centre of such a circle,
loved by so many, and more loved by all than she had ever been before; to f=
eel
affection without fear or restraint; to feel herself the equal of those who=
surrounded
her; to be at peace from all mention of the Crawfords, safe from every look
which could be fancied a reproach on their account. This was a prospect to =
be
dwelt on with a fondness that could be but half acknowledged.
Edmund, too--to be two months from him (and
perhaps she might be allowed to make her absence three) must do her good. A=
t a
distance, unassailed by his looks or his kindness, and safe from the perpet=
ual irritation
of knowing his heart, and striving to avoid his confidence, she should be a=
ble
to reason herself into a properer state; she should be able to think of him=
as
in London, and arranging everything there, without wretchedness. What might
have been hard to bear at Mansfield was to become a slight evil at Portsmou=
th.
The only drawback was the doubt of her aunt
Bertram's being comfortable without her. She was of use to no one else; but
there she might be missed to a degree that she did not like to think of; and
that part of the arrangement was, indeed, the hardest for Sir Thomas to
accomplish, and what only he could have accomplished at all.
But he was master at Mansfield Park. When he h=
ad
really resolved on any measure, he could always carry it through; and now by
dint of long talking on the subject, explaining and dwelling on the duty of
Fanny's sometimes seeing her family, he did induce his wife to let her go; =
obtaining
it rather from submission, however, than conviction, for Lady Bertram was
convinced of very little more than that Sir Thomas thought Fanny ought to g=
o,
and therefore that she must. In the calmness of her own dressing-room, in t=
he
impartial flow of her own meditations, unbiassed by his bewildering stateme=
nts,
she could not acknowledge any necessity for Fanny's ever going near a father
and mother who had done without her so long, while she was so useful to
herself. And as to the not missing her, which under Mrs. Norris's discussion
was the point attempted to be proved, she set herself very steadily against=
admitting
any such thing.
Sir Thomas had appealed to her reason, conscie=
nce,
and dignity. He called it a sacrifice, and demanded it of her goodness and
self-command as such. But Mrs. Norris wanted to persuade her that Fanny cou=
ld
be very well spared--she being ready to give up all her own time to her as =
requested--and,
in short, could not really be wanted or missed.
"That may be, sister," was all Lady
Bertram's reply. "I dare say you are very right; but I am sure I shall
miss her very much."
The next step was to communicate with Portsmou=
th.
Fanny wrote to offer herself; and her mother's answer, though short, was so
kind--a few simple lines expressed so natural and motherly a joy in the
prospect of seeing her child again, as to confirm all the daughter's views =
of happiness
in being with her--convincing her that she should now find a warm and
affectionate friend in the "mama" who had certainly shewn no rema=
rkable
fondness for her formerly; but this she could easily suppose to have been h=
er
own fault or her own fancy. She had probably alienated love by the helpless=
ness
and fretfulness of a fearful temper, or been unreasonable in wanting a larg=
er
share than any one among so many could deserve. Now, when she knew better h=
ow
to be useful, and how to forbear, and when her mother could be no longer
occupied by the incessant demands of a house full of little children, there
would be leisure and inclination for every comfort, and they should soon be
what mother and daughter ought to be to each other.
William was almost as happy in the plan as his
sister. It would be the greatest pleasure to him to have her there to the l=
ast
moment before he sailed, and perhaps find her there still when he came in f=
rom
his first cruise. And besides, he wanted her so very much to see the Thrush
before she went out of harbour--the Thrush was certainly the finest sloop i=
n the
service--and there were several improvements in the dockyard, too, which he
quite longed to shew her.
He did not scruple to add that her being at ho=
me
for a while would be a great advantage to everybody.
"I do not know how it is," said he;
"but we seem to want some of your nice ways and orderliness at my
father's. The house is always in confusion. You will set things going in a
better way, I am sure. You will tell my mother how it all ought to be, and =
you
will be so useful to Susan, and you will teach Betsey, and make the boys lo=
ve
and mind you. How right and comfortable it will all be!"
By the time Mrs. Price's answer arrived, there
remained but a very few days more to be spent at Mansfield; and for part of=
one
of those days the young travellers were in a good deal of alarm on the subj=
ect
of their journey, for when the mode of it came to be talked of, and Mrs. No=
rris
found that all her anxiety to save her brother-in-law's money was vain, and
that in spite of her wishes and hints for a less expensive conveyance of Fa=
nny,
they were to travel post; when she saw Sir Thomas actually give William not=
es
for the purpose, she was struck with the idea of there being room for a thi=
rd
in the carriage, and suddenly seized with a strong inclination to go with t=
hem,
to go and see her poor dear sister Price. She proclaimed her thoughts. She =
must
say that she had more than half a mind to go with the young people; it woul=
d be
such an indulgence to her; she had not seen her poor dear sister Price for =
more
than twenty years; and it would be a help to the young people in their jour=
ney
to have her older head to manage for them; and she could not help thinking =
her
poor dear sister Price would feel it very unkind of her not to come by such=
an
opportunity.
William and Fanny were horror-struck at the id=
ea.
All the comfort of their comfortable journey w=
ould
be destroyed at once. With woeful countenances they looked at each other. T=
heir
suspense lasted an hour or two. No one interfered to encourage or dissuade.
Mrs. Norris was left to settle the matter by herself; and it ended, to the =
infinite
joy of her nephew and niece, in the recollection that she could not possibl=
y be
spared from Mansfield Park at present; that she was a great deal too necess=
ary
to Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram for her to be able to answer it to herself to
leave them even for a week, and therefore must certainly sacrifice every ot=
her
pleasure to that of being useful to them.
It had, in fact, occurred to her, that though
taken to Portsmouth for nothing, it would be hardly possible for her to avo=
id
paying her own expenses back again. So her poor dear sister Price was left =
to
all the disappointment of her missing such an opportunity, and another twen=
ty years'
absence, perhaps, begun.
Edmund's plans were affected by this Portsmouth
journey, this absence of Fanny's. He too had a sacrifice to make to Mansfie=
ld
Park as well as his aunt. He had intended, about this time, to be going to
London; but he could not leave his father and mother just when everybody el=
se
of most importance to their comfort was leaving them; and with an effort, f=
elt but
not boasted of, he delayed for a week or two longer a journey which he was
looking forward to with the hope of its fixing his happiness for ever.
He told Fanny of it. She knew so much already,
that she must know everything. It made the substance of one other confident=
ial
discourse about Miss Crawford; and Fanny was the more affected from feeling=
it
to be the last time in which Miss Crawford's name would ever be mentioned b=
etween
them with any remains of liberty. Once afterwards she was alluded to by him.
Lady Bertram had been telling her niece in the evening to write to her soon=
and
often, and promising to be a good correspondent herself; and Edmund, at a
convenient moment, then added in a whisper, "And I shall write to you,
Fanny, when I have anything worth writing about, anything to say that I thi=
nk
you will like to hear, and that you will not hear so soon from any other
quarter." Had she doubted his meaning while she listened, the glow in =
his
face, when she looked up at him, would have been decisive.
For this letter she must try to arm herself. T=
hat
a letter from Edmund should be a subject of terror! She began to feel that =
she
had not yet gone through all the changes of opinion and sentiment which the
progress of time and variation of circumstances occasion in this world of c=
hanges.
The vicissitudes of the human mind had not yet been exhausted by her.
Poor Fanny! though going as she did willingly =
and
eagerly, the last evening at Mansfield Park must still be wretchedness. Her
heart was completely sad at parting. She had tears for every room in the ho=
use,
much more for every beloved inhabitant. She clung to her aunt, because she
would miss her; she kissed the hand of her uncle with struggling sobs, beca=
use
she had displeased him; and as for Edmund, she could neither speak, nor loo=
k,
nor think, when the last moment came with him; and it was not till it was o=
ver
that she knew he was giving her the affectionate farewell of a brother.
All this passed overnight, for the journey was=
to
begin very early in the morning; and when the small, diminished party met at
breakfast, William and Fanny were talked of as already advanced one stage. =
The novelty of travelling, and the happiness of
being with William, soon produced their natural effect on Fanny's spirits, =
when
Mansfield Park was fairly left behind; and by the time their first stage was
ended, and they were to quit Sir Thomas's carriage, she was able to take le=
ave
of the old coachman, and send back proper messages, with cheerful looks.
Of pleasant talk between the brother and sister
there was no end. Everything supplied an amusement to the high glee of
William's mind, and he was full of frolic and joke in the intervals of their
higher-toned subjects, all of which ended, if they did not begin, in praise=
of
the Thrush, conjectures how she would be employed, schemes for an action wi=
th
some superior force, which (supposing the first lieutenant out of the way, =
and
William was not very merciful to the first lieutenant) was to give himself =
the
next step as soon as possible, or speculations upon prize-money, which was =
to
be generously distributed at home, with only the reservation of enough to m=
ake
the little cottage comfortable, in which he and Fanny were to pass all their
middle and later life together.
Fanny's immediate concerns, as far as they
involved Mr. Crawford, made no part of their conversation. William knew what
had passed, and from his heart lamented that his sister's feelings should b=
e so
cold towards a man whom he must consider as the first of human characters; =
but
he was of an age to be all for love, and therefore unable to blame; and kno=
wing
her wish on the subject, he would not distress her by the slightest allusio=
n.
She had reason to suppose herself not yet
forgotten by Mr. Crawford. She had heard repeatedly from his sister within =
the
three weeks which had passed since their leaving Mansfield, and in each let=
ter
there had been a few lines from himself, warm and determined like his speec=
hes.
It was a correspondence which Fanny found quite as unpleasant as she had fe=
ared.
Miss Crawford's style of writing, lively and affectionate, was itself an ev=
il,
independent of what she was thus forced into reading from the brother's pen,
for Edmund would never rest till she had read the chief of the letter to hi=
m;
and then she had to listen to his admiration of her language, and the warmt=
h of
her attachments. There had, in fact, been so much of message, of allusion, =
of
recollection, so much of Mansfield in every letter, that Fanny could not but
suppose it meant for him to hear; and to find herself forced into a purpose=
of that
kind, compelled into a correspondence which was bringing her the addresses =
of
the man she did not love, and obliging her to administer to the adverse pas=
sion
of the man she did, was cruelly mortifying. Here, too, her present removal
promised advantage. When no longer under the same roof with Edmund, she tru=
sted
that Miss Crawford would have no motive for writing strong enough to overco=
me
the trouble, and that at Portsmouth their correspondence would dwindle into
nothing.
With such thoughts as these, among ten hundred
others, Fanny proceeded in her journey safely and cheerfully, and as
expeditiously as could rationally be hoped in the dirty month of February. =
They
entered Oxford, but she could take only a hasty glimpse of Edmund's college=
as
they passed along, and made no stop anywhere till they reached Newbury, whe=
re a
comfortable meal, uniting dinner and supper, wound up the enjoyments and
fatigues of the day.
The next morning saw them off again at an early
hour; and with no events, and no delays, they regularly advanced, and were =
in
the environs of Portsmouth while there was yet daylight for Fanny to look
around her, and wonder at the new buildings. They passed the drawbridge, an=
d entered
the town; and the light was only beginning to fail as, guided by William's
powerful voice, they were rattled into a narrow street, leading from the Hi=
gh
Street, and drawn up before the door of a small house now inhabited by Mr.
Price.
Fanny was all agitation and flutter; all hope =
and
apprehension. The moment they stopped, a trollopy-looking maidservant,
seemingly in waiting for them at the door, stepped forward, and more intent=
on telling
the news than giving them any help, immediately began with, "The Thrus=
h is
gone out of harbour, please sir, and one of the officers has been here
to--" She was interrupted by a fine tall boy of eleven years old, who,
rushing out of the house, pushed the maid aside, and while William was open=
ing
the chaise-door himself, called out, "You are just in time. We have be=
en
looking for you this half-hour. The Thrush went out of harbour this morning=
. I
saw her. It was a beautiful sight. And they think she will have her orders =
in a
day or two. And Mr. Campbell was here at four o'clock to ask for you: he has
got one of the Thrush's boats, and is going off to her at six, and hoped you
would be here in time to go with him."
A stare or two at Fanny, as William helped her=
out
of the carriage, was all the voluntary notice which this brother bestowed; =
but
he made no objection to her kissing him, though still entirely engaged in
detailing farther particulars of the Thrush's going out of harbour, in whic=
h he
had a strong right of interest, being to commence his career of seamanship =
in
her at this very time.
Another moment and Fanny was in the narrow
entrance-passage of the house, and in her mother's arms, who met her there =
with
looks of true kindness, and with features which Fanny loved the more, becau=
se
they brought her aunt Bertram's before her, and there were her two sisters:=
Susan,
a well-grown fine girl of fourteen, and Betsey, the youngest of the family,
about five--both glad to see her in their way, though with no advantage of
manner in receiving her. But manner Fanny did not want. Would they but love
her, she should be satisfied.
She was then taken into a parlour, so small th=
at
her first conviction was of its being only a passage-room to something bett=
er,
and she stood for a moment expecting to be invited on; but when she saw the=
re
was no other door, and that there were signs of habitation before her, she =
called
back her thoughts, reproved herself, and grieved lest they should have been
suspected. Her mother, however, could not stay long enough to suspect anyth=
ing.
She was gone again to the street-door, to welcome William. "Oh! my dear
William, how glad I am to see you. But have you heard about the Thrush? She=
is
gone out of harbour already; three days before we had any thought of it; an=
d I
do not know what I am to do about Sam's things, they will never be ready in
time; for she may have her orders to-morrow, perhaps. It takes me quite
unawares. And now you must be off for Spithead too. Campbell has been here,
quite in a worry about you; and now what shall we do? I thought to have had
such a comfortable evening with you, and here everything comes upon me at
once."
Her son answered cheerfully, telling her that
everything was always for the best; and making light of his own inconvenien=
ce
in being obliged to hurry away so soon.
"To be sure, I had much rather she had st=
ayed
in harbour, that I might have sat a few hours with you in comfort; but as t=
here
is a boat ashore, I had better go off at once, and there is no help for it.
Whereabouts does the Thrush lay at Spithead? Near the Canopus? But no matte=
r;
here's Fanny in the parlour, and why should we stay in the passage? Come, m=
other,
you have hardly looked at your own dear Fanny yet."
In they both came, and Mrs. Price having kindly
kissed her daughter again, and commented a little on her growth, began with
very natural solicitude to feel for their fatigues and wants as travellers.=
"Poor dears! how tired you must both be! =
and
now, what will you have? I began to think you would never come. Betsey and I
have been watching for you this half-hour. And when did you get anything to
eat? And what would you like to have now? I could not tell whether you woul=
d be
for some meat, or only a dish of tea, after your journey, or else I would h=
ave got
something ready. And now I am afraid Campbell will be here before there is =
time
to dress a steak, and we have no butcher at hand. It is very inconvenient to
have no butcher in the street. We were better off in our last house. Perhaps
you would like some tea as soon as it can be got."
They both declared they should prefer it to
anything. "Then, Betsey, my dear, run into the kitchen and see if Rebe=
cca
has put the water on; and tell her to bring in the tea-things as soon as she
can. I wish we could get the bell mended; but Betsey is a very handy little
messenger."
Betsey went with alacrity, proud to shew her
abilities before her fine new sister.
"Dear me!" continued the anxious mot=
her,
"what a sad fire we have got, and I dare say you are both starved with
cold. Draw your chair nearer, my dear. I cannot think what Rebecca has been
about. I am sure I told her to bring some coals half an hour ago. Susan, you
should have taken care of the fire."
"I was upstairs, mama, moving my
things," said Susan, in a fearless, self-defending tone, which startled
Fanny. "You know you had but just settled that my sister Fanny and I
should have the other room; and I could not get Rebecca to give me any
help."
Farther discussion was prevented by various
bustles: first, the driver came to be paid; then there was a squabble betwe=
en
Sam and Rebecca about the manner of carrying up his sister's trunk, which he
would manage all his own way; and lastly, in walked Mr. Price himself, his =
own
loud voice preceding him, as with something of the oath kind he kicked away=
his
son's port-manteau and his daughter's bandbox in the passage, and called out
for a candle; no candle was brought, however, and he walked into the room. =
Fanny with doubting feelings had risen to meet
him, but sank down again on finding herself undistinguished in the dusk, and
unthought of. With a friendly shake of his son's hand, and an eager voice, =
he
instantly began--"Ha! welcome back, my boy. Glad to see you. Have you
heard the news? The Thrush went out of harbour this morning. Sharp is the w=
ord,
you see! By G--, you are just in time! The doctor has been here inquiring f=
or
you: he has got one of the boats, and is to be off for Spithead by six, so =
you
had better go with him. I have been to Turner's about your mess; it is all =
in a
way to be done. I should not wonder if you had your orders to-morrow: but y=
ou
cannot sail with this wind, if you are to cruise to the westward; and Capta=
in
Walsh thinks you will certainly have a cruise to the westward, with the
Elephant. By G--, I wish you may! But old Scholey was saying, just now, tha=
t he
thought you would be sent first to the Texel. Well, well, we are ready,
whatever happens. But by G--, you lost a fine sight by not being here in th=
e morning
to see the Thrush go out of harbour! I would not have been out of the way f=
or a
thousand pounds. Old Scholey ran in at breakfast-time, to say she had slipp=
ed her
moorings and was coming out, I jumped up, and made but two steps to the
platform. If ever there was a perfect beauty afloat, she is one; and there =
she
lays at Spithead, and anybody in England would take her for an
eight-and-twenty. I was upon the platform two hours this afternoon looking =
at
her. She lays close to the Endymion, between her and the Cleopatra, just to=
the
eastward of the sheer hulk."
"Ha!" cried William, "that's ju=
st
where I should have put her myself. It's the best berth at Spithead. But he=
re
is my sister, sir; here is Fanny," turning and leading her forward;
"it is so dark you do not see her."
With an acknowledgment that he had quite forgot
her, Mr. Price now received his daughter; and having given her a cordial hu=
g,
and observed that she was grown into a woman, and he supposed would be want=
ing
a husband soon, seemed very much inclined to forget her again. Fanny shrunk
back to her seat, with feelings sadly pained by his language and his smell =
of
spirits; and he talked on only to his son, and only of the Thrush, though
William, warmly interested as he was in that subject, more than once tried =
to
make his father think of Fanny, and her long absence and long journey.
After sitting some time longer, a candle was
obtained; but as there was still no appearance of tea, nor, from Betsey's
reports from the kitchen, much hope of any under a considerable period, Wil=
liam
determined to go and change his dress, and make the necessary preparations =
for his
removal on board directly, that he might have his tea in comfort afterwards=
.
As he left the room, two rosy-faced boys, ragg=
ed
and dirty, about eight and nine years old, rushed into it just released from
school, and coming eagerly to see their sister, and tell that the Thrush was
gone out of harbour; Tom and Charles. Charles had been born since Fanny's g=
oing
away, but Tom she had often helped to nurse, and now felt a particular plea=
sure
in seeing again. Both were kissed very tenderly, but Tom she wanted to keep=
by
her, to try to trace the features of the baby she had loved, and talked to,=
of
his infant preference of herself. Tom, however, had no mind for such treatm=
ent:
he came home not to stand and be talked to, but to run about and make a noi=
se;
and both boys had soon burst from her, and slammed the parlour-door till her
temples ached.
She had now seen all that were at home; there
remained only two brothers between herself and Susan, one of whom was a cle=
rk
in a public office in London, and the other midshipman on board an Indiaman.
But though she had seen all the members of the family, she had not yet heard
all the noise they could make. Another quarter of an hour brought her a gre=
at
deal more. William was soon calling out from the landing-place of the second
story for his mother and for Rebecca. He was in distress for something that=
he
had left there, and did not find again. A key was mislaid, Betsey accused of
having got at his new hat, and some slight, but essential alteration of his
uniform waistcoat, which he had been promised to have done for him, entirely
neglected.
Mrs. Price, Rebecca, and Betsey all went up to
defend themselves, all talking together, but Rebecca loudest, and the job w=
as
to be done as well as it could in a great hurry; William trying in vain to =
send
Betsey down again, or keep her from being troublesome where she was; the wh=
ole of
which, as almost every door in the house was open, could be plainly disting=
uished
in the parlour, except when drowned at intervals by the superior noise of S=
am,
Tom, and Charles chasing each other up and down stairs, and tumbling about =
and
hallooing.
Fanny was almost stunned. The smallness of the
house and thinness of the walls brought everything so close to her, that, a=
dded
to the fatigue of her journey, and all her recent agitation, she hardly knew
how to bear it. Within the room all was tranquil enough, for Susan having d=
isappeared
with the others, there were soon only her father and herself remaining; and=
he,
taking out a newspaper, the accustomary loan of a neighbour, applied himsel=
f to
studying it, without seeming to recollect her existence. The solitary candle
was held between himself and the paper, without any reference to her possib=
le
convenience; but she had nothing to do, and was glad to have the light scre=
ened
from her aching head, as she sat in bewildered, broken, sorrowful
contemplation.
She was at home. But, alas! it was not such a
home, she had not such a welcome, as--she checked herself; she was
unreasonable. What right had she to be of importance to her family? She cou=
ld
have none, so long lost sight of! William's concerns must be dearest, they
always had been, and he had every right. Yet to have so little said or asked
about herself, to have scarcely an inquiry made after Mansfield! It did pain
her to have Mansfield forgotten; the friends who had done so much--the dear=
, dear
friends! But here, one subject swallowed up all the rest. Perhaps it must be
so. The destination of the Thrush must be now preeminently interesting. A d=
ay
or two might shew the difference. She only was to blame. Yet she thought it
would not have been so at Mansfield. No, in her uncle's house there would h=
ave
been a consideration of times and seasons, a regulation of subject, a
propriety, an attention towards everybody which there was not here.
The only interruption which thoughts like these
received for nearly half an hour was from a sudden burst of her father's, n=
ot
at all calculated to compose them. At a more than ordinary pitch of thumping
and hallooing in the passage, he exclaimed, "Devil take those young do=
gs!
How they are singing out! Ay, Sam's voice louder than all the rest! That bo=
y is
fit for a boatswain. Holla, you there! Sam, stop your confounded pipe, or I=
shall
be after you."
This threat was so palpably disregarded, that
though within five minutes afterwards the three boys all burst into the room
together and sat down, Fanny could not consider it as a proof of anything m=
ore
than their being for the time thoroughly fagged, which their hot faces and
panting breaths seemed to prove, especially as they were still kicking each=
other's
shins, and hallooing out at sudden starts immediately under their father's =
eye.
The next opening of the door brought something
more welcome: it was for the tea-things, which she had begun almost to desp=
air
of seeing that evening. Susan and an attendant girl, whose inferior appeara=
nce
informed Fanny, to her great surprise, that she had previously seen the upp=
er servant,
brought in everything necessary for the meal; Susan looking, as she put the
kettle on the fire and glanced at her sister, as if divided between the
agreeable triumph of shewing her activity and usefulness, and the dread of
being thought to demean herself by such an office. "She had been into =
the
kitchen," she said, "to hurry Sally and help make the toast, and =
spread
the bread and butter, or she did not know when they should have got tea, and
she was sure her sister must want something after her journey."
Fanny was very thankful. She could not but own
that she should be very glad of a little tea, and Susan immediately set abo=
ut
making it, as if pleased to have the employment all to herself; and with on=
ly a
little unnecessary bustle, and some few injudicious attempts at keeping her=
brothers
in better order than she could, acquitted herself very well. Fanny's spirit=
was
as much refreshed as her body; her head and heart were soon the better for =
such
well-timed kindness. Susan had an open, sensible countenance; she was like
William, and Fanny hoped to find her like him in disposition and goodwill
towards herself.
In this more placid state of things William
reentered, followed not far behind by his mother and Betsey. He, complete in
his lieutenant's uniform, looking and moving all the taller, firmer, and mo=
re
graceful for it, and with the happiest smile over his face, walked up direc=
tly to
Fanny, who, rising from her seat, looked at him for a moment in speechless
admiration, and then threw her arms round his neck to sob out her various
emotions of pain and pleasure.
Anxious not to appear unhappy, she soon recove=
red herself;
and wiping away her tears, was able to notice and admire all the striking p=
arts
of his dress; listening with reviving spirits to his cheerful hopes of bein=
g on
shore some part of every day before they sailed, and even of getting her to
Spithead to see the sloop.
The next bustle brought in Mr. Campbell, the
surgeon of the Thrush, a very well-behaved young man, who came to call for =
his
friend, and for whom there was with some contrivance found a chair, and with
some hasty washing of the young tea-maker's, a cup and saucer; and after
another quarter of an hour of earnest talk between the gentlemen, noise ris=
ing upon
noise, and bustle upon bustle, men and boys at last all in motion together,=
the
moment came for setting off; everything was ready, William took leave, and =
all
of them were gone; for the three boys, in spite of their mother's entreaty,
determined to see their brother and Mr. Campbell to the sally-port; and Mr.
Price walked off at the same time to carry back his neighbour's newspaper. =
Something like tranquillity might now be hoped
for; and accordingly, when Rebecca had been prevailed on to carry away the
tea-things, and Mrs. Price had walked about the room some time looking for =
a shirt-sleeve,
which Betsey at last hunted out from a drawer in the kitchen, the small par=
ty
of females were pretty well composed, and the mother having lamented again =
over
the impossibility of getting Sam ready in time, was at leisure to think of =
her
eldest daughter and the friends she had come from.
A few inquiries began: but one of the
earliest--"How did sister Bertram manage about her servants?"
"Was she as much plagued as herself to get tolerable servants?"--=
soon
led her mind away from Northamptonshire, and fixed it on her own domestic
grievances, and the shocking character of all the Portsmouth servants, of w=
hom
she believed her own two were the very worst, engrossed her completely. The
Bertrams were all forgotten in detailing the faults of Rebecca, against whom
Susan had also much to depose, and little Betsey a great deal more, and who=
did
seem so thoroughly without a single recommendation, that Fanny could not he=
lp modestly
presuming that her mother meant to part with her when her year was up.
"Her year!" cried Mrs. Price; "=
I am
sure I hope I shall be rid of her before she has staid a year, for that will
not be up till November. Servants are come to such a pass, my dear, in
Portsmouth, that it is quite a miracle if one keeps them more than half a y=
ear.
I have no hope of ever being settled; and if I was to part with Rebecca, I
should only get something worse. And yet I do not think I am a very difficu=
lt mistress
to please; and I am sure the place is easy enough, for there is always a gi=
rl
under her, and I often do half the work myself."
Fanny was silent; but not from being convinced
that there might not be a remedy found for some of these evils. As she now =
sat
looking at Betsey, she could not but think particularly of another sister, a
very pretty little girl, whom she had left there not much younger when she =
went
into Northamptonshire, who had died a few years afterwards. There had been =
something
remarkably amiable about her. Fanny in those early days had preferred her to
Susan; and when the news of her death had at last reached Mansfield, had fo=
r a
short time been quite afflicted. The sight of Betsey brought the image of
little Mary back again, but she would not have pained her mother by alludin=
g to
her for the world. While considering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a sma=
ll
distance, was holding out something to catch her eyes, meaning to screen it=
at
the same time from Susan's.
"What have you got there, my love?" =
said
Fanny; "come and shew it to me."
It was a silver knife. Up jumped Susan, claimi=
ng
it as her own, and trying to get it away; but the child ran to her mother's
protection, and Susan could only reproach, which she did very warmly, and
evidently hoping to interest Fanny on her side. "It was very hard that=
she
was not to have her own knife; it was her own knife; little sister Mary had=
left
it to her upon her deathbed, and she ought to have had it to keep herself l=
ong
ago. But mama kept it from her, and was always letting Betsey get hold of i=
t;
and the end of it would be that Betsey would spoil it, and get it for her o=
wn,
though mama had promised her that Betsey should not have it in her own
hands."
Fanny was quite shocked. Every feeling of duty,
honour, and tenderness was wounded by her sister's speech and her mother's
reply.
"Now, Susan," cried Mrs. Price, in a
complaining voice, "now, how can you be so cross? You are always
quarrelling about that knife. I wish you would not be so quarrelsome. Poor
little Betsey; how cross Susan is to you! But you should not have taken it =
out,
my dear, when I sent you to the drawer. You know I told you not to touch it,
because Susan is so cross about it. I must hide it another time, Betsey. Po=
or
Mary little thought it would be such a bone of contention when she gave it =
me
to keep, only two hours before she died. Poor little soul! she could but ju=
st
speak to be heard, and she said so prettily, 'Let sister Susan have my knif=
e,
mama, when I am dead and buried.' Poor little dear! she was so fond of it,
Fanny, that she would have it lay by her in bed, all through her illness. It
was the gift of her good godmother, old Mrs. Admiral Maxwell, only six weeks
before she was taken for death. Poor little sweet creature! Well, she was t=
aken
away from evil to come. My own Betsey" (fondling her), "you have =
not
the luck of such a good godmother. Aunt Norris lives too far off to think of
such little people as you."
Fanny had indeed nothing to convey from aunt
Norris, but a message to say she hoped that her god-daughter was a good gir=
l,
and learnt her book. There had been at one moment a slight murmur in the
drawing-room at Mansfield Park about sending her a prayer-book; but no seco=
nd
sound had been heard of such a purpose. Mrs. Norris, however, had gone home=
and
taken down two old prayer-books of her husband with that idea; but, upon
examination, the ardour of generosity went off. One was found to have too s=
mall
a print for a child's eyes, and the other to be too cumbersome for her to c=
arry
about.
Fanny, fatigued and fatigued again, was thankf=
ul
to accept the first invitation of going to bed; and before Betsey had finis=
hed
her cry at being allowed to sit up only one hour extraordinary in honour of
sister, she was off, leaving all below in confusion and noise again; the bo=
ys begging
for toasted cheese, her father calling out for his rum and water, and Rebec=
ca
never where she ought to be.
There was nothing to raise her spirits in the
confined and scantily furnished chamber that she was to share with Susan. T=
he
smallness of the rooms above and below, indeed, and the narrowness of the
passage and staircase, struck her beyond her imagination. She soon learned =
to
think with respect of her own little attic at Mansfield Park, in that house=
reckoned
too small for anybody's comfort.
Could Sir Thomas have seen all his niece's
feelings, when she wrote her first letter to her aunt, he would not have
despaired; for though a good night's rest, a pleasant morning, the hope of =
soon
seeing William again, and the comparatively quiet state of the house, from =
Tom
and Charles being gone to school, Sam on some project of his own, and her
father on his usual lounges, enabled her to express herself cheerfully on t=
he subject
of home, there were still, to her own perfect consciousness, many drawbacks
suppressed. Could he have seen only half that she felt before the end of a
week, he would have thought Mr. Crawford sure of her, and been delighted wi=
th
his own sagacity.
Before the week ended, it was all disappointme=
nt.
In the first place, William was gone. The Thrush had had her orders, the wi=
nd
had changed, and he was sailed within four days from their reaching Portsmo=
uth;
and during those days she had seen him only twice, in a short and hurried w=
ay,
when he had come ashore on duty. There had been no free conversation, no wa=
lk
on the ramparts, no visit to the dockyard, no acquaintance with the Thrush,
nothing of all that they had planned and depended on. Everything in that
quarter failed her, except William's affection. His last thought on leaving
home was for her. He stepped back again to the door to say, "Take care=
of
Fanny, mother. She is tender, and not used to rough it like the rest of us.=
I
charge you, take care of Fanny."
William was gone: and the home he had left her=
in
was, Fanny could not conceal it from herself, in almost every respect the v=
ery
reverse of what she could have wished. It was the abode of noise, disorder,=
and
impropriety. Nobody was in their right place, nothing was done as it ought =
to
be. She could not respect her parents as she had hoped. On her father, her
confidence had not been sanguine, but he was more negligent of his family, =
his
habits were worse, and his manners coarser, than she had been prepared for.=
He
did not want abilities but he had no curiosity, and no information beyond h=
is
profession; he read only the newspaper and the navy-list; he talked only of=
the
dockyard, the harbour, Spithead, and the Motherbank; he swore and he drank,=
he
was dirty and gross. She had never been able to recall anything approaching=
to
tenderness in his former treatment of herself. There had remained only a
general impression of roughness and loudness; and now he scarcely ever noti=
ced
her, but to make her the object of a coarse joke.
Her disappointment in her mother was greater:
there she had hoped much, and found almost nothing. Every flattering scheme=
of
being of consequence to her soon fell to the ground. Mrs. Price was not unk=
ind;
but, instead of gaining on her affection and confidence, and becoming more =
and
more dear, her daughter never met with greater kindness from her than on the
first day of her arrival. The instinct of nature was soon satisfied, and Mr=
s.
Price's attachment had no other source. Her heart and her time were already
quite full; she had neither leisure nor affection to bestow on Fanny. Her
daughters never had been much to her. She was fond of her sons, especially =
of
William, but Betsey was the first of her girls whom she had ever much regar=
ded.
To her she was most injudiciously indulgent. William was her pride; Betsey =
her
darling; and John, Richard, Sam, Tom, and Charles occupied all the rest of =
her maternal
solicitude, alternately her worries and her comforts. These shared her hear=
t:
her time was given chiefly to her house and her servants. Her days were spe=
nt
in a kind of slow bustle; all was busy without getting on, always behindhand
and lamenting it, without altering her ways; wishing to be an economist,
without contrivance or regularity; dissatisfied with her servants, without
skill to make them better, and whether helping, or reprimanding, or indulgi=
ng
them, without any power of engaging their respect.
Of her two sisters, Mrs. Price very much more
resembled Lady Bertram than Mrs. Norris. She was a manager by necessity,
without any of Mrs. Norris's inclination for it, or any of her activity. Her
disposition was naturally easy and indolent, like Lady Bertram's; and a
situation of similar affluence and do-nothingness would have been much more
suited to her capacity than the exertions and self-denials of the one which=
her
imprudent marriage had placed her in. She might have made just as good a wo=
man
of consequence as Lady Bertram, but Mrs. Norris would have been a more
respectable mother of nine children on a small income.
Much of all this Fanny could not but be sensib=
le
of. She might scruple to make use of the words, but she must and did feel t=
hat
her mother was a partial, ill-judging parent, a dawdle, a slattern, who nei=
ther
taught nor restrained her children, whose house was the scene of mismanagem=
ent and
discomfort from beginning to end, and who had no talent, no conversation, no
affection towards herself; no curiosity to know her better, no desire of her
friendship, and no inclination for her company that could lessen her sense =
of
such feelings.
Fanny was very anxious to be useful, and not to
appear above her home, or in any way disqualified or disinclined, by her
foreign education, from contributing her help to its comforts, and therefore
set about working for Sam immediately; and by working early and late, with =
perseverance
and great despatch, did so much that the boy was shipped off at last, with =
more
than half his linen ready. She had great pleasure in feeling her usefulness,
but could not conceive how they would have managed without her.
Sam, loud and overbearing as he was, she rather
regretted when he went, for he was clever and intelligent, and glad to be
employed in any errand in the town; and though spurning the remonstrances of
Susan, given as they were, though very reasonable in themselves, with ill-t=
imed
and powerless warmth, was beginning to be influenced by Fanny's services and
gentle persuasions; and she found that the best of the three younger ones w=
as
gone in him: Tom and Charles being at least as many years as they were his
juniors distant from that age of feeling and reason, which might suggest the
expediency of making friends, and of endeavouring to be less disagreeable.
Their sister soon despaired of making the smallest impression on them; they
were quite untameable by any means of address which she had spirits or time=
to
attempt. Every afternoon brought a return of their riotous games all over t=
he
house; and she very early learned to sigh at the approach of Saturday's
constant half-holiday.
Betsey, too, a spoiled child, trained up to th=
ink
the alphabet her greatest enemy, left to be with the servants at her pleasu=
re,
and then encouraged to report any evil of them, she was almost as ready to =
despair
of being able to love or assist; and of Susan's temper she had many doubts.=
Her
continual disagreements with her mother, her rash squabbles with Tom and
Charles, and petulance with Betsey, were at least so distressing to Fanny t=
hat,
though admitting they were by no means without provocation, she feared the
disposition that could push them to such length must be far from amiable, a=
nd
from affording any repose to herself.
Such was the home which was to put Mansfield o=
ut
of her head, and teach her to think of her cousin Edmund with moderated
feelings. On the contrary, she could think of nothing but Mansfield, its
beloved inmates, its happy ways. Everything where she now was in full contr=
ast
to it. The elegance, propriety, regularity, harmony, and perhaps, above all,
the peace and tranquillity of Mansfield, were brought to her remembrance ev=
ery
hour of the day, by the prevalence of everything opposite to them here.
The living in incessant noise was, to a frame =
and
temper delicate and nervous like Fanny's, an evil which no superadded elega=
nce
or harmony could have entirely atoned for. It was the greatest misery of al=
l.
At Mansfield, no sounds of contention, no raised voice, no abrupt bursts, no
tread of violence, was ever heard; all proceeded in a regular course of
cheerful orderliness; everybody had their due importance; everybody's feeli=
ngs
were consulted. If tenderness could be ever supposed wanting, good sense and
good breeding supplied its place; and as to the little irritations sometimes
introduced by aunt Norris, they were short, they were trifling, they were a=
s a
drop of water to the ocean, compared with the ceaseless tumult of her prese=
nt
abode. Here everybody was noisy, every voice was loud (excepting, perhaps, =
her
mother's, which resembled the soft monotony of Lady Bertram's, only worn in=
to
fretfulness). Whatever was wanted was hallooed for, and the servants halloo=
ed
out their excuses from the kitchen. The doors were in constant banging, the=
stairs
were never at rest, nothing was done without a clatter, nobody sat still, a=
nd
nobody could command attention when they spoke.
In a review of the two houses, as they appeare=
d to
her before the end of a week, Fanny was tempted to apply to them Dr. Johnso=
n's
celebrated judgment as to matrimony and celibacy, and say, that though
Mansfield Park might have some pains, Portsmouth could have no pleasures. <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'>
Fanny was right enough in not expecting to hear
from Miss Crawford now at the rapid rate in which their correspondence had
begun; Mary's next letter was after a decidedly longer interval than the la=
st,
but she was not right in supposing that such an interval would be felt a gr=
eat relief
to herself. Here was another strange revolution of mind! She was really gla=
d to
receive the letter when it did come. In her present exile from good society,
and distance from everything that had been wont to interest her, a letter f=
rom
one belonging to the set where her heart lived, written with affection, and
some degree of elegance, was thoroughly acceptable. The usual plea of
increasing engagements was made in excuse for not having written to her
earlier; "And now that I have begun," she continued, "my let=
ter
will not be worth your reading, for there will be no little offering of lov=
e at
the end, no three or four lines passionnees from the most devoted H. C. in =
the
world, for Henry is in Norfolk; business called him to Everingham ten days =
ago,
or perhaps he only pretended to call, for the sake of being travelling at t=
he
same time that you were. But there he is, and, by the bye, his absence may
sufficiently account for any remissness of his sister's in writing, for the=
re
has been no 'Well, Mary, when do you write to Fanny? Is not it time for you=
to
write to Fanny?' to spur me on. At last, after various attempts at meeting,=
I
have seen your cousins, 'dear Julia and dearest Mrs. Rushworth'; they found=
me
at home yesterday, and we were glad to see each other again. We seemed very
glad to see each other, and I do really think we were a little. We had a va=
st
deal to say. Shall I tell you how Mrs. Rushworth looked when your name was
mentioned? I did not use to think her wanting in self-possession, but she h=
ad
not quite enough for the demands of yesterday. Upon the whole, Julia was in=
the
best looks of the two, at least after you were spoken of. There was no reco=
vering
the complexion from the moment that I spoke of 'Fanny,' and spoke of her as=
a
sister should. But Mrs. Rushworth's day of good looks will come; we have ca=
rds
for her first party on the 28th. Then she will be in beauty, for she will o=
pen
one of the best houses in Wimpole Street. I was in it two years ago, when it
was Lady Lascelle's, and prefer it to almost any I know in London, and
certainly she will then feel, to use a vulgar phrase, that she has got her
pennyworth for her penny. Henry could not have afforded her such a house. I
hope she will recollect it, and be satisfied, as well as she may, with movi=
ng
the queen of a palace, though the king may appear best in the background; a=
nd
as I have no desire to tease her, I shall never force your name upon her ag=
ain.
She will grow sober by degrees. From all that I hear and guess, Baron
Wildenheim's attentions to Julia continue, but I do not know that he has an=
y serious
encouragement. She ought to do better. A poor honourable is no catch, and I
cannot imagine any liking in the case, for take away his rants, and the poor
baron has nothing. What a difference a vowel makes! If his rents were but e=
qual
to his rants! Your cousin Edmund moves slowly; detained, perchance, by pari=
sh
duties. There may be some old woman at Thornton Lacey to be converted. I am
unwilling to fancy myself neglected for a young one. Adieu! my dear sweet
Fanny, this is a long letter from London: write me a pretty one in reply to=
gladden
Henry's eyes, when he comes back, and send me an account of all the dashing
young captains whom you disdain for his sake."
There was great food for meditation in this
letter, and chiefly for unpleasant meditation; and yet, with all the uneasi=
ness
it supplied, it connected her with the absent, it told her of people and th=
ings
about whom she had never felt so much curiosity as now, and she would have =
been
glad to have been sure of such a letter every week. Her correspondence with=
her
aunt Bertram was her only concern of higher interest.
As for any society in Portsmouth, that could at
all make amends for deficiencies at home, there were none within the circle=
of
her father's and mother's acquaintance to afford her the smallest satisfact=
ion:
she saw nobody in whose favour she could wish to overcome her own shyness a=
nd
reserve. The men appeared to her all coarse, the women all pert, everybody
underbred; and she gave as little contentment as she received from introduc=
tions
either to old or new acquaintance. The young ladies who approached her at f=
irst
with some respect, in consideration of her coming from a baronet's family, =
were
soon offended by what they termed "airs"; for, as she neither pla=
yed
on the pianoforte nor wore fine pelisses, they could, on farther observatio=
n,
admit no right of superiority.
The first solid consolation which Fanny receiv=
ed
for the evils of home, the first which her judgment could entirely approve,=
and
which gave any promise of durability, was in a better knowledge of Susan, a=
nd a
hope of being of service to her. Susan had always behaved pleasantly to
herself, but the determined character of her general manners had astonished=
and
alarmed her, and it was at least a fortnight before she began to understand=
a
disposition so totally different from her own. Susan saw that much was wron=
g at
home, and wanted to set it right. That a girl of fourteen, acting only on h=
er
own unassisted reason, should err in the method of reform, was not wonderfu=
l;
and Fanny soon became more disposed to admire the natural light of the mind
which could so early distinguish justly, than to censure severely the fault=
s of
conduct to which it led. Susan was only acting on the same truths, and purs=
uing
the same system, which her own judgment acknowledged, but which her more su=
pine
and yielding temper would have shrunk from asserting. Susan tried to be use=
ful,
where she could only have gone away and cried; and that Susan was useful she
could perceive; that things, bad as they were, would have been worse but for
such interposition, and that both her mother and Betsey were restrained from
some excesses of very offensive indulgence and vulgarity.
In every argument with her mother, Susan had in
point of reason the advantage, and never was there any maternal tenderness =
to
buy her off. The blind fondness which was for ever producing evil around her
she had never known. There was no gratitude for affection past or present t=
o make
her better bear with its excesses to the others.
All this became gradually evident, and gradual=
ly
placed Susan before her sister as an object of mingled compassion and respe=
ct.
That her manner was wrong, however, at times very wrong, her measures often
ill-chosen and ill-timed, and her looks and language very often indefensibl=
e,
Fanny could not cease to feel; but she began to hope they might be rectifie=
d. Susan,
she found, looked up to her and wished for her good opinion; and new as
anything like an office of authority was to Fanny, new as it was to imagine
herself capable of guiding or informing any one, she did resolve to give
occasional hints to Susan, and endeavour to exercise for her advantage the
juster notions of what was due to everybody, and what would be wisest for
herself, which her own more favoured education had fixed in her.
Her influence, or at least the consciousness a=
nd
use of it, originated in an act of kindness by Susan, which, after many
hesitations of delicacy, she at last worked herself up to. It had very early
occurred to her that a small sum of money might, perhaps, restore peace for=
ever
on the sore subject of the silver knife, canvassed as it now was continuall=
y,
and the riches which she was in possession of herself, her uncle having giv=
en
her 10 pounds at parting, made her as able as she was willing to be generou=
s.
But she was so wholly unused to confer favours, except on the very poor, so
unpractised in removing evils, or bestowing kindnesses among her equals, an=
d so
fearful of appearing to elevate herself as a great lady at home, that it to=
ok
some time to determine that it would not be unbecoming in her to make such a
present. It was made, however, at last: a silver knife was bought for Betse=
y,
and accepted with great delight, its newness giving it every advantage over=
the
other that could be desired; Susan was established in the full possession of
her own, Betsey handsomely declaring that now she had got one so much prett=
ier
herself, she should never want that again; and no reproach seemed conveyed =
to
the equally satisfied mother, which Fanny had almost feared to be impossibl=
e.
The deed thoroughly answered: a source of domestic altercation was entirely
done away, and it was the means of opening Susan's heart to her, and giving=
her
something more to love and be interested in. Susan shewed that she had
delicacy: pleased as she was to be mistress of property which she had been
struggling for at least two years, she yet feared that her sister's judgment
had been against her, and that a reproof was designed her for having so
struggled as to make the purchase necessary for the tranquillity of the hou=
se.
Her temper was open. She acknowledged her fear=
s,
blamed herself for having contended so warmly; and from that hour Fanny,
understanding the worth of her disposition and perceiving how fully she was
inclined to seek her good opinion and refer to her judgment, began to feel
again the blessing of affection, and to entertain the hope of being useful =
to a
mind so much in need of help, and so much deserving it. She gave advice, ad=
vice
too sound to be resisted by a good understanding, and given so mildly and
considerately as not to irritate an imperfect temper, and she had the happi=
ness
of observing its good effects not unfrequently. More was not expected by one
who, while seeing all the obligation and expediency of submission and
forbearance, saw also with sympathetic acuteness of feeling all that must be
hourly grating to a girl like Susan. Her greatest wonder on the subject soon
became--not that Susan should have been provoked into disrespect and impati=
ence
against her better knowledge--but that so much better knowledge, so many go=
od notions
should have been hers at all; and that, brought up in the midst of negligen=
ce
and error, she should have formed such proper opinions of what ought to be;
she, who had had no cousin Edmund to direct her thoughts or fix her princip=
les.
The intimacy thus begun between them was a
material advantage to each. By sitting together upstairs, they avoided a gr=
eat
deal of the disturbance of the house; Fanny had peace, and Susan learned to
think it no misfortune to be quietly employed. They sat without a fire; but=
that
was a privation familiar even to Fanny, and she suffered the less because
reminded by it of the East room. It was the only point of resemblance. In
space, light, furniture, and prospect, there was nothing alike in the two
apartments; and she often heaved a sigh at the remembrance of all her books=
and
boxes, and various comforts there. By degrees the girls came to spend the c=
hief
of the morning upstairs, at first only in working and talking, but after a =
few
days, the remembrance of the said books grew so potent and stimulative that
Fanny found it impossible not to try for books again. There were none in her
father's house; but wealth is luxurious and daring, and some of hers found =
its way
to a circulating library. She became a subscriber; amazed at being anything=
in
propria persona, amazed at her own doings in every way, to be a renter, a
chuser of books! And to be having any one's improvement in view in her choi=
ce!
But so it was. Susan had read nothing, and Fanny longed to give her a share=
in
her own first pleasures, and inspire a taste for the biography and poetry w=
hich
she delighted in herself.
In this occupation she hoped, moreover, to bury
some of the recollections of Mansfield, which were too apt to seize her min=
d if
her fingers only were busy; and, especially at this time, hoped it might be
useful in diverting her thoughts from pursuing Edmund to London, whither, on
the authority of her aunt's last letter, she knew he was gone. She had no d=
oubt
of what would ensue. The promised notification was hanging over her head. T=
he
postman's knock within the neighbourhood was beginning to bring its daily
terrors, and if reading could banish the idea for even half an hour, it was
something gained.
A week was gone since Edmund might be supposed=
in
town, and Fanny had heard nothing of him. There were three different
conclusions to be drawn from his silence, between which her mind was in
fluctuation; each of them at times being held the most probable. Either his
going had been again delayed, or he had yet procured no opportunity of seei=
ng
Miss Crawford alone, or he was too happy for letter-writing!
One morning, about this time, Fanny having now
been nearly four weeks from Mansfield, a point which she never failed to th=
ink
over and calculate every day, as she and Susan were preparing to remove, as=
usual,
upstairs, they were stopped by the knock of a visitor, whom they felt they
could not avoid, from Rebecca's alertness in going to the door, a duty which
always interested her beyond any other.
It was a gentleman's voice; it was a voice that
Fanny was just turning pale about, when Mr. Crawford walked into the room. =
Good sense, like hers, will always act when re=
ally
called upon; and she found that she had been able to name him to her mother,
and recall her remembrance of the name, as that of "William's
friend," though she could not previously have believed herself capable=
of
uttering a syllable at such a moment. The consciousness of his being known
there only as William's friend was some support. Having introduced him,
however, and being all reseated, the terrors that occurred of what this vis=
it
might lead to were overpowering, and she fancied herself on the point of fa=
inting
away.
While trying to keep herself alive, their visi=
tor,
who had at first approached her with as animated a countenance as ever, was
wisely and kindly keeping his eyes away, and giving her time to recover, wh=
ile
he devoted himself entirely to her mother, addressing her, and attending to=
her
with the utmost politeness and propriety, at the same time with a degree of
friendliness, of interest at least, which was making his manner perfect.
Mrs. Price's manners were also at their best.
Warmed by the sight of such a friend to her son, and regulated by the wish =
of
appearing to advantage before him, she was overflowing with gratitude--artl=
ess,
maternal gratitude--which could not be unpleasing. Mr. Price was out, which=
she
regretted very much. Fanny was just recovered enough to feel that she could=
not
regret it; for to her many other sources of uneasiness was added the severe=
one
of shame for the home in which he found her. She might scold herself for the
weakness, but there was no scolding it away. She was ashamed, and she would
have been yet more ashamed of her father than of all the rest.
They talked of William, a subject on which Mrs.
Price could never tire; and Mr. Crawford was as warm in his commendation as
even her heart could wish. She felt that she had never seen so agreeable a =
man
in her life; and was only astonished to find that, so great and so agreeabl=
e as
he was, he should be come down to Portsmouth neither on a visit to the port=
-admiral,
nor the commissioner, nor yet with the intention of going over to the islan=
d,
nor of seeing the dockyard. Nothing of all that she had been used to think =
of
as the proof of importance, or the employment of wealth, had brought him to
Portsmouth. He had reached it late the night before, was come for a day or =
two,
was staying at the Crown, had accidentally met with a navy officer or two of
his acquaintance since his arrival, but had no object of that kind in comin=
g.
By the time he had given all this information,=
it
was not unreasonable to suppose that Fanny might be looked at and spoken to;
and she was tolerably able to bear his eye, and hear that he had spent half=
an
hour with his sister the evening before his leaving London; that she had se=
nt
her best and kindest love, but had had no time for writing; that he thought
himself lucky in seeing Mary for even half an hour, having spent scarcely
twenty-four hours in London, after his return from Norfolk, before he set o=
ff
again; that her cousin Edmund was in town, had been in town, he understood,=
a
few days; that he had not seen him himself, but that he was well, had left =
them
all well at Mansfield, and was to dine, as yesterday, with the Frasers.
Fanny listened collectedly, even to the
last-mentioned circumstance; nay, it seemed a relief to her worn mind to be=
at
any certainty; and the words, "then by this time it is all settled,&qu=
ot;
passed internally, without more evidence of emotion than a faint blush.
After talking a little more about Mansfield, a
subject in which her interest was most apparent, Crawford began to hint at =
the
expediency of an early walk. "It was a lovely morning, and at that sea=
son
of the year a fine morning so often turned off, that it was wisest for
everybody not to delay their exercise"; and such hints producing nothi=
ng,
he soon proceeded to a positive recommendation to Mrs. Price and her daught=
ers
to take their walk without loss of time. Now they came to an understanding.
Mrs. Price, it appeared, scarcely ever stirred out of doors, except of a
Sunday; she owned she could seldom, with her large family, find time for a
walk. "Would she not, then, persuade her daughters to take advantage of
such weather, and allow him the pleasure of attending them?" Mrs. Price
was greatly obliged and very complying. "Her daughters were very much
confined; Portsmouth was a sad place; they did not often get out; and she k=
new
they had some errands in the town, which they would be very glad to do.&quo=
t;
And the consequence was, that Fanny, strange as it was--strange, awkward, a=
nd
distressing--found herself and Susan, within ten minutes, walking towards t=
he
High Street with Mr. Crawford.
It was soon pain upon pain, confusion upon
confusion; for they were hardly in the High Street before they met her fath=
er,
whose appearance was not the better from its being Saturday. He stopt; and,=
ungentlemanlike
as he looked, Fanny was obliged to introduce him to Mr. Crawford. She could=
not
have a doubt of the manner in which Mr. Crawford must be struck. He must be
ashamed and disgusted altogether. He must soon give her up, and cease to ha=
ve
the smallest inclination for the match; and yet, though she had been so much
wanting his affection to be cured, this was a sort of cure that would be al=
most
as bad as the complaint; and I believe there is scarcely a young lady in the
United Kingdoms who would not rather put up with the misfortune of being so=
ught
by a clever, agreeable man, than have him driven away by the vulgarity of h=
er
nearest relations.
Mr. Crawford probably could not regard his fut=
ure
father-in-law with any idea of taking him for a model in dress; but (as Fan=
ny
instantly, and to her great relief, discerned) her father was a very differ=
ent
man, a very different Mr. Price in his behaviour to this most highly respec=
ted stranger,
from what he was in his own family at home. His manners now, though not
polished, were more than passable: they were grateful, animated, manly; his
expressions were those of an attached father, and a sensible man; his loud
tones did very well in the open air, and there was not a single oath to be
heard. Such was his instinctive compliment to the good manners of Mr. Crawf=
ord;
and, be the consequence what it might, Fanny's immediate feelings were
infinitely soothed.
The conclusion of the two gentlemen's civiliti=
es
was an offer of Mr. Price's to take Mr. Crawford into the dockyard, which M=
r.
Crawford, desirous of accepting as a favour what was intended as such, thou=
gh he
had seen the dockyard again and again, and hoping to be so much the longer =
with
Fanny, was very gratefully disposed to avail himself of, if the Miss Prices
were not afraid of the fatigue; and as it was somehow or other ascertained,=
or
inferred, or at least acted upon, that they were not at all afraid, to the
dockyard they were all to go; and but for Mr. Crawford, Mr. Price would have
turned thither directly, without the smallest consideration for his daughte=
rs'
errands in the High Street. He took care, however, that they should be allo=
wed
to go to the shops they came out expressly to visit; and it did not delay t=
hem
long, for Fanny could so little bear to excite impatience, or be waited for,
that before the gentlemen, as they stood at the door, could do more than be=
gin
upon the last naval regulations, or settle the number of three-deckers now =
in commission,
their companions were ready to proceed.
They were then to set forward for the dockyard=
at
once, and the walk would have been conducted--according to Mr. Crawford's
opinion--in a singular manner, had Mr. Price been allowed the entire regula=
tion
of it, as the two girls, he found, would have been left to follow, and keep=
up with
them or not, as they could, while they walked on together at their own hasty
pace. He was able to introduce some improvement occasionally, though by no
means to the extent he wished; he absolutely would not walk away from them;=
and
at any crossing or any crowd, when Mr. Price was only calling out, "Co=
me,
girls; come, Fan; come, Sue, take care of yourselves; keep a sharp
lookout!" he would give them his particular attendance.
Once fairly in the dockyard, he began to reckon
upon some happy intercourse with Fanny, as they were very soon joined by a
brother lounger of Mr. Price's, who was come to take his daily survey of ho=
w things
went on, and who must prove a far more worthy companion than himself; and a=
fter
a time the two officers seemed very well satisfied going about together, and
discussing matters of equal and never-failing interest, while the young peo=
ple
sat down upon some timbers in the yard, or found a seat on board a vessel in
the stocks which they all went to look at. Fanny was most conveniently in w=
ant
of rest. Crawford could not have wished her more fatigued or more ready to =
sit
down; but he could have wished her sister away. A quick-looking girl of Sus=
an's
age was the very worst third in the world: totally different from Lady Bert=
ram,
all eyes and ears; and there was no introducing the main point before her. =
He
must content himself with being only generally agreeable, and letting Susan
have her share of entertainment, with the indulgence, now and then, of a lo=
ok
or hint for the better-informed and conscious Fanny. Norfolk was what he had
mostly to talk of: there he had been some time, and everything there was ri=
sing
in importance from his present schemes. Such a man could come from no place=
, no
society, without importing something to amuse; his journeys and his
acquaintance were all of use, and Susan was entertained in a way quite new =
to
her. For Fanny, somewhat more was related than the accidental agreeableness=
of
the parties he had been in. For her approbation, the particular reason of h=
is
going into Norfolk at all, at this unusual time of year, was given. It had =
been
real business, relative to the renewal of a lease in which the welfare of a
large and--he believed--industrious family was at stake. He had suspected h=
is
agent of some underhand dealing; of meaning to bias him against the deservi=
ng;
and he had determined to go himself, and thoroughly investigate the merits =
of
the case. He had gone, had done even more good than he had foreseen, had be=
en
useful to more than his first plan had comprehended, and was now able to
congratulate himself upon it, and to feel that in performing a duty, he had
secured agreeable recollections for his own mind. He had introduced himself=
to
some tenants whom he had never seen before; he had begun making acquaintanc=
e with
cottages whose very existence, though on his own estate, had been hitherto
unknown to him. This was aimed, and well aimed, at Fanny. It was pleasing to
hear him speak so properly; here he had been acting as he ought to do. To be
the friend of the poor and the oppressed! Nothing could be more grateful to
her; and she was on the point of giving him an approving look, when it was =
all
frightened off by his adding a something too pointed of his hoping soon to =
have
an assistant, a friend, a guide in every plan of utility or charity for
Everingham: a somebody that would make Everingham and all about it a dearer
object than it had ever been yet.
She turned away, and wished he would not say s=
uch
things. She was willing to allow he might have more good qualities than she=
had
been wont to suppose. She began to feel the possibility of his turning out =
well
at last; but he was and must ever be completely unsuited to her, and ought =
not
to think of her.
He perceived that enough had been said of
Everingham, and that it would be as well to talk of something else, and tur=
ned
to Mansfield. He could not have chosen better; that was a topic to bring ba=
ck
her attention and her looks almost instantly. It was a real indulgence to h=
er
to hear or to speak of Mansfield. Now so long divided from everybody who kn=
ew
the place, she felt it quite the voice of a friend when he mentioned it, and
led the way to her fond exclamations in praise of its beauties and comforts,
and by his honourable tribute to its inhabitants allowed her to gratify her=
own
heart in the warmest eulogium, in speaking of her uncle as all that was cle=
ver
and good, and her aunt as having the sweetest of all sweet tempers.
He had a great attachment to Mansfield himself=
; he
said so; he looked forward with the hope of spending much, very much, of his
time there; always there, or in the neighbourhood. He particularly built up=
on a
very happy summer and autumn there this year; he felt that it would be so: =
he depended
upon it; a summer and autumn infinitely superior to the last. As animated, =
as
diversified, as social, but with circumstances of superiority undescribable=
.
"Mansfield, Sotherton, Thornton Lacey,&qu=
ot;
he continued; "what a society will be comprised in those houses! And at
Michaelmas, perhaps, a fourth may be added: some small hunting-box in the
vicinity of everything so dear; for as to any partnership in Thornton Lacey=
, as
Edmund Bertram once good-humouredly proposed, I hope I foresee two objectio=
ns:
two fair, excellent, irresistible objections to that plan."
Fanny was doubly silenced here; though when the
moment was passed, could regret that she had not forced herself into the
acknowledged comprehension of one half of his meaning, and encouraged him to
say something more of his sister and Edmund. It was a subject which she mus=
t learn
to speak of, and the weakness that shrunk from it would soon be quite
unpardonable.
When Mr. Price and his friend had seen all that
they wished, or had time for, the others were ready to return; and in the
course of their walk back, Mr. Crawford contrived a minute's privacy for
telling Fanny that his only business in Portsmouth was to see her; that he =
was
come down for a couple of days on her account, and hers only, and because he
could not endure a longer total separation. She was sorry, really sorry; an=
d yet
in spite of this and the two or three other things which she wished he had =
not
said, she thought him altogether improved since she had seen him; he was mu=
ch
more gentle, obliging, and attentive to other people's feelings than he had
ever been at Mansfield; she had never seen him so agreeable--so near being
agreeable; his behaviour to her father could not offend, and there was
something particularly kind and proper in the notice he took of Susan. He w=
as
decidedly improved. She wished the next day over, she wished he had come on=
ly
for one day; but it was not so very bad as she would have expected: the
pleasure of talking of Mansfield was so very great!
Before they parted, she had to thank him for
another pleasure, and one of no trivial kind. Her father asked him to do th=
em
the honour of taking his mutton with them, and Fanny had time for only one
thrill of horror, before he declared himself prevented by a prior engagemen=
t.
He was engaged to dinner already both for that day and the next; he had met=
with
some acquaintance at the Crown who would not be denied; he should have the
honour, however, of waiting on them again on the morrow, etc., and so they
parted--Fanny in a state of actual felicity from escaping so horrible an ev=
il!
To have had him join their family dinner-party,
and see all their deficiencies, would have been dreadful! Rebecca's cookery=
and
Rebecca's waiting, and Betsey's eating at table without restraint, and pull=
ing everything
about as she chose, were what Fanny herself was not yet enough inured to for
her often to make a tolerable meal. She was nice only from natural delicacy,
but he had been brought up in a school of luxury and epicurism.
The Prices were just setting off for church the
next day when Mr. Crawford appeared again. He came, not to stop, but to join
them; he was asked to go with them to the Garrison chapel, which was exactly
what he had intended, and they all walked thither together.
The family were now seen to advantage. Nature =
had
given them no inconsiderable share of beauty, and every Sunday dressed them=
in
their cleanest skins and best attire. Sunday always brought this comfort to=
Fanny,
and on this Sunday she felt it more than ever. Her poor mother now did not =
look
so very unworthy of being Lady Bertram's sister as she was but too apt to l=
ook.
It often grieved her to the heart to think of the contrast between them; to
think that where nature had made so little difference, circumstances should
have made so much, and that her mother, as handsome as Lady Bertram, and so=
me
years her junior, should have an appearance so much more worn and faded, so
comfortless, so slatternly, so shabby. But Sunday made her a very creditable
and tolerably cheerful-looking Mrs. Price, coming abroad with a fine family=
of children,
feeling a little respite of her weekly cares, and only discomposed if she s=
aw
her boys run into danger, or Rebecca pass by with a flower in her hat.
In chapel they were obliged to divide, but Mr.
Crawford took care not to be divided from the female branch; and after chap=
el
he still continued with them, and made one in the family party on the rampa=
rts.
Mrs. Price took her weekly walk on the ramparts
every fine Sunday throughout the year, always going directly after morning
service and staying till dinner-time. It was her public place: there she met
her acquaintance, heard a little news, talked over the badness of the Ports=
mouth
servants, and wound up her spirits for the six days ensuing.
Thither they now went; Mr. Crawford most happy=
to
consider the Miss Prices as his peculiar charge; and before they had been t=
here
long, somehow or other, there was no saying how, Fanny could not have belie=
ved it,
but he was walking between them with an arm of each under his, and she did =
not
know how to prevent or put an end to it. It made her uncomfortable for a ti=
me,
but yet there were enjoyments in the day and in the view which would be fel=
t.
The day was uncommonly lovely. It was really
March; but it was April in its mild air, brisk soft wind, and bright sun,
occasionally clouded for a minute; and everything looked so beautiful under=
the
influence of such a sky, the effects of the shadows pursuing each other on =
the
ships at Spithead and the island beyond, with the ever-varying hues of the =
sea,
now at high water, dancing in its glee and dashing against the ramparts wit=
h so
fine a sound, produced altogether such a combination of charms for Fanny, as
made her gradually almost careless of the circumstances under which she felt
them. Nay, had she been without his arm, she would soon have known that she
needed it, for she wanted strength for a two hours' saunter of this kind,
coming, as it generally did, upon a week's previous inactivity. Fanny was
beginning to feel the effect of being debarred from her usual regular exerc=
ise;
she had lost ground as to health since her being in Portsmouth; and but for=
Mr.
Crawford and the beauty of the weather would soon have been knocked up now.=
The loveliness of the day, and of the view, he
felt like herself. They often stopt with the same sentiment and taste, lean=
ing
against the wall, some minutes, to look and admire; and considering he was =
not
Edmund, Fanny could not but allow that he was sufficiently open to the char=
ms of
nature, and very well able to express his admiration. She had a few tender
reveries now and then, which he could sometimes take advantage of to look in
her face without detection; and the result of these looks was, that though =
as
bewitching as ever, her face was less blooming than it ought to be. She said
she was very well, and did not like to be supposed otherwise; but take it a=
ll
in all, he was convinced that her present residence could not be comfortabl=
e,
and therefore could not be salutary for her, and he was growing anxious for=
her
being again at Mansfield, where her own happiness, and his in seeing her, m=
ust
be so much greater.
"You have been here a month, I think?&quo=
t;
said he.
"No; not quite a month. It is only four w=
eeks
to-morrow since I left Mansfield."
"You are a most accurate and honest recko=
ner.
I should call that a month."
"I did not arrive here till Tuesday
evening."
"And it is to be a two months' visit, is
not?"
"Yes. My uncle talked of two months. I
suppose it will not be less."
"And how are you to be conveyed back agai=
n?
Who comes for you?"
"I do not know. I have heard nothing abou=
t it
yet from my aunt. Perhaps I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient=
for
me to be fetched exactly at the two months' end."
After a moment's reflection, Mr. Crawford repl=
ied,
"I know Mansfield, I know its way, I know its faults towards you. I kn=
ow
the danger of your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give wa=
y to
the imaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am aware that
you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle everything
for coming himself, or sending your aunt's maid for you, without involving =
the
slightest alteration of the arrangements which he may have laid down for the
next quarter of a year. This will not do. Two months is an ample allowance;=
I
should think six weeks quite enough. I am considering your sister's
health," said he, addressing himself to Susan, "which I think the
confinement of Portsmouth unfavourable to. She requires constant air and
exercise. When you know her as well as I do, I am sure you will agree that =
she
does, and that she ought never to be long banished from the free air and
liberty of the country. If, therefore" (turning again to Fanny), "=
;you
find yourself growing unwell, and any difficulties arise about your returni=
ng
to Mansfield, without waiting for the two months to be ended, that must not=
be
regarded as of any consequence, if you feel yourself at all less strong or =
comfortable
than usual, and will only let my sister know it, give her only the slightest
hint, she and I will immediately come down, and take you back to Mansfield.=
You
know the ease and the pleasure with which this would be done. You know all =
that
would be felt on the occasion."
Fanny thanked him, but tried to laugh it off. =
"I am perfectly serious," he replied,
"as you perfectly know. And I hope you will not be cruelly concealing =
any
tendency to indisposition. Indeed, you shall not; it shall not be in your
power; for so long only as you positively say, in every letter to Mary, 'I =
am
well,' and I know you cannot speak or write a falsehood, so long only shall=
you
be considered as well."
Fanny thanked him again, but was affected and
distressed to a degree that made it impossible for her to say much, or even=
to
be certain of what she ought to say. This was towards the close of their wa=
lk.
He attended them to the last, and left them only at the door of their own h=
ouse,
when he knew them to be going to dinner, and therefore pretended to be wait=
ed
for elsewhere.
"I wish you were not so tired," said=
he,
still detaining Fanny after all the others were in the house--"I wish I
left you in stronger health. Is there anything I can do for you in town? I =
have
half an idea of going into Norfolk again soon. I am not satisfied about
Maddison. I am sure he still means to impose on me if possible, and get a
cousin of his own into a certain mill, which I design for somebody else. I =
must
come to an understanding with him. I must make him know that I will not be
tricked on the south side of Everingham, any more than on the north: that I
will be master of my own property. I was not explicit enough with him befor=
e. The
mischief such a man does on an estate, both as to the credit of his employer
and the welfare of the poor, is inconceivable. I have a great mind to go ba=
ck
into Norfolk directly, and put everything at once on such a footing as cann=
ot
be afterwards swerved from. Maddison is a clever fellow; I do not wish to
displace him, provided he does not try to displace me; but it would be simp=
le
to be duped by a man who has no right of creditor to dupe me, and worse than
simple to let him give me a hard-hearted, griping fellow for a tenant, inst=
ead
of an honest man, to whom I have given half a promise already. Would it not=
be worse
than simple? Shall I go? Do you advise it?"
"I advise! You know very well what is
right."
"Yes. When you give me your opinion, I al=
ways
know what is right. Your judgment is my rule of right."
"Oh, no! do not say so. We have all a bet=
ter
guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be.
Good-bye; I wish you a pleasant journey to-morrow."
"Is there nothing I can do for you in
town?"
"Nothing; I am much obliged to you."=
"Have you no message for anybody?" <= o:p>
"My love to your sister, if you please; a=
nd
when you see my cousin, my cousin Edmund, I wish you would be so good as to=
say
that I suppose I shall soon hear from him."
"Certainly; and if he is lazy or negligen=
t, I
will write his excuses myself."
He could say no more, for Fanny would be no lo=
nger
detained. He pressed her hand, looked at her, and was gone. He went to while
away the next three hours as he could, with his other acquaintance, till the
best dinner that a capital inn afforded was ready for their enjoyment, and =
she
turned in to her more simple one immediately.
Their general fare bore a very different
character; and could he have suspected how many privations, besides that of
exercise, she endured in her father's house, he would have wondered that he=
r looks
were not much more affected than he found them. She was so little equal to
Rebecca's puddings and Rebecca's hashes, brought to table, as they all were,
with such accompaniments of half-cleaned plates, and not half-cleaned knive=
s and
forks, that she was very often constrained to defer her heartiest meal till=
she
could send her brothers in the evening for biscuits and buns. After being
nursed up at Mansfield, it was too late in the day to be hardened at
Portsmouth; and though Sir Thomas, had he known all, might have thought his
niece in the most promising way of being starved, both mind and body, into a
much juster value for Mr. Crawford's good company and good fortune, he would
probably have feared to push his experiment farther, lest she might die und=
er the
cure.
Fanny was out of spirits all the rest of the d=
ay.
Though tolerably secure of not seeing Mr. Crawford again, she could not help
being low. It was parting with somebody of the nature of a friend; and thou=
gh,
in one light, glad to have him gone, it seemed as if she was now deserted by
everybody; it was a sort of renewed separation from Mansfield; and she could
not think of his returning to town, and being frequently with Mary and Edmu=
nd,
without feelings so near akin to envy as made her hate herself for having t=
hem.
Her dejection had no abatement from anything
passing around her; a friend or two of her father's, as always happened if =
he
was not with them, spent the long, long evening there; and from six o'clock
till half-past nine, there was little intermission of noise or grog. She was
very low. The wonderful improvement which she still fancied in Mr. Crawford=
was
the nearest to administering comfort of anything within the current of her
thoughts. Not considering in how different a circle she had been just seeing
him, nor how much might be owing to contrast, she was quite persuaded of his
being astonishingly more gentle and regardful of others than formerly. And,=
if
in little things, must it not be so in great? So anxious for her health and
comfort, so very feeling as he now expressed himself, and really seemed, mi=
ght
not it be fairly supposed that he would not much longer persevere in a suit=
so
distressing to her?
It was presumed that Mr. Crawford was travelli=
ng
back, to London, on the morrow, for nothing more was seen of him at Mr.
Price's; and two days afterwards, it was a fact ascertained to Fanny by the
following letter from his sister, opened and read by her, on another accoun=
t,
with the most anxious curiosity:--
"I have to inform you, my dearest Fanny, =
that
Henry has been down to Portsmouth to see you; that he had a delightful walk
with you to the dockyard last Saturday, and one still more to be dwelt on t=
he
next day, on the ramparts; when the balmy air, the sparkling sea, and your
sweet looks and conversation were altogether in the most delicious harmony,=
and
afforded sensations which are to raise ecstasy even in retrospect. This, as
well as I understand, is to be the substance of my information. He makes me
write, but I do not know what else is to be communicated, except this said
visit to Portsmouth, and these two said walks, and his introduction to your
family, especially to a fair sister of yours, a fine girl of fifteen, who w=
as
of the party on the ramparts, taking her first lesson, I presume, in love. I
have not time for writing much, but it would be out of place if I had, for =
this
is to be a mere letter of business, penned for the purpose of conveying
necessary information, which could not be delayed without risk of evil. My
dear, dear Fanny, if I had you here, how I would talk to you! You should li=
sten
to me till you were tired, and advise me till you were still tired more; bu=
t it
is impossible to put a hundredth part of my great mind on paper, so I will =
abstain
altogether, and leave you to guess what you like. I have no news for you. Y=
ou
have politics, of course; and it would be too bad to plague you with the na=
mes
of people and parties that fill up my time. I ought to have sent you an acc=
ount
of your cousin's first party, but I was lazy, and now it is too long ago;
suffice it, that everything was just as it ought to be, in a style that any=
of
her connexions must have been gratified to witness, and that her own dress =
and
manners did her the greatest credit. My friend, Mrs. Fraser, is mad for suc=
h a
house, and it would not make me miserable. I go to Lady Stornaway after Eas=
ter;
she seems in high spirits, and very happy. I fancy Lord S. is very good-hum=
oured
and pleasant in his own family, and I do not think him so very ill-looking =
as I
did--at least, one sees many worse. He will not do by the side of your cous=
in
Edmund. Of the last-mentioned hero, what shall I say? If I avoided his name
entirely, it would look suspicious. I will say, then, that we have seen him=
two
or three times, and that my friends here are very much struck with his
gentlemanlike appearance. Mrs. Fraser (no bad judge) declares she knows but
three men in town who have so good a person, height, and air; and I must
confess, when he dined here the other day, there were none to compare with =
him,
and we were a party of sixteen. Luckily there is no distinction of dress no=
wadays
to tell tales, but--but--but Yours affectionately."
"I had almost forgot (it was Edmund's fau=
lt:
he gets into my head more than does me good) one very material thing I had =
to
say from Henry and myself--I mean about our taking you back into
Northamptonshire. My dear little creature, do not stay at Portsmouth to lose
your pretty looks. Those vile sea-breezes are the ruin of beauty and health=
. My
poor aunt always felt affected if within ten miles of the sea, which the
Admiral of course never believed, but I know it was so. I am at your servic=
e and
Henry's, at an hour's notice. I should like the scheme, and we would make a
little circuit, and shew you Everingham in our way, and perhaps you would n=
ot
mind passing through London, and seeing the inside of St. George's, Hanover
Square. Only keep your cousin Edmund from me at such a time: I should not l=
ike
to be tempted. What a long letter! one word more. Henry, I find, has some i=
dea
of going into Norfolk again upon some business that you approve; but this
cannot possibly be permitted before the middle of next week; that is, he ca=
nnot
anyhow be spared till after the 14th, for we have a party that evening. The
value of a man like Henry, on such an occasion, is what you can have no
conception of; so you must take it upon my word to be inestimable. He will =
see
the Rushworths, which own I am not sorry for--having a little curiosity, an=
d so
I think has he--though he will not acknowledge it."
This was a letter to be run through eagerly, t=
o be
read deliberately, to supply matter for much reflection, and to leave
everything in greater suspense than ever. The only certainty to be drawn fr=
om
it was, that nothing decisive had yet taken place. Edmund had not yet spoke=
n.
How Miss Crawford really felt, how she meant to act, or might act without or
against her meaning; whether his importance to her were quite what it had b=
een
before the last separation; whether, if lessened, it were likely to lessen
more, or to recover itself, were subjects for endless conjecture, and to be
thought of on that day and many days to come, without producing any conclus=
ion.
The idea that returned the oftenest was that Miss Crawford, after proving
herself cooled and staggered by a return to London habits, would yet prove
herself in the end too much attached to him to give him up. She would try t=
o be
more ambitious than her heart would allow. She would hesitate, she would te=
ase,
she would condition, she would require a great deal, but she would finally
accept.
This was Fanny's most frequent expectation. A
house in town--that, she thought, must be impossible. Yet there was no sayi=
ng
what Miss Crawford might not ask. The prospect for her cousin grew worse and
worse. The woman who could speak of him, and speak only of his appearance! =
What
an unworthy attachment! To be deriving support from the commendations of Mr=
s.
Fraser! She who had known him intimately half a year! Fanny was ashamed of =
her.
Those parts of the letter which related only to Mr. Crawford and herself,
touched her, in comparison, slightly. Whether Mr. Crawford went into Norfolk
before or after the 14th was certainly no concern of hers, though, everythi=
ng
considered, she thought he would go without delay. That Miss Crawford should
endeavour to secure a meeting between him and Mrs. Rushworth, was all in her
worst line of conduct, and grossly unkind and ill-judged; but she hoped he
would not be actuated by any such degrading curiosity. He acknowledged no s=
uch inducement,
and his sister ought to have given him credit for better feelings than her =
own.
She was yet more impatient for another letter =
from
town after receiving this than she had been before; and for a few days was =
so
unsettled by it altogether, by what had come, and what might come, that her
usual readings and conversation with Susan were much suspended. She could n=
ot
command her attention as she wished. If Mr. Crawford remembered her message=
to
her cousin, she thought it very likely, most likely, that he would write to=
her
at all events; it would be most consistent with his usual kindness; and till
she got rid of this idea, till it gradually wore off, by no letters appeari=
ng
in the course of three or four days more, she was in a most restless, anxio=
us
state.
At length, a something like composure succeede=
d.
Suspense must be submitted to, and must not be allowed to wear her out, and
make her useless. Time did something, her own exertions something more, and=
she
resumed her attentions to Susan, and again awakened the same interest in th=
em.
Susan was growing very fond of her, and though
without any of the early delight in books which had been so strong in Fanny,
with a disposition much less inclined to sedentary pursuits, or to informat=
ion
for information's sake, she had so strong a desire of not appearing ignoran=
t,
as, with a good clear understanding, made her a most attentive, profitable,
thankful pupil. Fanny was her oracle. Fanny's explanations and remarks were=
a
most important addition to every essay, or every chapter of history. What F=
anny
told her of former times dwelt more on her mind than the pages of Goldsmith;
and she paid her sister the compliment of preferring her style to that of a=
ny
printed author. The early habit of reading was wanting.
Their conversations, however, were not always =
on
subjects so high as history or morals. Others had their hour; and of lesser
matters, none returned so often, or remained so long between them, as Mansf=
ield
Park, a description of the people, the manners, the amusements, the ways of
Mansfield Park. Susan, who had an innate taste for the genteel and well-app=
ointed,
was eager to hear, and Fanny could not but indulge herself in dwelling on so
beloved a theme. She hoped it was not wrong; though, after a time, Susan's =
very
great admiration of everything said or done in her uncle's house, and earne=
st
longing to go into Northamptonshire, seemed almost to blame her for exciting
feelings which could not be gratified.
Poor Susan was very little better fitted for h=
ome
than her elder sister; and as Fanny grew thoroughly to understand this, she
began to feel that when her own release from Portsmouth came, her happiness
would have a material drawback in leaving Susan behind. That a girl so capa=
ble
of being made everything good should be left in such hands, distressed her =
more
and more. Were she likely to have a home to invite her to, what a blessing =
it
would be! And had it been possible for her to return Mr. Crawford's regard,=
the
probability of his being very far from objecting to such a measure would ha=
ve
been the greatest increase of all her own comforts. She thought he was real=
ly
good-tempered, and could fancy his entering into a plan of that sort most
pleasantly.
Seven weeks of the two months were very nearly
gone, when the one letter, the letter from Edmund, so long expected, was put
into Fanny's hands. As she opened, and saw its length, she prepared herself=
for
a minute detail of happiness and a profusion of love and praise towards the
fortunate creature who was now mistress of his fate. These were the content=
s--
"My Dear Fanny,--Excuse me that I have not
written before. Crawford told me that you were wishing to hear from me, but=
I
found it impossible to write from London, and persuaded myself that you wou=
ld
understand my silence. Could I have sent a few happy lines, they should not
have been wanting, but nothing of that nature was ever in my power. I am
returned to Mansfield in a less assured state than when I left it. My hopes=
are
much weaker. You are probably aware of this already. So very fond of you as
Miss Crawford is, it is most natural that she should tell you enough of her=
own
feelings to furnish a tolerable guess at mine. I will not be prevented,
however, from making my own communication. Our confidences in you need not
clash. I ask no questions. There is something soothing in the idea that we =
have
the same friend, and that whatever unhappy differences of opinion may exist
between us, we are united in our love of you. It will be a comfort to me to
tell you how things now are, and what are my present plans, if plans I can =
be
said to have. I have been returned since Saturday. I was three weeks in Lon=
don,
and saw her (for London) very often. I had every attention from the Frasers
that could be reasonably expected. I dare say I was not reasonable in carry=
ing
with me hopes of an intercourse at all like that of Mansfield. It was her m=
anner,
however, rather than any unfrequency of meeting. Had she been different whe=
n I
did see her, I should have made no complaint, but from the very first she w=
as
altered: my first reception was so unlike what I had hoped, that I had almo=
st
resolved on leaving London again directly. I need not particularise. You kn=
ow
the weak side of her character, and may imagine the sentiments and expressi=
ons
which were torturing me. She was in high spirits, and surrounded by those w=
ho
were giving all the support of their own bad sense to her too lively mind. =
I do
not like Mrs. Fraser. She is a cold-hearted, vain woman, who has married
entirely from convenience, and though evidently unhappy in her marriage, pl=
aces
her disappointment not to faults of judgment, or temper, or disproportion of
age, but to her being, after all, less affluent than many of her acquaintan=
ce,
especially than her sister, Lady Stornaway, and is the determined supporter=
of
everything mercenary and ambitious, provided it be only mercenary and ambit=
ious
enough. I look upon her intimacy with those two sisters as the greatest
misfortune of her life and mine. They have been leading her astray for year=
s.
Could she be detached from them!--and sometimes I do not despair of it, for=
the
affection appears to me principally on their side. They are very fond of he=
r;
but I am sure she does not love them as she loves you. When I think of her
great attachment to you, indeed, and the whole of her judicious, upright
conduct as a sister, she appears a very different creature, capable of
everything noble, and I am ready to blame myself for a too harsh constructi=
on of
a playful manner. I cannot give her up, Fanny. She is the only woman in the
world whom I could ever think of as a wife. If I did not believe that she h=
ad
some regard for me, of course I should not say this, but I do believe it. I=
am
convinced that she is not without a decided preference. I have no jealousy =
of
any individual. It is the influence of the fashionable world altogether tha=
t I
am jealous of. It is the habits of wealth that I fear. Her ideas are not hi=
gher
than her own fortune may warrant, but they are beyond what our incomes unit=
ed
could authorise. There is comfort, however, even here. I could better bear =
to
lose her because not rich enough, than because of my profession. That would
only prove her affection not equal to sacrifices, which, in fact, I am scar=
cely
justified in asking; and, if I am refused, that, I think, will be the honest
motive. Her prejudices, I trust, are not so strong as they were. You have my
thoughts exactly as they arise, my dear Fanny; perhaps they are sometimes
contradictory, but it will not be a less faithful picture of my mind. Having
once begun, it is a pleasure to me to tell you all I feel. I cannot give her
up. Connected as we already are, and, I hope, are to be, to give up Mary
Crawford would be to give up the society of some of those most dear to me; =
to banish
myself from the very houses and friends whom, under any other distress, I
should turn to for consolation. The loss of Mary I must consider as
comprehending the loss of Crawford and of Fanny. Were it a decided thing, an
actual refusal, I hope I should know how to bear it, and how to endeavour to
weaken her hold on my heart, and in the course of a few years--but I am wri=
ting
nonsense. Were I refused, I must bear it; and till I am, I can never cease =
to
try for her. This is the truth. The only question is how? What may be the
likeliest means? I have sometimes thought of going to London again after
Easter, and sometimes resolved on doing nothing till she returns to Mansfie=
ld.
Even now, she speaks with pleasure of being in Mansfield in June; but June =
is
at a great distance, and I believe I shall write to her. I have nearly dete=
rmined
on explaining myself by letter. To be at an early certainty is a material
object. My present state is miserably irksome. Considering everything, I th=
ink
a letter will be decidedly the best method of explanation. I shall be able =
to
write much that I could not say, and shall be giving her time for reflection
before she resolves on her answer, and I am less afraid of the result of
reflection than of an immediate hasty impulse; I think I am. My greatest da=
nger
would lie in her consulting Mrs. Fraser, and I at a distance unable to help=
my
own cause. A letter exposes to all the evil of consultation, and where the =
mind
is anything short of perfect decision, an adviser may, in an unlucky moment,
lead it to do what it may afterwards regret. I must think this matter over a
little. This long letter, full of my own concerns alone, will be enough to =
tire
even the friendship of a Fanny. The last time I saw Crawford was at Mrs.
Fraser's party. I am more and more satisfied with all that I see and hear of
him. There is not a shadow of wavering. He thoroughly knows his own mind, a=
nd
acts up to his resolutions: an inestimable quality. I could not see him and=
my
eldest sister in the same room without recollecting what you once told me, =
and
I acknowledge that they did not meet as friends. There was marked coolness =
on
her side. They scarcely spoke. I saw him draw back surprised, and I was sor=
ry
that Mrs. Rushworth should resent any former supposed slight to Miss Bertra=
m.
You will wish to hear my opinion of Maria's degree of comfort as a wife. Th=
ere
is no appearance of unhappiness. I hope they get on pretty well together. I
dined twice in Wimpole Street, and might have been there oftener, but it is
mortifying to be with Rushworth as a brother. Julia seems to enjoy London e=
xceedingly.
I had little enjoyment there, but have less here. We are not a lively party.
You are very much wanted. I miss you more than I can express. My mother des=
ires
her best love, and hopes to hear from you soon. She talks of you almost eve=
ry
hour, and I am sorry to find how many weeks more she is likely to be without
you. My father means to fetch you himself, but it will not be till after
Easter, when he has business in town. You are happy at Portsmouth, I hope, =
but
this must not be a yearly visit. I want you at home, that I may have your
opinion about Thornton Lacey. I have little heart for extensive improvement=
s till
I know that it will ever have a mistress. I think I shall certainly write. =
It
is quite settled that the Grants go to Bath; they leave Mansfield on Monday=
. I
am glad of it. I am not comfortable enough to be fit for anybody; but your =
aunt
seems to feel out of luck that such an article of Mansfield news should fal=
l to
my pen instead of hers.--Yours ever, my dearest Fanny."
"I never will, no, I certainly never will
wish for a letter again," was Fanny's secret declaration as she finish=
ed
this. "What do they bring but disappointment and sorrow? Not till after
Easter! How shall I bear it? And my poor aunt talking of me every hour!&quo=
t;
Fanny checked the tendency of these thoughts as
well as she could, but she was within half a minute of starting the idea th=
at
Sir Thomas was quite unkind, both to her aunt and to herself. As for the ma=
in
subject of the letter, there was nothing in that to soothe irritation. She =
was almost
vexed into displeasure and anger against Edmund. "There is no good in =
this
delay," said she. "Why is not it settled? He is blinded, and noth=
ing
will open his eyes; nothing can, after having had truths before him so long=
in
vain. He will marry her, and be poor and miserable. God grant that her
influence do not make him cease to be respectable!" She looked over the
letter again. "'So very fond of me!' 'tis nonsense all. She loves nobo=
dy
but herself and her brother. Her friends leading her astray for years! She =
is
quite as likely to have led them astray. They have all, perhaps, been
corrupting one another; but if they are so much fonder of her than she is of
them, she is the less likely to have been hurt, except by their flattery. '=
The
only woman in the world whom he could ever think of as a wife.' I firmly
believe it. It is an attachment to govern his whole life. Accepted or refus=
ed,
his heart is wedded to her for ever. 'The loss of Mary I must consider as c=
omprehending
the loss of Crawford and Fanny.' Edmund, you do not know me. The families w=
ould
never be connected if you did not connect them! Oh! write, write. Finish it=
at
once. Let there be an end of this suspense. Fix, commit, condemn
yourself."
Such sensations, however, were too near akin to
resentment to be long guiding Fanny's soliloquies. She was soon more soften=
ed
and sorrowful. His warm regard, his kind expressions, his confidential
treatment, touched her strongly. He was only too good to everybody. It was =
a letter,
in short, which she would not but have had for the world, and which could n=
ever
be valued enough. This was the end of it.
Everybody at all addicted to letter-writing,
without having much to say, which will include a large proportion of the fe=
male
world at least, must feel with Lady Bertram that she was out of luck in hav=
ing
such a capital piece of Mansfield news as the certainty of the Grants going=
to
Bath, occur at a time when she could make no advantage of it, and will admi=
t that
it must have been very mortifying to her to see it fall to the share of her
thankless son, and treated as concisely as possible at the end of a long
letter, instead of having it to spread over the largest part of a page of h=
er
own. For though Lady Bertram rather shone in the epistolary line, having ea=
rly
in her marriage, from the want of other employment, and the circumstance of=
Sir
Thomas's being in Parliament, got into the way of making and keeping
correspondents, and formed for herself a very creditable, common-place,
amplifying style, so that a very little matter was enough for her: she could
not do entirely without any; she must have something to write about, even to
her niece; and being so soon to lose all the benefit of Dr. Grant's gouty
symptoms and Mrs. Grant's morning calls, it was very hard upon her to be
deprived of one of the last epistolary uses she could put them to.
There was a rich amends, however, preparing for
her. Lady Bertram's hour of good luck came. Within a few days from the rece=
ipt
of Edmund's letter, Fanny had one from her aunt, beginning thus--
"My Dear Fanny,--I take up my pen to
communicate some very alarming intelligence, which I make no doubt will give
you much concern".
This was a great deal better than to have to t=
ake
up the pen to acquaint her with all the particulars of the Grants' intended
journey, for the present intelligence was of a nature to promise occupation=
for
the pen for many days to come, being no less than the dangerous illness of =
her eldest
son, of which they had received notice by express a few hours before.
Tom had gone from London with a party of young=
men
to Newmarket, where a neglected fall and a good deal of drinking had brough=
t on
a fever; and when the party broke up, being unable to move, had been left by
himself at the house of one of these young men to the comforts of sickness =
and solitude,
and the attendance only of servants. Instead of being soon well enough to
follow his friends, as he had then hoped, his disorder increased considerab=
ly,
and it was not long before he thought so ill of himself as to be as ready as
his physician to have a letter despatched to Mansfield.
"This distressing intelligence, as you may
suppose," observed her ladyship, after giving the substance of it,
"has agitated us exceedingly, and we cannot prevent ourselves from bei=
ng
greatly alarmed and apprehensive for the poor invalid, whose state Sir Thom=
as
fears may be very critical; and Edmund kindly proposes attending his brothe=
r immediately,
but I am happy to add that Sir Thomas will not leave me on this distressing
occasion, as it would be too trying for me. We shall greatly miss Edmund in=
our
small circle, but I trust and hope he will find the poor invalid in a less
alarming state than might be apprehended, and that he will be able to bring=
him
to Mansfield shortly, which Sir Thomas proposes should be done, and thinks =
best
on every account, and I flatter myself the poor sufferer will soon be able =
to bear
the removal without material inconvenience or injury. As I have little doub=
t of
your feeling for us, my dear Fanny, under these distressing circumstances, I
will write again very soon."
Fanny's feelings on the occasion were indeed
considerably more warm and genuine than her aunt's style of writing. She fe=
lt
truly for them all. Tom dangerously ill, Edmund gone to attend him, and the
sadly small party remaining at Mansfield, were cares to shut out every other
care, or almost every other. She could just find selfishness enough to wond=
er whether
Edmund had written to Miss Crawford before this summons came, but no sentim=
ent
dwelt long with her that was not purely affectionate and disinterestedly
anxious. Her aunt did not neglect her: she wrote again and again; they were
receiving frequent accounts from Edmund, and these accounts were as regular=
ly
transmitted to Fanny, in the same diffuse style, and the same medley of tru=
sts,
hopes, and fears, all following and producing each other at haphazard. It w=
as a
sort of playing at being frightened. The sufferings which Lady Bertram did =
not see
had little power over her fancy; and she wrote very comfortably about
agitation, and anxiety, and poor invalids, till Tom was actually conveyed to
Mansfield, and her own eyes had beheld his altered appearance. Then a letter
which she had been previously preparing for Fanny was finished in a differe=
nt
style, in the language of real feeling and alarm; then she wrote as she mig=
ht
have spoken. "He is just come, my dear Fanny, and is taken upstairs; a=
nd I
am so shocked to see him, that I do not know what to do. I am sure he has b=
een
very ill. Poor Tom! I am quite grieved for him, and very much frightened, a=
nd
so is Sir Thomas; and how glad I should be if you were here to comfort me. =
But
Sir Thomas hopes he will be better to-morrow, and says we must consider his=
journey."
The real solicitude now awakened in the matern=
al
bosom was not soon over. Tom's extreme impatience to be removed to Mansfiel=
d,
and experience those comforts of home and family which had been little thou=
ght
of in uninterrupted health, had probably induced his being conveyed thither=
too
early, as a return of fever came on, and for a week he was in a more alarmi=
ng
state than ever. They were all very seriously frightened. Lady Bertram wrote
her daily terrors to her niece, who might now be said to live upon letters,=
and
pass all her time between suffering from that of to-day and looking forward=
to
to-morrow's. Without any particular affection for her eldest cousin, her
tenderness of heart made her feel that she could not spare him, and the pur=
ity
of her principles added yet a keener solicitude, when she considered how li=
ttle
useful, how little self-denying his life had (apparently) been.
Susan was her only companion and listener on t=
his,
as on more common occasions. Susan was always ready to hear and to sympathi=
se.
Nobody else could be interested in so remote an evil as illness in a family
above an hundred miles off; not even Mrs. Price, beyond a brief question or
two, if she saw her daughter with a letter in her hand, and now and then th=
e quiet
observation of, "My poor sister Bertram must be in a great deal of tro=
uble."
So long divided and so differently situated, t=
he
ties of blood were little more than nothing. An attachment, originally as
tranquil as their tempers, was now become a mere name. Mrs. Price did quite=
as
much for Lady Bertram as Lady Bertram would have done for Mrs. Price. Three=
or four
Prices might have been swept away, any or all except Fanny and William, and=
Lady
Bertram would have thought little about it; or perhaps might have caught fr=
om
Mrs. Norris's lips the cant of its being a very happy thing and a great
blessing to their poor dear sister Price to have them so well provided for.=
At about the week's end from his return to
Mansfield, Tom's immediate danger was over, and he was so far pronounced sa=
fe
as to make his mother perfectly easy; for being now used to the sight of hi=
m in
his suffering, helpless state, and hearing only the best, and never thinking
beyond what she heard, with no disposition for alarm and no aptitude at a h=
int,
Lady Bertram was the happiest subject in the world for a little medical imp=
osition.
The fever was subdued; the fever had been his complaint; of course he would
soon be well again. Lady Bertram could think nothing less, and Fanny shared=
her
aunt's security, till she received a few lines from Edmund, written purpose=
ly
to give her a clearer idea of his brother's situation, and acquaint her with
the apprehensions which he and his father had imbibed from the physician wi=
th
respect to some strong hectic symptoms, which seemed to seize the frame on =
the
departure of the fever. They judged it best that Lady Bertram should not be=
harassed
by alarms which, it was to be hoped, would prove unfounded; but there was no
reason why Fanny should not know the truth. They were apprehensive for his
lungs.
A very few lines from Edmund shewed her the
patient and the sickroom in a juster and stronger light than all Lady Bertr=
am's
sheets of paper could do. There was hardly any one in the house who might n=
ot
have described, from personal observation, better than herself; not one who=
was
not more useful at times to her son. She could do nothing but glide in quie=
tly
and look at him; but when able to talk or be talked to, or read to, Edmund =
was
the companion he preferred. His aunt worried him by her cares, and Sir Thom=
as
knew not how to bring down his conversation or his voice to the level of
irritation and feebleness. Edmund was all in all. Fanny would certainly bel=
ieve
him so at least, and must find that her estimation of him was higher than e=
ver
when he appeared as the attendant, supporter, cheerer of a suffering brothe=
r.
There was not only the debility of recent illness to assist: there was also=
, as
she now learnt, nerves much affected, spirits much depressed to calm and ra=
ise,
and her own imagination added that there must be a mind to be properly guid=
ed.
The family were not consumptive, and she was m=
ore
inclined to hope than fear for her cousin, except when she thought of Miss
Crawford; but Miss Crawford gave her the idea of being the child of good lu=
ck,
and to her selfishness and vanity it would be good luck to have Edmund the =
only
son.
Even in the sick chamber the fortunate Mary was
not forgotten. Edmund's letter had this postscript. "On the subject of=
my
last, I had actually begun a letter when called away by Tom's illness, but I
have now changed my mind, and fear to trust the influence of friends. When =
Tom
is better, I shall go."
Such was the state of Mansfield, and so it
continued, with scarcely any change, till Easter. A line occasionally added=
by
Edmund to his mother's letter was enough for Fanny's information. Tom's
amendment was alarmingly slow.
Easter came particularly late this year, as Fa=
nny
had most sorrowfully considered, on first learning that she had no chance of
leaving Portsmouth till after it. It came, and she had yet heard nothing of=
her
return--nothing even of the going to London, which was to precede her retur=
n.
Her aunt often expressed a wish for her, but there was no notice, no message
from the uncle on whom all depended. She supposed he could not yet leave his
son, but it was a cruel, a terrible delay to her. The end of April was comi=
ng
on; it would soon be almost three months, instead of two, that she had been
absent from them all, and that her days had been passing in a state of pena=
nce,
which she loved them too well to hope they would thoroughly understand; and=
who
could yet say when there might be leisure to think of or fetch her?
Her eagerness, her impatience, her longings to=
be
with them, were such as to bring a line or two of Cowper's Tirocinium for e=
ver
before her. "With what intense desire she wants her home," was
continually on her tongue, as the truest description of a yearning which she
could not suppose any schoolboy's bosom to feel more keenly.
When she had been coming to Portsmouth, she had
loved to call it her home, had been fond of saying that she was going home;=
the
word had been very dear to her, and so it still was, but it must be applied=
to Mansfield.
That was now the home. Portsmouth was Portsmouth; Mansfield was home. They =
had
been long so arranged in the indulgence of her secret meditations, and noth=
ing
was more consolatory to her than to find her aunt using the same language:
"I cannot but say I much regret your being from home at this distressi=
ng
time, so very trying to my spirits. I trust and hope, and sincerely wish you
may never be absent from home so long again," were most delightful sen=
tences
to her. Still, however, it was her private regale. Delicacy to her parents =
made
her careful not to betray such a preference of her uncle's house. It was
always: "When I go back into Northamptonshire, or when I return to
Mansfield, I shall do so and so." For a great while it was so, but at =
last
the longing grew stronger, it overthrew caution, and she found herself talk=
ing
of what she should do when she went home before she was aware. She reproach=
ed herself,
coloured, and looked fearfully towards her father and mother. She need not =
have
been uneasy. There was no sign of displeasure, or even of hearing her. They
were perfectly free from any jealousy of Mansfield. She was as welcome to w=
ish
herself there as to be there.
It was sad to Fanny to lose all the pleasures =
of
spring. She had not known before what pleasures she had to lose in passing
March and April in a town. She had not known before how much the beginnings=
and
progress of vegetation had delighted her. What animation, both of body and
mind, she had derived from watching the advance of that season which cannot=
, in
spite of its capriciousness, be unlovely, and seeing its increasing beauties
from the earliest flowers in the warmest divisions of her aunt's garden, to=
the
opening of leaves of her uncle's plantations, and the glory of his woods. T=
o be
losing such pleasures was no trifle; to be losing them, because she was in =
the
midst of closeness and noise, to have confinement, bad air, bad smells,
substituted for liberty, freshness, fragrance, and verdure, was infinitely
worse: but even these incitements to regret were feeble, compared with what
arose from the conviction of being missed by her best friends, and the long=
ing
to be useful to those who were wanting her!
Could she have been at home, she might have be=
en
of service to every creature in the house. She felt that she must have been=
of
use to all. To all she must have saved some trouble of head or hand; and we=
re
it only in supporting the spirits of her aunt Bertram, keeping her from the
evil of solitude, or the still greater evil of a restless, officious compan=
ion,
too apt to be heightening danger in order to enhance her own importance, her
being there would have been a general good. She loved to fancy how she could
have read to her aunt, how she could have talked to her, and tried at once =
to
make her feel the blessing of what was, and prepare her mind for what might=
be;
and how many walks up and down stairs she might have saved her, and how many
messages she might have carried.
It astonished her that Tom's sisters could be
satisfied with remaining in London at such a time, through an illness which=
had
now, under different degrees of danger, lasted several weeks. They might re=
turn
to Mansfield when they chose; travelling could be no difficulty to them, and
she could not comprehend how both could still keep away. If Mrs. Rushworth
could imagine any interfering obligations, Julia was certainly able to quit
London whenever she chose. It appeared from one of her aunt's letters that
Julia had offered to return if wanted, but this was all. It was evident that
she would rather remain where she was.
Fanny was disposed to think the influence of
London very much at war with all respectable attachments. She saw the proof=
of
it in Miss Crawford, as well as in her cousins; her attachment to Edmund had
been respectable, the most respectable part of her character; her friendshi=
p for
herself had at least been blameless. Where was either sentiment now? It was=
so
long since Fanny had had any letter from her, that she had some reason to t=
hink
lightly of the friendship which had been so dwelt on. It was weeks since she
had heard anything of Miss Crawford or of her other connexions in town, exc=
ept
through Mansfield, and she was beginning to suppose that she might never kn=
ow
whether Mr. Crawford had gone into Norfolk again or not till they met, and
might never hear from his sister any more this spring, when the following
letter was received to revive old and create some new sensations--
"Forgive me, my dear Fanny, as soon as you
can, for my long silence, and behave as if you could forgive me directly. T=
his
is my modest request and expectation, for you are so good, that I depend up=
on
being treated better than I deserve, and I write now to beg an immediate
answer. I want to know the state of things at Mansfield Park, and you, no
doubt, are perfectly able to give it. One should be a brute not to feel for=
the
distress they are in; and from what I hear, poor Mr. Bertram has a bad chan=
ce
of ultimate recovery. I thought little of his illness at first. I looked up=
on
him as the sort of person to be made a fuss with, and to make a fuss himsel=
f in
any trifling disorder, and was chiefly concerned for those who had to nurse
him; but now it is confidently asserted that he is really in a decline, that
the symptoms are most alarming, and that part of the family, at least, are
aware of it. If it be so, I am sure you must be included in that part, that
discerning part, and therefore entreat you to let me know how far I have be=
en
rightly informed. I need not say how rejoiced I shall be to hear there has =
been
any mistake, but the report is so prevalent that I confess I cannot help
trembling. To have such a fine young man cut off in the flower of his days =
is
most melancholy. Poor Sir Thomas will feel it dreadfully. I really am quite=
agitated
on the subject. Fanny, Fanny, I see you smile and look cunning, but, upon my
honour, I never bribed a physician in my life. Poor young man! If he is to =
die,
there will be two poor young men less in the world; and with a fearless face
and bold voice would I say to any one, that wealth and consequence could fa=
ll
into no hands more deserving of them. It was a foolish precipitation last
Christmas, but the evil of a few days may be blotted out in part. Varnish a=
nd gilding
hide many stains. It will be but the loss of the Esquire after his name. Wi=
th
real affection, Fanny, like mine, more might be overlooked. Write to me by =
return
of post, judge of my anxiety, and do not trifle with it. Tell me the real
truth, as you have it from the fountainhead. And now, do not trouble yourse=
lf
to be ashamed of either my feelings or your own. Believe me, they are not o=
nly
natural, they are philanthropic and virtuous. I put it to your conscience,
whether 'Sir Edmund' would not do more good with all the Bertram property t=
han
any other possible 'Sir.' Had the Grants been at home I would not have trou=
bled
you, but you are now the only one I can apply to for the truth, his sisters=
not
being within my reach. Mrs. R. has been spending the Easter with the Aylmer=
s at
Twickenham (as to be sure you know), and is not yet returned; and Julia is =
with
the cousins who live near Bedford Square, but I forget their name and stree=
t.
Could I immediately apply to either, however, I should still prefer you, be=
cause
it strikes me that they have all along been so unwilling to have their own
amusements cut up, as to shut their eyes to the truth. I suppose Mrs. R.'s
Easter holidays will not last much longer; no doubt they are thorough holid=
ays
to her. The Aylmers are pleasant people; and her husband away, she can have
nothing but enjoyment. I give her credit for promoting his going dutifully =
down
to Bath, to fetch his mother; but how will she and the dowager agree in one=
house?
Henry is not at hand, so I have nothing to say from him. Do not you think
Edmund would have been in town again long ago, but for this illness?--Yours
ever, Mary."
"I had actually begun folding my letter w=
hen
Henry walked in, but he brings no intelligence to prevent my sending it. Mr=
s.
R. knows a decline is apprehended; he saw her this morning: she returns to
Wimpole Street to-day; the old lady is come. Now do not make yourself uneasy
with any queer fancies because he has been spending a few days at Richmond.=
He does
it every spring. Be assured he cares for nobody but you. At this very momen=
t he
is wild to see you, and occupied only in contriving the means for doing so,=
and
for making his pleasure conduce to yours. In proof, he repeats, and more
eagerly, what he said at Portsmouth about our conveying you home, and I join
him in it with all my soul. Dear Fanny, write directly, and tell us to come=
. It
will do us all good. He and I can go to the Parsonage, you know, and be no
trouble to our friends at Mansfield Park. It would really be gratifying to =
see
them all again, and a little addition of society might be of infinite use t=
o them;
and as to yourself, you must feel yourself to be so wanted there, that you
cannot in conscience--conscientious as you are--keep away, when you have the
means of returning. I have not time or patience to give half Henry's messag=
es;
be satisfied that the spirit of each and every one is unalterable
affection."
Fanny's disgust at the greater part of this
letter, with her extreme reluctance to bring the writer of it and her cousin
Edmund together, would have made her (as she felt) incapable of judging
impartially whether the concluding offer might be accepted or not. To herse=
lf, individually,
it was most tempting. To be finding herself, perhaps within three days,
transported to Mansfield, was an image of the greatest felicity, but it wou=
ld
have been a material drawback to be owing such felicity to persons in whose
feelings and conduct, at the present moment, she saw so much to condemn: the
sister's feelings, the brother's conduct, her cold-hearted ambition, his
thoughtless vanity. To have him still the acquaintance, the flirt perhaps, =
of
Mrs. Rushworth! She was mortified. She had thought better of him. Happily, =
however,
she was not left to weigh and decide between opposite inclinations and doub=
tful
notions of right; there was no occasion to determine whether she ought to k=
eep
Edmund and Mary asunder or not. She had a rule to apply to, which settled
everything. Her awe of her uncle, and her dread of taking a liberty with hi=
m, made
it instantly plain to her what she had to do. She must absolutely decline t=
he
proposal. If he wanted, he would send for her; and even to offer an early
return was a presumption which hardly anything would have seemed to justify.
She thanked Miss Crawford, but gave a decided negative. "Her uncle, she
understood, meant to fetch her; and as her cousin's illness had continued so
many weeks without her being thought at all necessary, she must suppose her
return would be unwelcome at present, and that she should be felt an
encumbrance."
Her representation of her cousin's state at th=
is
time was exactly according to her own belief of it, and such as she supposed
would convey to the sanguine mind of her correspondent the hope of everythi=
ng
she was wishing for. Edmund would be forgiven for being a clergyman, it see=
med,
under certain conditions of wealth; and this, she suspected, was all the
conquest of prejudice which he was so ready to congratulate himself upon. S=
he
had only learnt to think nothing of consequence but money.
As Fanny could not doubt that her answer was
conveying a real disappointment, she was rather in expectation, from her
knowledge of Miss Crawford's temper, of being urged again; and though no se=
cond
letter arrived for the space of a week, she had still the same feeling when=
it
did come.
On receiving it, she could instantly decide on=
its
containing little writing, and was persuaded of its having the air of a let=
ter
of haste and business. Its object was unquestionable; and two moments were
enough to start the probability of its being merely to give her notice that=
they
should be in Portsmouth that very day, and to throw her into all the agitat=
ion
of doubting what she ought to do in such a case. If two moments, however, c=
an
surround with difficulties, a third can disperse them; and before she had
opened the letter, the possibility of Mr. and Miss Crawford's having applie=
d to
her uncle and obtained his permission was giving her ease. This was the
letter--
"A most scandalous, ill-natured rumour has
just reached me, and I write, dear Fanny, to warn you against giving the le=
ast
credit to it, should it spread into the country. Depend upon it, there is s=
ome
mistake, and that a day or two will clear it up; at any rate, that Henry is=
blameless,
and in spite of a moment's etourderie, thinks of nobody but you. Say not a =
word
of it; hear nothing, surmise nothing, whisper nothing till I write again. I=
am
sure it will be all hushed up, and nothing proved but Rushworth's folly. If
they are gone, I would lay my life they are only gone to Mansfield Park, and
Julia with them. But why would not you let us come for you? I wish you may =
not
repent it.--Yours, etc."
Fanny stood aghast. As no scandalous, ill-natu=
red
rumour had reached her, it was impossible for her to understand much of this
strange letter. She could only perceive that it must relate to Wimpole Stre=
et and
Mr. Crawford, and only conjecture that something very imprudent had just
occurred in that quarter to draw the notice of the world, and to excite her
jealousy, in Miss Crawford's apprehension, if she heard it. Miss Crawford n=
eed
not be alarmed for her. She was only sorry for the parties concerned and for
Mansfield, if the report should spread so far; but she hoped it might not. =
If
the Rushworths were gone themselves to Mansfield, as was to be inferred from
what Miss Crawford said, it was not likely that anything unpleasant should =
have
preceded them, or at least should make any impression.
As to Mr. Crawford, she hoped it might give hi=
m a
knowledge of his own disposition, convince him that he was not capable of b=
eing
steadily attached to any one woman in the world, and shame him from persist=
ing any
longer in addressing herself.
It was very strange! She had begun to think he
really loved her, and to fancy his affection for her something more than
common; and his sister still said that he cared for nobody else. Yet there =
must
have been some marked display of attentions to her cousin, there must have =
been
some strong indiscretion, since her correspondent was not of a sort to rega=
rd a
slight one.
Very uncomfortable she was, and must continue,
till she heard from Miss Crawford again. It was impossible to banish the le=
tter
from her thoughts, and she could not relieve herself by speaking of it to a=
ny human
being. Miss Crawford need not have urged secrecy with so much warmth; she m=
ight
have trusted to her sense of what was due to her cousin.
The next day came and brought no second letter.
Fanny was disappointed. She could still think of little else all the mornin=
g;
but, when her father came back in the afternoon with the daily newspaper as
usual, she was so far from expecting any elucidation through such a channel
that the subject was for a moment out of her head.
She was deep in other musing. The remembrance =
of
her first evening in that room, of her father and his newspaper, came across
her. No candle was now wanted. The sun was yet an hour and half above the
horizon. She felt that she had, indeed, been three months there; and the su=
n's
rays falling strongly into the parlour, instead of cheering, made her still=
more
melancholy, for sunshine appeared to her a totally different thing in a town
and in the country. Here, its power was only a glare: a stifling, sickly gl=
are,
serving but to bring forward stains and dirt that might otherwise have slep=
t.
There was neither health nor gaiety in sunshine in a town. She sat in a bla=
ze
of oppressive heat, in a cloud of moving dust, and her eyes could only wand=
er
from the walls, marked by her father's head, to the table cut and notched by
her brothers, where stood the tea-board never thoroughly cleaned, the cups =
and
saucers wiped in streaks, the milk a mixture of motes floating in thin blue,
and the bread and butter growing every minute more greasy than even Rebecca=
's hands
had first produced it. Her father read his newspaper, and her mother lament=
ed
over the ragged carpet as usual, while the tea was in preparation, and wish=
ed
Rebecca would mend it; and Fanny was first roused by his calling out to her,
after humphing and considering over a particular paragraph: "What's the
name of your great cousins in town, Fan?"
A moment's recollection enabled her to say,
"Rushworth, sir."
"And don't they live in Wimpole Street?&q=
uot;
"Yes, sir."
"Then, there's the devil to pay among the=
m,
that's all! There" (holding out the paper to her); "much good may
such fine relations do you. I don't know what Sir Thomas may think of such
matters; he may be too much of the courtier and fine gentleman to like his
daughter the less. But, by G--! if she belonged to me, I'd give her the rop=
e's
end as long as I could stand over her. A little flogging for man and woman =
too
would be the best way of preventing such things."
Fanny read to herself that "it was with
infinite concern the newspaper had to announce to the world a matrimonial
fracas in the family of Mr. R. of Wimpole Street; the beautiful Mrs. R., wh=
ose
name had not long been enrolled in the lists of Hymen, and who had promised=
to
become so brilliant a leader in the fashionable world, having quitted her h=
usband's
roof in company with the well-known and captivating Mr. C., the intimate fr=
iend
and associate of Mr. R., and it was not known even to the editor of the
newspaper whither they were gone."
"It is a mistake, sir," said Fanny
instantly; "it must be a mistake, it cannot be true; it must mean some
other people."
She spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying
shame; she spoke with a resolution which sprung from despair, for she spoke
what she did not, could not believe herself. It had been the shock of
conviction as she read. The truth rushed on her; and how she could have spo=
ken
at all, how she could even have breathed, was afterwards matter of wonder t=
o herself.
Mr. Price cared too little about the report to
make her much answer. "It might be all a lie," he acknowledged;
"but so many fine ladies were going to the devil nowadays that way, th=
at
there was no answering for anybody."
"Indeed, I hope it is not true," said
Mrs. Price plaintively; "it would be so very shocking! If I have spoken
once to Rebecca about that carpet, I am sure I have spoke at least a dozen
times; have not I, Betsey? And it would not be ten minutes' work."
The horror of a mind like Fanny's, as it recei=
ved
the conviction of such guilt, and began to take in some part of the misery =
that
must ensue, can hardly be described. At first, it was a sort of stupefactio=
n;
but every moment was quickening her perception of the horrible evil. She co=
uld
not doubt, she dared not indulge a hope, of the paragraph being false. Miss=
Crawford's
letter, which she had read so often as to make every line her own, was in
frightful conformity with it. Her eager defence of her brother, her hope of=
its
being hushed up, her evident agitation, were all of a piece with something =
very
bad; and if there was a woman of character in existence, who could treat as=
a
trifle this sin of the first magnitude, who would try to gloss it over, and
desire to have it unpunished, she could believe Miss Crawford to be the wom=
an!
Now she could see her own mistake as to who were gone, or said to be gone. =
It
was not Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth; it was Mrs. Rushworth and Mr. Crawford.
Fanny seemed to herself never to have been sho=
cked
before. There was no possibility of rest. The evening passed without a paus=
e of
misery, the night was totally sleepless. She passed only from feelings of
sickness to shudderings of horror; and from hot fits of fever to cold. The
event was so shocking, that there were moments even when her heart revolted=
from
it as impossible: when she thought it could not be. A woman married only six
months ago; a man professing himself devoted, even engaged to another; that
other her near relation; the whole family, both families connected as they =
were
by tie upon tie; all friends, all intimate together! It was too horrible a
confusion of guilt, too gross a complication of evil, for human nature, not=
in
a state of utter barbarism, to be capable of! yet her judgment told her it =
was
so. His unsettled affections, wavering with his vanity, Maria's decided
attachment, and no sufficient principle on either side, gave it possibility:
Miss Crawford's letter stampt it a fact.
What would be the consequence? Whom would it n=
ot
injure? Whose views might it not affect? Whose peace would it not cut up for
ever? Miss Crawford, herself, Edmund; but it was dangerous, perhaps, to tre=
ad such
ground. She confined herself, or tried to confine herself, to the simple,
indubitable family misery which must envelop all, if it were indeed a matte=
r of
certified guilt and public exposure. The mother's sufferings, the father's;
there she paused. Julia's, Tom's, Edmund's; there a yet longer pause. They =
were
the two on whom it would fall most horribly. Sir Thomas's parental solicitu=
de
and high sense of honour and decorum, Edmund's upright principles, unsuspic=
ious
temper, and genuine strength of feeling, made her think it scarcely possible
for them to support life and reason under such disgrace; and it appeared to=
her
that, as far as this world alone was concerned, the greatest blessing to ev=
ery
one of kindred with Mrs. Rushworth would be instant annihilation.
Nothing happened the next day, or the next, to
weaken her terrors. Two posts came in, and brought no refutation, public or
private. There was no second letter to explain away the first from Miss
Crawford; there was no intelligence from Mansfield, though it was now full =
time
for her to hear again from her aunt. This was an evil omen. She had, indeed=
, scarcely
the shadow of a hope to soothe her mind, and was reduced to so low and wan =
and
trembling a condition, as no mother, not unkind, except Mrs. Price could ha=
ve
overlooked, when the third day did bring the sickening knock, and a letter =
was
again put into her hands. It bore the London postmark, and came from Edmund=
.
"Dear Fanny,--You know our present
wretchedness. May God support you under your share! We have been here two d=
ays,
but there is nothing to be done. They cannot be traced. You may not have he=
ard
of the last blow--Julia's elopement; she is gone to Scotland with Yates. She
left London a few hours before we entered it. At any other time this would =
have
been felt dreadfully. Now it seems nothing; yet it is an heavy aggravation.=
My
father is not overpowered. More cannot be hoped. He is still able to think =
and
act; and I write, by his desire, to propose your returning home. He is anxi=
ous
to get you there for my mother's sake. I shall be at Portsmouth the morning
after you receive this, and hope to find you ready to set off for Mansfield=
. My
father wishes you to invite Susan to go with you for a few months. Settle i=
t as
you like; say what is proper; I am sure you will feel such an instance of h=
is
kindness at such a moment! Do justice to his meaning, however I may confuse=
it.
You may imagine something of my present state. There is no end of the evil =
let
loose upon us. You will see me early by the mail.--Yours, etc."
Never had Fanny more wanted a cordial. Never h=
ad
she felt such a one as this letter contained. To-morrow! to leave Portsmouth
to-morrow! She was, she felt she was, in the greatest danger of being
exquisitely happy, while so many were miserable. The evil which brought such
good to her! She dreaded lest she should learn to be insensible of it. To b=
e going
so soon, sent for so kindly, sent for as a comfort, and with leave to take
Susan, was altogether such a combination of blessings as set her heart in a
glow, and for a time seemed to distance every pain, and make her incapable =
of
suitably sharing the distress even of those whose distress she thought of m=
ost.
Julia's elopement could affect her comparatively but little; she was amazed=
and
shocked; but it could not occupy her, could not dwell on her mind. She was
obliged to call herself to think of it, and acknowledge it to be terrible a=
nd
grievous, or it was escaping her, in the midst of all the agitating pressing
joyful cares attending this summons to herself.
There is nothing like employment, active
indispensable employment, for relieving sorrow. Employment, even melancholy,
may dispel melancholy, and her occupations were hopeful. She had so much to=
do,
that not even the horrible story of Mrs. Rushworth--now fixed to the last p=
oint
of certainty could affect her as it had done before. She had not time to be
miserable. Within twenty-four hours she was hoping to be gone; her father a=
nd
mother must be spoken to, Susan prepared, everything got ready. Business
followed business; the day was hardly long enough. The happiness she was
imparting, too, happiness very little alloyed by the black communication wh=
ich
must briefly precede it--the joyful consent of her father and mother to Sus=
an's
going with her--the general satisfaction with which the going of both seemed
regarded, and the ecstasy of Susan herself, was all serving to support her
spirits.
The affliction of the Bertrams was little felt=
in
the family. Mrs. Price talked of her poor sister for a few minutes, but how=
to
find anything to hold Susan's clothes, because Rebecca took away all the bo=
xes
and spoilt them, was much more in her thoughts: and as for Susan, now
unexpectedly gratified in the first wish of her heart, and knowing nothing
personally of those who had sinned, or of those who were sorrowing--if she
could help rejoicing from beginning to end, it was as much as ought to be e=
xpected
from human virtue at fourteen.
As nothing was really left for the decision of
Mrs. Price, or the good offices of Rebecca, everything was rationally and d=
uly
accomplished, and the girls were ready for the morrow. The advantage of much
sleep to prepare them for their journey was impossible. The cousin who was =
travelling
towards them could hardly have less than visited their agitated spirits--one
all happiness, the other all varying and indescribable perturbation.
By eight in the morning Edmund was in the hous=
e.
The girls heard his entrance from above, and Fanny went down. The idea of
immediately seeing him, with the knowledge of what he must be suffering,
brought back all her own first feelings. He so near her, and in misery. She=
was
ready to sink as she entered the parlour. He was alone, and met her instant=
ly; and
she found herself pressed to his heart with only these words, just articula=
te,
"My Fanny, my only sister; my only comfort now!" She could say
nothing; nor for some minutes could he say more.
He turned away to recover himself, and when he
spoke again, though his voice still faltered, his manner shewed the wish of
self-command, and the resolution of avoiding any farther allusion. "Ha=
ve
you breakfasted? When shall you be ready? Does Susan go?" were questio=
ns
following each other rapidly. His great object was to be off as soon as
possible. When Mansfield was considered, time was precious; and the state of
his own mind made him find relief only in motion. It was settled that he sh=
ould
order the carriage to the door in half an hour. Fanny answered for their ha=
ving
breakfasted and being quite ready in half an hour. He had already ate, and
declined staying for their meal. He would walk round the ramparts, and join
them with the carriage. He was gone again; glad to get away even from Fanny=
.
He looked very ill; evidently suffering under
violent emotions, which he was determined to suppress. She knew it must be =
so,
but it was terrible to her.
The carriage came; and he entered the house ag=
ain
at the same moment, just in time to spend a few minutes with the family, an=
d be
a witness--but that he saw nothing--of the tranquil manner in which the dau=
ghters
were parted with, and just in time to prevent their sitting down to the
breakfast-table, which, by dint of much unusual activity, was quite and
completely ready as the carriage drove from the door. Fanny's last meal in =
her
father's house was in character with her first: she was dismissed from it as
hospitably as she had been welcomed.
How her heart swelled with joy and gratitude as
she passed the barriers of Portsmouth, and how Susan's face wore its broade=
st
smiles, may be easily conceived. Sitting forwards, however, and screened by=
her
bonnet, those smiles were unseen.
The journey was likely to be a silent one.
Edmund's deep sighs often reached Fanny. Had he been alone with her, his he=
art
must have opened in spite of every resolution; but Susan's presence drove h=
im
quite into himself, and his attempts to talk on indifferent subjects could
never be long supported.
Fanny watched him with never-failing solicitud=
e,
and sometimes catching his eye, revived an affectionate smile, which comfor=
ted
her; but the first day's journey passed without her hearing a word from him=
on
the subjects that were weighing him down. The next morning produced a little
more. Just before their setting out from Oxford, while Susan was stationed =
at a
window, in eager observation of the departure of a large family from the in=
n,
the other two were standing by the fire; and Edmund, particularly struck by=
the
alteration in Fanny's looks, and from his ignorance of the daily evils of h=
er
father's house, attributing an undue share of the change, attributing all to
the recent event, took her hand, and said in a low, but very expressive ton=
e,
"No wonder--you must feel it--you must suffer. How a man who had once
loved, could desert you! But yours--your regard was new compared with----Fa=
nny,
think of me!"
The first division of their journey occupied a
long day, and brought them, almost knocked up, to Oxford; but the second was
over at a much earlier hour. They were in the environs of Mansfield long be=
fore
the usual dinner-time, and as they approached the beloved place, the hearts=
of
both sisters sank a little. Fanny began to dread the meeting with her aunts=
and
Tom, under so dreadful a humiliation; and Susan to feel with some anxiety, =
that
all her best manners, all her lately acquired knowledge of what was practis=
ed
here, was on the point of being called into action. Visions of good and ill
breeding, of old vulgarisms and new gentilities, were before her; and she w=
as
meditating much upon silver forks, napkins, and finger-glasses. Fanny had b=
een
everywhere awake to the difference of the country since February; but when =
they
entered the Park her perceptions and her pleasures were of the keenest sort=
. It
was three months, full three months, since her quitting it, and the change =
was
from winter to summer. Her eye fell everywhere on lawns and plantations of =
the
freshest green; and the trees, though not fully clothed, were in that
delightful state when farther beauty is known to be at hand, and when, while
much is actually given to the sight, more yet remains for the imagination. =
Her
enjoyment, however, was for herself alone. Edmund could not share it. She
looked at him, but he was leaning back, sunk in a deeper gloom than ever, a=
nd
with eyes closed, as if the view of cheerfulness oppressed him, and the lov=
ely
scenes of home must be shut out.
It made her melancholy again; and the knowledg=
e of
what must be enduring there, invested even the house, modern, airy, and well
situated as it was, with a melancholy aspect.
By one of the suffering party within they were
expected with such impatience as she had never known before. Fanny had scar=
cely
passed the solemn-looking servants, when Lady Bertram came from the
drawing-room to meet her; came with no indolent step; and falling on her ne=
ck,
said, "Dear Fanny! now I shall be comfortable."
It had been a miserable party, each of the thr=
ee
believing themselves most miserable. Mrs. Norris, however, as most attached=
to
Maria, was really the greatest sufferer. Maria was her first favourite, the
dearest of all; the match had been her own contriving, as she had been wont
with such pride of heart to feel and say, and this conclusion of it almost =
overpowered
her.
She was an altered creature, quieted, stupefie=
d,
indifferent to everything that passed. The being left with her sister and
nephew, and all the house under her care, had been an advantage entirely th=
rown
away; she had been unable to direct or dictate, or even fancy herself usefu=
l.
When really touched by affliction, her active powers had been all benumbed;=
and
neither Lady Bertram nor Tom had received from her the smallest support or
attempt at support. She had done no more for them than they had done for ea=
ch
other. They had been all solitary, helpless, and forlorn alike; and now the
arrival of the others only established her superiority in wretchedness. Her
companions were relieved, but there was no good for her. Edmund was almost =
as welcome
to his brother as Fanny to her aunt; but Mrs. Norris, instead of having com=
fort
from either, was but the more irritated by the sight of the person whom, in=
the
blindness of her anger, she could have charged as the daemon of the piece. =
Had
Fanny accepted Mr. Crawford this could not have happened.
Susan too was a grievance. She had not spirits=
to
notice her in more than a few repulsive looks, but she felt her as a spy, a=
nd
an intruder, and an indigent niece, and everything most odious. By her othe=
r aunt,
Susan was received with quiet kindness. Lady Bertram could not give her much
time, or many words, but she felt her, as Fanny's sister, to have a claim at
Mansfield, and was ready to kiss and like her; and Susan was more than
satisfied, for she came perfectly aware that nothing but ill-humour was to =
be
expected from aunt Norris; and was so provided with happiness, so strong in
that best of blessings, an escape from many certain evils, that she could h=
ave
stood against a great deal more indifference than she met with from the oth=
ers.
She was now left a good deal to herself, to get
acquainted with the house and grounds as she could, and spent her days very
happily in so doing, while those who might otherwise have attended to her w=
ere
shut up, or wholly occupied each with the person quite dependent on them, a=
t this
time, for everything like comfort; Edmund trying to bury his own feelings in
exertions for the relief of his brother's, and Fanny devoted to her aunt
Bertram, returning to every former office with more than former zeal, and
thinking she could never do enough for one who seemed so much to want her. =
To talk over the dreadful business with Fanny,
talk and lament, was all Lady Bertram's consolation. To be listened to and
borne with, and hear the voice of kindness and sympathy in return, was
everything that could be done for her. To be otherwise comforted was out of=
the
question. The case admitted of no comfort. Lady Bertram did not think deepl=
y,
but, guided by Sir Thomas, she thought justly on all important points; and =
she
saw, therefore, in all its enormity, what had happened, and neither endeavo=
ured
herself, nor required Fanny to advise her, to think little of guilt and inf=
amy.
Her affections were not acute, nor was her mind
tenacious. After a time, Fanny found it not impossible to direct her though=
ts
to other subjects, and revive some interest in the usual occupations; but
whenever Lady Bertram was fixed on the event, she could see it only in one
light, as comprehending the loss of a daughter, and a disgrace never to be
wiped off.
Fanny learnt from her all the particulars which
had yet transpired. Her aunt was no very methodical narrator, but with the =
help
of some letters to and from Sir Thomas, and what she already knew herself, =
and
could reasonably combine, she was soon able to understand quite as much as =
she wished
of the circumstances attending the story.
Mrs. Rushworth had gone, for the Easter holida=
ys,
to Twickenham, with a family whom she had just grown intimate with: a famil=
y of
lively, agreeable manners, and probably of morals and discretion to suit, f=
or
to their house Mr. Crawford had constant access at all times. His having be=
en
in the same neighbourhood Fanny already knew. Mr. Rushworth had been gone at
this time to Bath, to pass a few days with his mother, and bring her back to
town, and Maria was with these friends without any restraint, without even
Julia; for Julia had removed from Wimpole Street two or three weeks before,=
on
a visit to some relations of Sir Thomas; a removal which her father and mot=
her
were now disposed to attribute to some view of convenience on Mr. Yates's
account. Very soon after the Rushworths' return to Wimpole Street, Sir Thom=
as
had received a letter from an old and most particular friend in London, who=
hearing
and witnessing a good deal to alarm him in that quarter, wrote to recommend=
Sir
Thomas's coming to London himself, and using his influence with his daughte=
r to
put an end to the intimacy which was already exposing her to unpleasant
remarks, and evidently making Mr. Rushworth uneasy.
Sir Thomas was preparing to act upon this lett=
er,
without communicating its contents to any creature at Mansfield, when it was
followed by another, sent express from the same friend, to break to him the
almost desperate situation in which affairs then stood with the young peopl=
e. Mrs.
Rushworth had left her husband's house: Mr. Rushworth had been in great ang=
er
and distress to him (Mr. Harding) for his advice; Mr. Harding feared there =
had
been at least very flagrant indiscretion. The maidservant of Mrs. Rushworth,
senior, threatened alarmingly. He was doing all in his power to quiet
everything, with the hope of Mrs. Rushworth's return, but was so much
counteracted in Wimpole Street by the influence of Mr. Rushworth's mother, =
that
the worst consequences might be apprehended.
This dreadful communication could not be kept =
from
the rest of the family. Sir Thomas set off, Edmund would go with him, and t=
he
others had been left in a state of wretchedness, inferior only to what foll=
owed
the receipt of the next letters from London. Everything was by that time pu=
blic
beyond a hope. The servant of Mrs. Rushworth, the mother, had exposure in h=
er
power, and supported by her mistress, was not to be silenced. The two ladie=
s,
even in the short time they had been together, had disagreed; and the
bitterness of the elder against her daughter-in-law might perhaps arise alm=
ost
as much from the personal disrespect with which she had herself been treate=
d as
from sensibility for her son.
However that might be, she was unmanageable. B=
ut
had she been less obstinate, or of less weight with her son, who was always
guided by the last speaker, by the person who could get hold of and shut him
up, the case would still have been hopeless, for Mrs. Rushworth did not app=
ear again,
and there was every reason to conclude her to be concealed somewhere with M=
r.
Crawford, who had quitted his uncle's house, as for a journey, on the very =
day
of her absenting herself.
Sir Thomas, however, remained yet a little lon=
ger
in town, in the hope of discovering and snatching her from farther vice, th=
ough
all was lost on the side of character.
His present state Fanny could hardly bear to t=
hink
of. There was but one of his children who was not at this time a source of
misery to him. Tom's complaints had been greatly heightened by the shock of=
his
sister's conduct, and his recovery so much thrown back by it, that even Lady
Bertram had been struck by the difference, and all her alarms were regularly
sent off to her husband; and Julia's elopement, the additional blow which h=
ad
met him on his arrival in London, though its force had been deadened at the
moment, must, she knew, be sorely felt. She saw that it was. His letters
expressed how much he deplored it. Under any circumstances it would have be=
en
an unwelcome alliance; but to have it so clandestinely formed, and such a
period chosen for its completion, placed Julia's feelings in a most
unfavourable light, and severely aggravated the folly of her choice. He cal=
led
it a bad thing, done in the worst manner, and at the worst time; and though
Julia was yet as more pardonable than Maria as folly than vice, he could not
but regard the step she had taken as opening the worst probabilities of a c=
onclusion
hereafter like her sister's. Such was his opinion of the set into which she=
had
thrown herself.
Fanny felt for him most acutely. He could have=
no
comfort but in Edmund. Every other child must be racking his heart. His
displeasure against herself she trusted, reasoning differently from Mrs.
Norris, would now be done away. She should be justified. Mr. Crawford would
have fully acquitted her conduct in refusing him; but this, though most
material to herself, would be poor consolation to Sir Thomas. Her uncle's d=
ispleasure
was terrible to her; but what could her justification or her gratitude and
attachment do for him? His stay must be on Edmund alone.
She was mistaken, however, in supposing that
Edmund gave his father no present pain. It was of a much less poignant natu=
re
than what the others excited; but Sir Thomas was considering his happiness =
as
very deeply involved in the offence of his sister and friend; cut off by it=
, as
he must be, from the woman whom he had been pursuing with undoubted attachm=
ent
and strong probability of success; and who, in everything but this despicab=
le
brother, would have been so eligible a connexion. He was aware of what Edmu=
nd
must be suffering on his own behalf, in addition to all the rest, when they
were in town: he had seen or conjectured his feelings; and, having reason to
think that one interview with Miss Crawford had taken place, from which Edm=
und
derived only increased distress, had been as anxious on that account as on
others to get him out of town, and had engaged him in taking Fanny home to =
her
aunt, with a view to his relief and benefit, no less than theirs. Fanny was=
not
in the secret of her uncle's feelings, Sir Thomas not in the secret of Miss=
Crawford's
character. Had he been privy to her conversation with his son, he would not
have wished her to belong to him, though her twenty thousand pounds had been
forty.
That Edmund must be for ever divided from Miss
Crawford did not admit of a doubt with Fanny; and yet, till she knew that he
felt the same, her own conviction was insufficient. She thought he did, but=
she
wanted to be assured of it. If he would now speak to her with the unreserve
which had sometimes been too much for her before, it would be most consolin=
g; but
that she found was not to be. She seldom saw him: never alone. He probably
avoided being alone with her. What was to be inferred? That his judgment
submitted to all his own peculiar and bitter share of this family afflictio=
n,
but that it was too keenly felt to be a subject of the slightest communicat=
ion.
This must be his state. He yielded, but it was with agonies which did not a=
dmit
of speech. Long, long would it be ere Miss Crawford's name passed his lips
again, or she could hope for a renewal of such confidential intercourse as =
had
been.
It was long. They reached Mansfield on Thursda=
y,
and it was not till Sunday evening that Edmund began to talk to her on the
subject. Sitting with her on Sunday evening--a wet Sunday evening--the very
time of all others when, if a friend is at hand, the heart must be opened, =
and everything
told; no one else in the room, except his mother, who, after hearing an
affecting sermon, had cried herself to sleep, it was impossible not to spea=
k;
and so, with the usual beginnings, hardly to be traced as to what came firs=
t,
and the usual declaration that if she would listen to him for a few minutes=
, he
should be very brief, and certainly never tax her kindness in the same way
again; she need not fear a repetition; it would be a subject prohibited
entirely: he entered upon the luxury of relating circumstances and sensatio=
ns
of the first interest to himself, to one of whose affectionate sympathy he =
was
quite convinced.
How Fanny listened, with what curiosity and
concern, what pain and what delight, how the agitation of his voice was
watched, and how carefully her own eyes were fixed on any object but himsel=
f,
may be imagined. The opening was alarming. He had seen Miss Crawford. He had
been invited to see her. He had received a note from Lady Stornaway to beg =
him
to call; and regarding it as what was meant to be the last, last interview =
of
friendship, and investing her with all the feelings of shame and wretchedne=
ss
which Crawford's sister ought to have known, he had gone to her in such a s=
tate
of mind, so softened, so devoted, as made it for a few moments impossible to
Fanny's fears that it should be the last. But as he proceeded in his story,
these fears were over. She had met him, he said, with a serious--certainly a
serious--even an agitated air; but before he had been able to speak one
intelligible sentence, she had introduced the subject in a manner which he
owned had shocked him. "'I heard you were in town,' said she; 'I wante=
d to
see you. Let us talk over this sad business. What can equal the folly of our
two relations?' I could not answer, but I believe my looks spoke. She felt
reproved. Sometimes how quick to feel! With a graver look and voice she the=
n added,
'I do not mean to defend Henry at your sister's expense.' So she began, but=
how
she went on, Fanny, is not fit, is hardly fit to be repeated to you. I cann=
ot
recall all her words. I would not dwell upon them if I could. Their substan=
ce
was great anger at the folly of each. She reprobated her brother's folly in
being drawn on by a woman whom he had never cared for, to do what must lose=
him
the woman he adored; but still more the folly of poor Maria, in sacrificing
such a situation, plunging into such difficulties, under the idea of being
really loved by a man who had long ago made his indifference clear. Guess w=
hat
I must have felt. To hear the woman whom--no harsher name than folly given!=
So
voluntarily, so freely, so coolly to canvass it! No reluctance, no horror, =
no
feminine, shall I say, no modest loathings? This is what the world does. For
where, Fanny, shall we find a woman whom nature had so richly endowed? Spoi=
lt,
spoilt!"
After a little reflection, he went on with a s=
ort
of desperate calmness. "I will tell you everything, and then have done=
for
ever. She saw it only as folly, and that folly stamped only by exposure. The
want of common discretion, of caution: his going down to Richmond for the w=
hole
time of her being at Twickenham; her putting herself in the power of a serv=
ant;
it was the detection, in short--oh, Fanny! it was the detection, not the
offence, which she reprobated. It was the imprudence which had brought thin=
gs
to extremity, and obliged her brother to give up every dearer plan in order=
to
fly with her."
He stopt. "And what," said Fanny
(believing herself required to speak), "what could you say?"
"Nothing, nothing to be understood. I was
like a man stunned. She went on, began to talk of you; yes, then she began =
to
talk of you, regretting, as well she might, the loss of such a--. There she
spoke very rationally. But she has always done justice to you. 'He has thro=
wn away,'
said she, 'such a woman as he will never see again. She would have fixed hi=
m;
she would have made him happy for ever.' My dearest Fanny, I am giving you,=
I
hope, more pleasure than pain by this retrospect of what might have been--b=
ut
what never can be now. You do not wish me to be silent? If you do, give me =
but
a look, a word, and I have done."
No look or word was given.
"Thank God," said he. "We were =
all
disposed to wonder, but it seems to have been the merciful appointment of
Providence that the heart which knew no guile should not suffer. She spoke =
of
you with high praise and warm affection; yet, even here, there was alloy, a
dash of evil; for in the midst of it she could exclaim, 'Why would not she =
have
him? It is all her fault. Simple girl! I shall never forgive her. Had she
accepted him as she ought, they might now have been on the point of marriag=
e,
and Henry would have been too happy and too busy to want any other object. =
He
would have taken no pains to be on terms with Mrs. Rushworth again. It would
have all ended in a regular standing flirtation, in yearly meetings at
Sotherton and Everingham.' Could you have believed it possible? But the cha=
rm
is broken. My eyes are opened."
"Cruel!" said Fanny, "quite cru=
el.
At such a moment to give way to gaiety, to speak with lightness, and to you!
Absolute cruelty."
"Cruelty, do you call it? We differ there.
No, hers is not a cruel nature. I do not consider her as meaning to wound my
feelings. The evil lies yet deeper: in her total ignorance, unsuspiciousnes=
s of
there being such feelings; in a perversion of mind which made it natural to=
her
to treat the subject as she did. She was speaking only as she had been used=
to
hear others speak, as she imagined everybody else would speak. Hers are not
faults of temper. She would not voluntarily give unnecessary pain to any on=
e,
and though I may deceive myself, I cannot but think that for me, for my
feelings, she would--Hers are faults of principle, Fanny; of blunted delica=
cy
and a corrupted, vitiated mind. Perhaps it is best for me, since it leaves =
me
so little to regret. Not so, however. Gladly would I submit to all the
increased pain of losing her, rather than have to think of her as I do. I t=
old
her so."
"Did you?"
"Yes; when I left her I told her so."=
;
"How long were you together?"
"Five-and-twenty minutes. Well, she went =
on
to say that what remained now to be done was to bring about a marriage betw=
een
them. She spoke of it, Fanny, with a steadier voice than I can." He was
obliged to pause more than once as he continued. "'We must persuade He=
nry
to marry her,' said she; 'and what with honour, and the certainty of having
shut himself out for ever from Fanny, I do not despair of it. Fanny he must=
give
up. I do not think that even he could now hope to succeed with one of her s=
tamp,
and therefore I hope we may find no insuperable difficulty. My influence, w=
hich
is not small shall all go that way; and when once married, and properly
supported by her own family, people of respectability as they are, she may
recover her footing in society to a certain degree. In some circles, we kno=
w,
she would never be admitted, but with good dinners, and large parties, there
will always be those who will be glad of her acquaintance; and there is,
undoubtedly, more liberality and candour on those points than formerly. Wha=
t I
advise is, that your father be quiet. Do not let him injure his own cause b=
y interference.
Persuade him to let things take their course. If by any officious exertions=
of
his, she is induced to leave Henry's protection, there will be much less ch=
ance
of his marrying her than if she remain with him. I know how he is likely to=
be
influenced. Let Sir Thomas trust to his honour and compassion, and it may a=
ll
end well; but if he get his daughter away, it will be destroying the chief =
hold.'"
After repeating this, Edmund was so much affec=
ted
that Fanny, watching him with silent, but most tender concern, was almost s=
orry
that the subject had been entered on at all. It was long before he could sp=
eak again.
At last, "Now, Fanny," said he, "I shall soon have done. I h=
ave told
you the substance of all that she said. As soon as I could speak, I replied
that I had not supposed it possible, coming in such a state of mind into th=
at
house as I had done, that anything could occur to make me suffer more, but =
that
she had been inflicting deeper wounds in almost every sentence. That though=
I
had, in the course of our acquaintance, been often sensible of some differe=
nce
in our opinions, on points, too, of some moment, it had not entered my
imagination to conceive the difference could be such as she had now proved =
it.
That the manner in which she treated the dreadful crime committed by her
brother and my sister (with whom lay the greater seduction I pretended not =
to
say), but the manner in which she spoke of the crime itself, giving it ever=
y reproach
but the right; considering its ill consequences only as they were to be bra=
ved
or overborne by a defiance of decency and impudence in wrong; and last of a=
ll,
and above all, recommending to us a compliance, a compromise, an acquiescen=
ce
in the continuance of the sin, on the chance of a marriage which, thinking =
as I
now thought of her brother, should rather be prevented than sought; all this
together most grievously convinced me that I had never understood her befor=
e,
and that, as far as related to mind, it had been the creature of my own ima=
gination,
not Miss Crawford, that I had been too apt to dwell on for many months past.
That, perhaps, it was best for me; I had less to regret in sacrificing a
friendship, feelings, hopes which must, at any rate, have been torn from me
now. And yet, that I must and would confess that, could I have restored her=
to
what she had appeared to me before, I would infinitely prefer any increase =
of
the pain of parting, for the sake of carrying with me the right of tenderne=
ss
and esteem. This is what I said, the purport of it; but, as you may imagine,
not spoken so collectedly or methodically as I have repeated it to you. She=
was
astonished, exceedingly astonished--more than astonished. I saw her change
countenance. She turned extremely red. I imagined I saw a mixture of many
feelings: a great, though short struggle; half a wish of yielding to truths,
half a sense of shame, but habit, habit carried it. She would have laughed =
if
she could. It was a sort of laugh, as she answered, 'A pretty good lecture,
upon my word. Was it part of your last sermon? At this rate you will soon
reform everybody at Mansfield and Thornton Lacey; and when I hear of you ne=
xt,
it may be as a celebrated preacher in some great society of Methodists, or =
as a
missionary into foreign parts.' She tried to speak carelessly, but she was =
not
so careless as she wanted to appear. I only said in reply, that from my hea=
rt I
wished her well, and earnestly hoped that she might soon learn to think more
justly, and not owe the most valuable knowledge we could any of us acquire,=
the
knowledge of ourselves and of our duty, to the lessons of affliction, and
immediately left the room. I had gone a few steps, Fanny, when I heard the =
door
open behind me. 'Mr. Bertram,' said she. I looked back. 'Mr. Bertram,' said
she, with a smile; but it was a smile ill-suited to the conversation that h=
ad
passed, a saucy playful smile, seeming to invite in order to subdue me; at
least it appeared so to me. I resisted; it was the impulse of the moment to
resist, and still walked on. I have since, sometimes, for a moment, regrett=
ed
that I did not go back, but I know I was right, and such has been the end of
our acquaintance. And what an acquaintance has it been! How have I been dec=
eived!
Equally in brother and sister deceived! I thank you for your patience, Fann=
y.
This has been the greatest relief, and now we will have done."
And such was Fanny's dependence on his words, =
that
for five minutes she thought they had done. Then, however, it all came on
again, or something very like it, and nothing less than Lady Bertram's rous=
ing thoroughly
up could really close such a conversation. Till that happened, they continu=
ed
to talk of Miss Crawford alone, and how she had attached him, and how
delightful nature had made her, and how excellent she would have been, had =
she
fallen into good hands earlier. Fanny, now at liberty to speak openly, felt
more than justified in adding to his knowledge of her real character, by so=
me
hint of what share his brother's state of health might be supposed to have =
in
her wish for a complete reconciliation. This was not an agreeable intimatio=
n.
Nature resisted it for a while. It would have been a vast deal pleasanter t=
o have
had her more disinterested in her attachment; but his vanity was not of a
strength to fight long against reason. He submitted to believe that Tom's
illness had influenced her, only reserving for himself this consoling thoug=
ht,
that considering the many counteractions of opposing habits, she had certai=
nly
been more attached to him than could have been expected, and for his sake b=
een
more near doing right. Fanny thought exactly the same; and they were also q=
uite
agreed in their opinion of the lasting effect, the indelible impression, wh=
ich
such a disappointment must make on his mind. Time would undoubtedly abate s=
omewhat
of his sufferings, but still it was a sort of thing which he never could get
entirely the better of; and as to his ever meeting with any other woman who
could--it was too impossible to be named but with indignation. Fanny's
friendship was all that he had to cling to.
Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery. I qu=
it
such odious subjects as soon as I can, impatient to restore everybody, not =
greatly
in fault themselves, to tolerable comfort, and to have done with all the re=
st.
My Fanny, indeed, at this very time, I have the
satisfaction of knowing, must have been happy in spite of everything. She m=
ust
have been a happy creature in spite of all that she felt, or thought she fe=
lt,
for the distress of those around her. She had sources of delight that must
force their way. She was returned to Mansfield Park, she was useful, she wa=
s beloved;
she was safe from Mr. Crawford; and when Sir Thomas came back she had every
proof that could be given in his then melancholy state of spirits, of his
perfect approbation and increased regard; and happy as all this must make h=
er,
she would still have been happy without any of it, for Edmund was no longer=
the
dupe of Miss Crawford.
It is true that Edmund was very far from happy
himself. He was suffering from disappointment and regret, grieving over what
was, and wishing for what could never be. She knew it was so, and was sorry;
but it was with a sorrow so founded on satisfaction, so tending to ease, an=
d so
much in harmony with every dearest sensation, that there are few who might =
not have
been glad to exchange their greatest gaiety for it.
Sir Thomas, poor Sir Thomas, a parent, and
conscious of errors in his own conduct as a parent, was the longest to suff=
er.
He felt that he ought not to have allowed the marriage; that his daughter's
sentiments had been sufficiently known to him to render him culpable in
authorising it; that in so doing he had sacrificed the right to the expedie=
nt,
and been governed by motives of selfishness and worldly wisdom. These were =
reflections
that required some time to soften; but time will do almost everything; and
though little comfort arose on Mrs. Rushworth's side for the misery she had
occasioned, comfort was to be found greater than he had supposed in his oth=
er
children. Julia's match became a less desperate business than he had consid=
ered
it at first. She was humble, and wishing to be forgiven; and Mr. Yates,
desirous of being really received into the family, was disposed to look up =
to
him and be guided. He was not very solid; but there was a hope of his becom=
ing
less trifling, of his being at least tolerably domestic and quiet; and at a=
ny rate,
there was comfort in finding his estate rather more, and his debts much les=
s,
than he had feared, and in being consulted and treated as the friend best w=
orth
attending to. There was comfort also in Tom, who gradually regained his hea=
lth,
without regaining the thoughtlessness and selfishness of his previous habit=
s.
He was the better for ever for his illness. He had suffered, and he had lea=
rned
to think: two advantages that he had never known before; and the self-repro=
ach
arising from the deplorable event in Wimpole Street, to which he felt himse=
lf
accessory by all the dangerous intimacy of his unjustifiable theatre, made =
an impression
on his mind which, at the age of six-and-twenty, with no want of sense or g=
ood
companions, was durable in its happy effects. He became what he ought to be:
useful to his father, steady and quiet, and not living merely for himself. =
Here was comfort indeed! and quite as soon as =
Sir
Thomas could place dependence on such sources of good, Edmund was contribut=
ing
to his father's ease by improvement in the only point in which he had given=
him
pain before--improvement in his spirits. After wandering about and sitting
under trees with Fanny all the summer evenings, he had so well talked his m=
ind
into submission as to be very tolerably cheerful again.
These were the circumstances and the hopes whi=
ch
gradually brought their alleviation to Sir Thomas, deadening his sense of w=
hat
was lost, and in part reconciling him to himself; though the anguish arising
from the conviction of his own errors in the education of his daughters was
never to be entirely done away.
Too late he became aware how unfavourable to t=
he
character of any young people must be the totally opposite treatment which
Maria and Julia had been always experiencing at home, where the excessive
indulgence and flattery of their aunt had been continually contrasted with =
his
own severity. He saw how ill he had judged, in expecting to counteract what=
was
wrong in Mrs. Norris by its reverse in himself; clearly saw that he had but
increased the evil by teaching them to repress their spirits in his presenc=
e so
as to make their real disposition unknown to him, and sending them for all
their indulgences to a person who had been able to attach them only by the
blindness of her affection, and the excess of her praise.
Here had been grievous mismanagement; but, bad=
as
it was, he gradually grew to feel that it had not been the most direful mis=
take
in his plan of education. Something must have been wanting within, or time
would have worn away much of its ill effect. He feared that principle, acti=
ve principle,
had been wanting; that they had never been properly taught to govern their
inclinations and tempers by that sense of duty which can alone suffice. They
had been instructed theoretically in their religion, but never required to
bring it into daily practice. To be distinguished for elegance and
accomplishments, the authorised object of their youth, could have had no us=
eful
influence that way, no moral effect on the mind. He had meant them to be go=
od,
but his cares had been directed to the understanding and manners, not the
disposition; and of the necessity of self-denial and humility, he feared th=
ey
had never heard from any lips that could profit them.
Bitterly did he deplore a deficiency which now=
he
could scarcely comprehend to have been possible. Wretchedly did he feel, th=
at
with all the cost and care of an anxious and expensive education, he had
brought up his daughters without their understanding their first duties, or=
his
being acquainted with their character and temper.
The high spirit and strong passions of Mrs.
Rushworth, especially, were made known to him only in their sad result. She=
was
not to be prevailed on to leave Mr. Crawford. She hoped to marry him, and t=
hey
continued together till she was obliged to be convinced that such hope was
vain, and till the disappointment and wretchedness arising from the convict=
ion rendered
her temper so bad, and her feelings for him so like hatred, as to make them=
for
a while each other's punishment, and then induce a voluntary separation.
She had lived with him to be reproached as the
ruin of all his happiness in Fanny, and carried away no better consolation =
in
leaving him than that she had divided them. What can exceed the misery of s=
uch
a mind in such a situation?
Mr. Rushworth had no difficulty in procuring a
divorce; and so ended a marriage contracted under such circumstances as to =
make
any better end the effect of good luck not to be reckoned on. She had despi=
sed
him, and loved another; and he had been very much aware that it was so. The=
indignities
of stupidity, and the disappointments of selfish passion, can excite little
pity. His punishment followed his conduct, as did a deeper punishment the
deeper guilt of his wife. He was released from the engagement to be mortifi=
ed
and unhappy, till some other pretty girl could attract him into matrimony
again, and he might set forward on a second, and, it is to be hoped, more
prosperous trial of the state: if duped, to be duped at least with good hum=
our
and good luck; while she must withdraw with infinitely stronger feelings to=
a
retirement and reproach which could allow no second spring of hope or
character.
Where she could be placed became a subject of =
most
melancholy and momentous consultation. Mrs. Norris, whose attachment seemed=
to
augment with the demerits of her niece, would have had her received at home=
and
countenanced by them all. Sir Thomas would not hear of it; and Mrs. Norris's
anger against Fanny was so much the greater, from considering her residence
there as the motive. She persisted in placing his scruples to her account,
though Sir Thomas very solemnly assured her that, had there been no young w=
oman
in question, had there been no young person of either sex belonging to him,=
to
be endangered by the society or hurt by the character of Mrs. Rushworth, he
would never have offered so great an insult to the neighbourhood as to expe=
ct
it to notice her. As a daughter, he hoped a penitent one, she should be
protected by him, and secured in every comfort, and supported by every enco=
uragement
to do right, which their relative situations admitted; but farther than tha=
t he
could not go. Maria had destroyed her own character, and he would not, by a
vain attempt to restore what never could be restored, by affording his sanc=
tion
to vice, or in seeking to lessen its disgrace, be anywise accessory to
introducing such misery in another man's family as he had known himself.
It ended in Mrs. Norris's resolving to quit
Mansfield and devote herself to her unfortunate Maria, and in an establishm=
ent
being formed for them in another country, remote and private, where, shut up
together with little society, on one side no affection, on the other no
judgment, it may be reasonably supposed that their tempers became their mut=
ual punishment.
Mrs. Norris's removal from Mansfield was the g=
reat
supplementary comfort of Sir Thomas's life. His opinion of her had been sin=
king
from the day of his return from Antigua: in every transaction together from
that period, in their daily intercourse, in business, or in chat, she had b=
een
regularly losing ground in his esteem, and convincing him that either time =
had
done her much disservice, or that he had considerably over-rated her sense,=
and
wonderfully borne with her manners before. He had felt her as an hourly evi=
l,
which was so much the worse, as there seemed no chance of its ceasing but w=
ith
life; she seemed a part of himself that must be borne for ever. To be relie=
ved
from her, therefore, was so great a felicity that, had she not left bitter
remembrances behind her, there might have been danger of his learning almos=
t to
approve the evil which produced such a good.
She was regretted by no one at Mansfield. She =
had
never been able to attach even those she loved best; and since Mrs. Rushwor=
th's
elopement, her temper had been in a state of such irritation as to make her=
everywhere
tormenting. Not even Fanny had tears for aunt Norris, not even when she was
gone for ever.
That Julia escaped better than Maria was owing=
, in
some measure, to a favourable difference of disposition and circumstance, b=
ut
in a greater to her having been less the darling of that very aunt, less
flattered and less spoilt. Her beauty and acquirements had held but a secon=
d place.
She had been always used to think herself a little inferior to Maria. Her
temper was naturally the easiest of the two; her feelings, though quick, we=
re
more controllable, and education had not given her so very hurtful a degree=
of
self-consequence.
She had submitted the best to the disappointme=
nt
in Henry Crawford. After the first bitterness of the conviction of being
slighted was over, she had been tolerably soon in a fair way of not thinkin=
g of
him again; and when the acquaintance was renewed in town, and Mr. Rushworth=
's
house became Crawford's object, she had had the merit of withdrawing hersel=
f from
it, and of chusing that time to pay a visit to her other friends, in order =
to
secure herself from being again too much attracted. This had been her motiv=
e in
going to her cousin's. Mr. Yates's convenience had had nothing to do with i=
t.
She had been allowing his attentions some time, but with very little idea of
ever accepting him; and had not her sister's conduct burst forth as it did,=
and
her increased dread of her father and of home, on that event, imagining its
certain consequence to herself would be greater severity and restraint, made
her hastily resolve on avoiding such immediate horrors at all risks, it is
probable that Mr. Yates would never have succeeded. She had not eloped with=
any
worse feelings than those of selfish alarm. It had appeared to her the only
thing to be done. Maria's guilt had induced Julia's folly.
Henry Crawford, ruined by early independence a=
nd
bad domestic example, indulged in the freaks of a cold-blooded vanity a lit=
tle
too long. Once it had, by an opening undesigned and unmerited, led him into=
the
way of happiness. Could he have been satisfied with the conquest of one ami=
able
woman's affections, could he have found sufficient exultation in overcoming=
the
reluctance, in working himself into the esteem and tenderness of Fanny Pric=
e,
there would have been every probability of success and felicity for him. His
affection had already done something. Her influence over him had already gi=
ven
him some influence over her. Would he have deserved more, there can be no d=
oubt
that more would have been obtained, especially when that marriage had taken
place, which would have given him the assistance of her conscience in subdu=
ing
her first inclination, and brought them very often together. Would he have =
persevered,
and uprightly, Fanny must have been his reward, and a reward very voluntari=
ly
bestowed, within a reasonable period from Edmund's marrying Mary.
Had he done as he intended, and as he knew he
ought, by going down to Everingham after his return from Portsmouth, he mig=
ht
have been deciding his own happy destiny. But he was pressed to stay for Mr=
s.
Fraser's party; his staying was made of flattering consequence, and he was =
to meet
Mrs. Rushworth there. Curiosity and vanity were both engaged, and the tempt=
ation
of immediate pleasure was too strong for a mind unused to make any sacrific=
e to
right: he resolved to defer his Norfolk journey, resolved that writing shou=
ld
answer the purpose of it, or that its purpose was unimportant, and staid. He
saw Mrs. Rushworth, was received by her with a coldness which ought to have
been repulsive, and have established apparent indifference between them for
ever; but he was mortified, he could not bear to be thrown off by the woman
whose smiles had been so wholly at his command: he must exert himself to su=
bdue
so proud a display of resentment; it was anger on Fanny's account; he must =
get
the better of it, and make Mrs. Rushworth Maria Bertram again in her treatm=
ent
of himself.
In this spirit he began the attack, and by ani=
mated
perseverance had soon re-established the sort of familiar intercourse, of
gallantry, of flirtation, which bounded his views; but in triumphing over t=
he discretion
which, though beginning in anger, might have saved them both, he had put
himself in the power of feelings on her side more strong than he had suppos=
ed.
She loved him; there was no withdrawing attentions avowedly dear to her. He=
was
entangled by his own vanity, with as little excuse of love as possible, and
without the smallest inconstancy of mind towards her cousin. To keep Fanny =
and
the Bertrams from a knowledge of what was passing became his first object.
Secrecy could not have been more desirable for Mrs. Rushworth's credit than=
he
felt it for his own. When he returned from Richmond, he would have been gla=
d to
see Mrs. Rushworth no more. All that followed was the result of her imprude=
nce;
and he went off with her at last, because he could not help it, regretting
Fanny even at the moment, but regretting her infinitely more when all the b=
ustle
of the intrigue was over, and a very few months had taught him, by the forc=
e of
contrast, to place a yet higher value on the sweetness of her temper, the
purity of her mind, and the excellence of her principles.
That punishment, the public punishment of
disgrace, should in a just measure attend his share of the offence is, we k=
now,
not one of the barriers which society gives to virtue. In this world the
penalty is less equal than could be wished; but without presuming to look
forward to a juster appointment hereafter, we may fairly consider a man of =
sense,
like Henry Crawford, to be providing for himself no small portion of vexati=
on
and regret: vexation that must rise sometimes to self-reproach, and regret =
to
wretchedness, in having so requited hospitality, so injured family peace, so
forfeited his best, most estimable, and endeared acquaintance, and so lost =
the
woman whom he had rationally as well as passionately loved.
After what had passed to wound and alienate the
two families, the continuance of the Bertrams and Grants in such close
neighbourhood would have been most distressing; but the absence of the latt=
er,
for some months purposely lengthened, ended very fortunately in the necessi=
ty,
or at least the practicability, of a permanent removal. Dr. Grant, through =
an
interest on which he had almost ceased to form hopes, succeeded to a stall =
in
Westminster, which, as affording an occasion for leaving Mansfield, an excu=
se
for residence in London, and an increase of income to answer the expenses of
the change, was highly acceptable to those who went and those who staid.
Mrs. Grant, with a temper to love and be loved,
must have gone with some regret from the scenes and people she had been used
to; but the same happiness of disposition must in any place, and any societ=
y,
secure her a great deal to enjoy, and she had again a home to offer Mary; a=
nd
Mary had had enough of her own friends, enough of vanity, ambition, love, a=
nd disappointment
in the course of the last half-year, to be in need of the true kindness of =
her
sister's heart, and the rational tranquillity of her ways. They lived toget=
her;
and when Dr. Grant had brought on apoplexy and death, by three great
institutionary dinners in one week, they still lived together; for Mary, th=
ough
perfectly resolved against ever attaching herself to a younger brother agai=
n,
was long in finding among the dashing representatives, or idle heir-apparen=
ts,
who were at the command of her beauty, and her 20,000, any one who could
satisfy the better taste she had acquired at Mansfield, whose character and
manners could authorise a hope of the domestic happiness she had there lear=
ned to
estimate, or put Edmund Bertram sufficiently out of her head.
Edmund had greatly the advantage of her in this
respect. He had not to wait and wish with vacant affections for an object
worthy to succeed her in them. Scarcely had he done regretting Mary Crawfor=
d,
and observing to Fanny how impossible it was that he should ever meet with =
such
another woman, before it began to strike him whether a very different kind =
of woman
might not do just as well, or a great deal better: whether Fanny herself we=
re
not growing as dear, as important to him in all her smiles and all her ways=
, as
Mary Crawford had ever been; and whether it might not be a possible, an hop=
eful
undertaking to persuade her that her warm and sisterly regard for him would=
be
foundation enough for wedded love.
I purposely abstain from dates on this occasio=
n,
that every one may be at liberty to fix their own, aware that the cure of u=
nconquerable
passions, and the transfer of unchanging attachments, must vary much as to =
time
in different people. I only entreat everybody to believe that exactly at the
time when it was quite natural that it should be so, and not a week earlier,
Edmund did cease to care about Miss Crawford, and became as anxious to marry
Fanny as Fanny herself could desire.
With such a regard for her, indeed, as his had
long been, a regard founded on the most endearing claims of innocence and
helplessness, and completed by every recommendation of growing worth, what
could be more natural than the change? Loving, guiding, protecting her, as =
he
had been doing ever since her being ten years old, her mind in so great a
degree formed by his care, and her comfort depending on his kindness, an ob=
ject
to him of such close and peculiar interest, dearer by all his own importance
with her than any one else at Mansfield, what was there now to add, but tha=
t he
should learn to prefer soft light eyes to sparkling dark ones. And being al=
ways
with her, and always talking confidentially, and his feelings exactly in th=
at
favourable state which a recent disappointment gives, those soft light eyes
could not be very long in obtaining the pre-eminence.
Having once set out, and felt that he had done=
so
on this road to happiness, there was nothing on the side of prudence to stop
him or make his progress slow; no doubts of her deserving, no fears of
opposition of taste, no need of drawing new hopes of happiness from
dissimilarity of temper. Her mind, disposition, opinions, and habits wanted=
no half-concealment,
no self-deception on the present, no reliance on future improvement. Even in
the midst of his late infatuation, he had acknowledged Fanny's mental
superiority. What must be his sense of it now, therefore? She was of course
only too good for him; but as nobody minds having what is too good for them=
, he
was very steadily earnest in the pursuit of the blessing, and it was not
possible that encouragement from her should be long wanting. Timid, anxious,
doubting as she was, it was still impossible that such tenderness as hers
should not, at times, hold out the strongest hope of success, though it
remained for a later period to tell him the whole delightful and astonishing
truth. His happiness in knowing himself to have been so long the beloved of
such a heart, must have been great enough to warrant any strength of langua=
ge in
which he could clothe it to her or to himself; it must have been a delightf=
ul
happiness. But there was happiness elsewhere which no description can reach.
Let no one presume to give the feelings of a young woman on receiving the
assurance of that affection of which she has scarcely allowed herself to
entertain a hope.
Their own inclinations ascertained, there were=
no
difficulties behind, no drawback of poverty or parent. It was a match which=
Sir
Thomas's wishes had even forestalled. Sick of ambitious and mercenary
connexions, prizing more and more the sterling good of principle and temper,
and chiefly anxious to bind by the strongest securities all that remained t=
o him
of domestic felicity, he had pondered with genuine satisfaction on the more
than possibility of the two young friends finding their natural consolation=
in
each other for all that had occurred of disappointment to either; and the
joyful consent which met Edmund's application, the high sense of having
realised a great acquisition in the promise of Fanny for a daughter, formed
just such a contrast with his early opinion on the subject when the poor li=
ttle
girl's coming had been first agitated, as time is for ever producing between
the plans and decisions of mortals, for their own instruction, and their
neighbours' entertainment.
Fanny was indeed the daughter that he wanted. =
His
charitable kindness had been rearing a prime comfort for himself. His
liberality had a rich repayment, and the general goodness of his intentions=
by
her deserved it. He might have made her childhood happier; but it had been =
an
error of judgment only which had given him the appearance of harshness, and=
deprived
him of her early love; and now, on really knowing each other, their mutual
attachment became very strong. After settling her at Thornton Lacey with ev=
ery
kind attention to her comfort, the object of almost every day was to see her
there, or to get her away from it.
Selfishly dear as she had long been to Lady
Bertram, she could not be parted with willingly by her. No happiness of son=
or
niece could make her wish the marriage. But it was possible to part with he=
r,
because Susan remained to supply her place. Susan became the stationary nie=
ce, delighted
to be so; and equally well adapted for it by a readiness of mind, and an
inclination for usefulness, as Fanny had been by sweetness of temper, and
strong feelings of gratitude. Susan could never be spared. First as a comfo=
rt
to Fanny, then as an auxiliary, and last as her substitute, she was establi=
shed
at Mansfield, with every appearance of equal permanency. Her more fearless
disposition and happier nerves made everything easy to her there. With quic=
kness
in understanding the tempers of those she had to deal with, and no natural
timidity to restrain any consequent wishes, she was soon welcome and useful=
to
all; and after Fanny's removal succeeded so naturally to her influence over=
the
hourly comfort of her aunt, as gradually to become, perhaps, the most belov=
ed
of the two. In her usefulness, in Fanny's excellence, in William's continued
good conduct and rising fame, and in the general well-doing and success of =
the
other members of the family, all assisting to advance each other, and doing
credit to his countenance and aid, Sir Thomas saw repeated, and for ever
repeated, reason to rejoice in what he had done for them all, and acknowled=
ge
the advantages of early hardship and discipline, and the consciousness of b=
eing
born to struggle and endure.
With so much true merit and true love, and no =
want
of fortune and friends, the happiness of the married cousins must appear as
secure as earthly happiness can be. Equally formed for domestic life, and
attached to country pleasures, their home was the home of affection and
comfort; and to complete the picture of good, the acquisition of Mansfield =
living,
by the death of Dr. Grant, occurred just after they had been married long
enough to begin to want an increase of income, and feel their distance from=
the
paternal abode an inconvenience.
On that event they removed to Mansfield; and t=
he
Parsonage there, which, under each of its two former owners, Fanny had never
been able to approach but with some painful sensation of restraint or alarm,
soon grew as dear to her heart, and as thoroughly perfect in her eyes, as e=
verything
else within the view and patronage of Mansfield Park had long been.
THE END