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
exclaimed 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 had two sisters to be benefited by her elevation; and such of their
acquaintance 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 pretty 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 yet
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 connections, did it very
thoroughly. She could hardly have made a more untoward choice. Sir Thomas
Bertram had interest, 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 result 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 woman of very tranquil feelings, and a temper remarkably
easy and indolent, would have contented herself with merely giving up her
sister, and thinking no more 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 out 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 disrespectful reflections on the pride of Sir Thomas, as
Mrs. Norris could not possibly keep 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 hearing 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
connection 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 liquor, 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 every thing else, as could
not but dispose them all to a reconciliation. She was preparing for her ninth
lying-in, and after bewailing the circumstance, and imploring their countenance
as sponsors to the expected child, she could not conceal how important she felt
they might 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 useful to Sir Thomas in the concerns of his West Indian property? No
situation would be beneath him -- or what did Sir Thomas think of Woolwich? or
how could a boy be sent out to the East? The letter was not unproductive. It
re-established 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 twelve-month 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 sister 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 expense of one child
entirely out of her great number. "What if they were among them 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 cruelty instead of kindness in
taking her from her family. He thought of his own four children -- of his two
sons -- of cousins in love, &c.; -- but no sooner had he deliberately begun
to state his objections, than Mrs. Norris interrupted him with a reply to them
all whether stated or not. "My dear Sir Thomas, I perfectly comprehend
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 every thing one could by way
of providing for a child one had in a manner taken into one's own hands; and I
am sure I should be the last person in the world to withhold my mite upon such
an occasion. Having no children of my own, who should I look to in any little
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 any body. A
niece of our's, Sir Thomas, I may say, or, at least of your's, 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
thinking of your sons -- but do not you know that of all things upon earth that
is the 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 connection.
Suppose 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 beauty of an angel, and she will never be more to either than a
sister." "There is a great deal of truth in what you 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, and creditable to
ourselves, we must secure to the child, or consider ourselves engaged to secure
to her hereafter, as circumstances may arise, the provision of a gentlewoman,
if no such establishment should offer as you are so sanguine in
expecting." "I thoroughly understand you," cried Mrs. Norris;
"you are every thing that is generous and considerate, and I am sure we
shall never disagree on this point. Whatever I can do, as you well know, I am
always ready enough to do for the good of those I love; and, though 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
dearSir 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 thing.
So, if you are not against it, I will write to my poor sister to-morrow, 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 have
a bed at her cousin, the sadler's, and the child be appointed to meet her
there. They may easily get her from Portsmouth to town by the coach, under the
care of any creditable person that may chance to be going. I dare say there is
always some reputable tradesman's wife or other going up." Except to the
attack on Nanny's cousin, Sir Thomas no longer made any objection, and a more
respectable though less economical rendezvous being accordingly substituted,
every thing was considered as settled, and the pleasures of so benevolent a
scheme were already enjoyed. The division 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 contriving reached, she was thoroughly benevolent, and
nobody knew better how to dictate liberality to others: but her love of money
was equal to her love of directing, and she knew quite as well how to save her
own as to spend that of her friends. 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; and 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 which 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 perhaps she might so little know herself, as to walk home to
the Parsonage after this conversation, in the happy belief of being the most
liberal-minded sister and 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 inquiry 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. Poor 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 then 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 such a thing she was sure would distract him.
"Then she had better come to us," said Lady Bertram with the utmost
composure. After a short pause, Sir Thomas added with dignity, "Yes, let
her home be in this house. We will endeavour to 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 can 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 shall fetch her,
however it may put me to inconvenience to have my chief counsellor away for
three days. I suppose, sister, you will put the child in the little white
attic, near the old nurseries. It will be much the best place for her, so near
Miss Lee, and not far from the girls, and close by the housemaids, who could
either of them help dress her you know, and take care of her clothes, for 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 any where
else." Lady Bertram made no opposition. "I hope she will prove a
well-disposed girl," continued Mrs. Norris, "and be sensible of her uncommon
good fortune in having such friends." "Should her disposition be
really bad," said Sir Thomas, "we must not, for our own children's
sake, continue her 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 gross ignorance, some meanness of opinions, and very distressing
vulgarity of manner; 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 every thing 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 will 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," 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, authorize 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 though
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 did 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, good-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 her in to the others, and recommending her to their
kindness. Fanny Price was at this time just ten years old, and though there
might not be much in her first appearance to captivate, there 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
taking 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 sustained 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 sixteen, and tall of their age,
had all the grandeur of men in the eyes of their little 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 any thing like natural
shyness, and their confidence increasing from their cousin'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 very 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 would have supposed
the girls so nearly of an age as they really were. There was in fact 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
every body, 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 consciousness of misery was
therefore increased by the idea of its being a wicked thing for 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 pug, 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 sorrows 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." 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 every body she had been used to. Her
feelings were very acute, and too little understood to be properly attended to.
Nobody meant to be unkind, but nobody put themselves out of their way to secure
her comfort. The holiday allowed to the Miss Bertrams the next day on purpose
to afford leisure for getting acquainted with, and entertaining their young
cousin, produced little union. They could not but hold her cheap on finding
that she had but two sashes, and had never learnt 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 their least
valued toys, and leave her to herself, while they adjourned to whatever might
be the favourite holiday sport of the moment, making artificial flowers or
wasting gold paper. Fanny, whether near or from her cousins, whether in the
school-room, 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 overcome 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 play-fellow, instructress, and nurse, the despondence
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; whatever 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 girl 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 of 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 with all
the gentleness of an excellent nature, "what can be the matter?" And
sitting down by her, was at great pains to overcome her shame in being so
surprised, and persuade her to speak openly. "Was she ill? or was any body
angry with her? or had she quarrelled with Maria and Julia? or was she puzzled
about any thing in her lesson that he could explain? Did she, in short, want
any thing 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 still 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 Mamma, my dear little 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
constant companion and friend; her advocate with her mother (of whom he was the
darling) 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 head and answered, hesitatingly, "she did not know; she had not
any paper." "If that be all your difficulty, I will furnish you with
paper and every other material, and you may write your letter whenever you
choose. Would it make you happy to write to William?" "Yes,
very." "Then let it be done now. Come with me into the breakfast room,
we shall find every thing there, and be sure of having the room to
ourselves." "But cousin -- will it go to the post?" "Yes,
depend upon me it shall; it shall go with the other letters; and as your uncle
will frank it, it will cost William 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 farther resistance; and they went together into the
breakfast-room, where Edmund prepared her paper, and ruled her lines with all
the good will that her 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 him 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 artless 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 she said, was convinced of her having an
affectionate heart, and a strong desire 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 knowingly given her pain, but he now felt that
she required more positive kindness, and 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
every body 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 associate, 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 brother Edmund urged her claims to
their kindness, that "Fanny was good-natured enough." Edmund was
uniformly kind himself, and she had nothing worse to endure on the part of Tom,
than that sort of merriment which a young man of seventeen will always think
fair with a child of ten. He was just entering into life, full of spirits, and
with all the liberal dispositions of an eldest son, who feels born only for
expense and enjoyment. His kindness to his little 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 Thomas 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 showed a tractable
disposition, and seemed likely to give them little trouble. A mean 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 continually bringing some
fresh report of it into the drawing-room. "Dear Mamma, only think, my
cousin cannot put the map of Europe together -- or my cousin cannot tell the
principal rivers of Russia -- or she never heard of Asia Minor -- or she does
not know the difference between water-colours and crayons! -- How strange! --
Did you ever hear any thing so stupid?" "My dear," their
considerate aunt would reply; "it is very bad, but you must not expect
every body to be as forward and quick at learning as yourself." "But,
aunt, she is really so very ignorant! -- 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
theIsland, as if there were no other island in the world. I am sure I should
have been ashamed of myself, if I had not known 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 kings of England, with the dates of their
accession, and most of the principal events of their reigns!"
"Yes," added the other; "and of the Roman emperors as low as
Severus; besides a great deal of the Heathen Mythology, and all the Metals,
Semi-Metals, Planets, and distinguished philosophers." "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 every thing else, 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 seventeen. But I must tell you another thing of Fanny,
so odd and so stupid. Do you know, 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, for, though you know
(owing to me) your papa and mamma are so good as to bring her 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 whichMrs. 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 every thing
but disposition, they were admirably taught. Sir Thomas did not know what was
wanting, because, though a truly anxious father, he was 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 every thing 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 under
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 did
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 and
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 favour 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 every spring, and remained wholly in the country,
leaving Sir Thomas to attend his duty in Parliament, with whatever increase or
diminution of comfort might arise from her absence. In the country, therefore,
the Miss Bertrams continued to exercise their memories, practise their duets,
and grow tall and womanly; and their father saw them becoming in person,
manner, and accomplishments, every thing 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 good sense and uprightness of mind, bid most
fairly for utility, honour, and happiness to himself and all his connections.
He was to be a clergyman. Amid the cares and the complacency which his own
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 disposal
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 any thing 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 after
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,
their exquisite delight in being together, their hours of happy mirth, and
moments of serious conference, may be imagined; as well as the sanguine views
and spirits 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
directly 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 every body else, his
single support could not bring her forward, but his attentions were otherwise
of the 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 sense, 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 any body 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, and 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, previous 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 any thing 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 your's (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 certain 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
reflect, 1st, that he had not been half so much in debt as some of his friends;
2dly, that his father had made a most tiresome piece of work of it; and 3dly,
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-neck'd, apoplectic sort 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 relieved from the expense of her support, and
the obligation of her future provision. In the fulness 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 her 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 shall 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 astonished? You have been five
years with us, and my sister always meant to take you when 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 found 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 are in one house
or the other." Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could
not feel the difference to be so small, she could not think of living with her
aunt with any thing like satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund, 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 persuaded 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."
"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 every thing 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 money 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 every thing 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 think she is behaving better already; and when you are her only companion,
you must be important to her." "I can never be important to any
one." "What is to prevent you?" "Every thing -- 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 without 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 your
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 will 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." "Oh! 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 you now. She is of a temper to do a great deal for any
body she really interests herself about, and she will force you to do justice
to your natural powers." Fanny sighed, and said, "I cannot see things
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 could
suppose my aunt really to care for me, it would be delightful to feel myself of
consequence to any body! -- Here, I know I am of none, and yet I love the place
so well." "The place, Fanny, is what you will not quit, 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 such 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 poney. Ah! cousin, when I remember how much I used to dread
riding, what terrors it gave 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 kind 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 occurred 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 rank as genteel among the buildings of
Mansfield parish; the White house being only just large enough to receive
herself and her servants, and allow a spare room 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 save 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 Lee
any longer, when Fanny goes to live with you?" Mrs. Norris almost started.
"Live with me, dearLady Bertram, what do you mean?" "Is not she
to live with you? -- I thought you had settled it with Sir Thomas?"
"Me! never. I never spoke a syllable about 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 any
body to wish that really knows us both. Good heaven! what could I do with
Fanny? -- Me! a poor helpless, forlorn widow, unfit for any thing, my spirits
quite broke down, what could I do with a girl at her 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 Sir Thomas to speak to you about
it?" "Indeed, I do not know. I suppose he thought 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 likely -- 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 incumbrance here." "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 him,
my spirits still worse, all my peace in this world destroyed, with barely
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 could
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 hands,
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?"
"DearLady Bertram! what am I fit for but solitude? Now and then I shall
hope to have a friend in my little cottage (I shall always have a bed for a
friend); but the most part of my future days will be spent in utter seclusion.
If I can but make both ends meet, that's all I ask for." "I hope,
sister, things are not so very bad with you neither -- considering. Sir Thomas
says you will have six hundred a year." "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 be a better manager. I havebeen a liberal housekeeper enough, but
I shall not be ashamed to practice economy now. My situation is as much altered
as my income. 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 will 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.
Norris, moving to go, "I can only say that my sole desire is to be of use
to your 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
must keep a spare room for a friend." Lady Bertram repeated enough of this
conversation 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 any thing 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 she possessed was designed for their family, he soon
grew reconciled to a distinction, which at the same time that it was
advantageous and complimentary 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 possession of the White house, the Grants
arrived at the parsonage, and these events over, every thing 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 acquaintance.
They had their faults, and Mrs. Norris soon found them out. The Dr. was very
fond of eating, and would have a good dinner every day; and Mrs. Grant, instead
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 quantity
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 hertime, but this was a way of going on that she
could not understand. A fine lady in a country parsonage was quite out of
place. Her store-room she thought might have been good enough for Mrs. Grant to
go into. Enquire 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 settled in life without being handsome, and expressed her astonishment on
that point 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
connections at home. They left England with the probability of being nearly a
twelvemonth absent. The necessity of the measure in a pecuniary light, 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 direction 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 perform what should
have been her own; but in Mrs. Norris's watchful attention, and 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 can be dangerous or
difficult, or fatiguing to any body 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
would he only have smiled upon her and called her "my dearFanny,"
while he said it, every former frown or cold address might have been forgotten.
But he had ended his speech in a way to sink her in sad mortification, by
adding, "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 sister 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 soon 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 to the attorney, settling with the servants, and
equally saving her from all possible fatigue or exertion in every particular,
but that of directing her letters. The earliest intelligence of the travellers'
safe arrival in Antigua after a favourable voyage, was received; though not
before 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
depended 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
Thomas's assurances of their both being alive and well, made it necessary to
lay by her 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 promoting gaieties for her nieces,
assisting their toilettes, displaying their accomplishments, and looking about
for their future husbands, had so much to 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 even
in fears for the absent. The Miss Bertrams were now fully established among the
belles of the neighbourhood; and as they joined to beauty and brilliant
acquirements, a manner naturally easy, and carefully formed to general civility
and obligingness, they possessed its favour as well as its admiration. Their 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 had 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 trouble, 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 every thing to Lady Bertram during the
night of a ball or a party. She talked to her, listened to her, read to her;
and the tranquillity of such evenings, her perfect security in such a tête-á-tête
from any sound of unkindness, was unspeakably welcome to a mind which had
seldom known a pause in its alarms or embarrassments. As to her cousins'
gaieties, she loved to hear an account of them, especially of the balls, and
whomEdmund had danced with; but thought too lowly of her own situation to
imagine she should ever be admitted 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 brought 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 poney, and for some time she was in danger of
feeling the loss in her health as well as in her affections, for in spite of
the acknowledged importance of her riding on horseback, no measures were taken
for mounting her again, "because," as it was observed by her aunts,
"she might ride one of her cousins' horses at any time when they did not
want them;" and as the Miss Bertrams regularly wanted their horses every
fine day, and had no idea of carrying their obliging manners to the sacrifice
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 instigation of
the other; Lady Bertram holding exercise to be as unnecessary for every body as
it was unpleasant to herself; and Mrs. Norris, who was walking all day,
thinking every body 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 perceive 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
supineness of his mother, or the economy of his aunt, to make it appear
unimportant. Mrs. Norris could not help thinking that some steady old thing
might be found among the numbers belonging to the Park, that would do vastly
well, or that one might be borrowed of the steward, or that perhaps Dr. Grant
might now and then lend them the poney he sent to the post. She could not but
consider it as absolutely unnecessary, and even improper, that Fanny should
have a regular lady's horse 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 large part of his income was unsettled, seemed to her very
unjustifiable. "Fanny 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 would 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 horses
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 proved 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 not
supposed before, that any thing could ever suit her like the old grey poney;
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
from which her pleasure sprung, was beyond all her words to express. She
regarded her cousin as an example of every thing 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
sentiments towards him were compounded of all that was respectful, grateful,
confiding, and tender. As the horse continued in name as well as fact, the
property of Edmund, Mrs. Norris could tolerate its being for Fanny's use; and
had Lady Bertram ever thought about her own objection again, he might have 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 prospect
of finishing his business. Unfavourable circumstances had suddenly arisen at a
moment when he was beginning to turn all his thoughts towards England, and the
very great uncertainty in which every thing was then involved, determined him
on sending home his son, and waiting the final arrangement by himself. Tom
arrived 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
away his son, seemed to her so like a parent's care, under the influence of a
foreboding 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 ideas, in the sad solitariness of her cottage, as to be
obliged to take daily refuge 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 became 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 dearMaria well married," she 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 the 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 there 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 would
give her the enjoyment of a larger income than her father's, as well as ensure
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 could.
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 present
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 amiable
qualities and accomplishments, the best adapted to make him happy. Mrs. Norris
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
admirers, 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
precisely the young man to deserve and attach her. After dancing with each
other at a proper number of balls, the young people justified these opinions,
and an engagement, with 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. Rushworth's marrying Miss Bertram. It was some months before
Sir Thomas's consent could be received; but in the mean while, as no one felt a
doubt of his most cordial pleasure in the connection, 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 every where 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 induce 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 happiness
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 thousand
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 heard nothing but the perfectly good and agreeable. It was a
connection 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 should not take place before his return,
which he was again looking eagerly forward to. He wrote in April, and had
strong hopes of settling every thing 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 the 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 young 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
them; 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
whomMrs. 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 were 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 doated on the girl; and it was the lady's death which now obliged
her protegée, after some months further trial at her uncle's house, to find
another home. Admiral Crawford was a man of vicious conduct, who chose, instead
of retaining his niece, to bring his mistress under his own roof; and to this
Mrs. Grant was indebted for her sister's proposal of coming to her, a measure
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 residing in
the country without a family of children; having more than filled her favourite
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, therefore,
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 similar apprehensions,
though they arose principally from doubts of her sister's style of living and
tone of society; and it was not till after she had tried in vain to persuade
her brother to settle with her at his own country-house, that she could resolve
to hazard herself among her other relations. To any thing like a permanence of
abode, or limitation of society, Henry Crawford had, unluckily, 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 them credit for
every thing 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 waited 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 whichMrs. Grant foresaw in
her; and being a warm-hearted, unreserved woman, Mary had not been 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 sister's early care, or the choice it had fallen on.
Matrimony was her object, provided she could marry well, and having seen Mr.
Bertram in town, she knew that objection 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 seriously. The scheme was soon repeated to Henry.
"And now," added Mrs. Grant, "I have thought of something to
make it quite complete. I should dearly love to settle 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 any thing of the sort, it will be a
fresh matter of delight to me, to find myself allied to any body 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 that English abilities can do, has been tried already. I have three very
particular friends who have been all dying for him in their turn; and the pains
which they, their 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 have 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 blessing of a wife as most justly described in those discreet
lines of the poet, "Heaven'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 -- the 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 they profess a
disinclination for it, I only set it down that they have not yet seen the right
person." Dr. Grant laughingly congratulated Miss Crawford on feeling no
disinclination to the state herself. "Oh! yes, I am not at all ashamed of
it. I would have every body marry if they can do it properly; I do not like to
have people throw themselves away; but every body should marry as soon as they
can 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 soon 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 their brothers, with her lively dark eye, clear
brown complexion, and general prettiness. Had she been tall, full formed, and
fair, it might have been more 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 the country. Her brother was not handsome; no, when they
first 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 very
plain; he was plain, to be sure, but then he had so much countenance, and his
teeth were so good, and he was so well made, that one soon forgot he was plain;
and after a third interview, after dining in company with him at the parsonage,
he was no longer allowed to be called so by any body. He was, in fact, the most
agreeable young man the sisters had ever known, and they were equally delighted
with him. Miss Bertram's engagement made him in equity the property of Julia,
of whichJulia 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 confused and indistinct. She did not want to see or understand.
"There could be no harm in her liking an agreeable man -- every body knew
her situation -- Mr. Crawford must take care of himself." Mr. Crawford did
not mean to be in any danger; 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
advantage 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
agreeable, but I shall always like Julia best, because you order me."
"I shall not talk to you, Henry, but I know you will like her best at
last." "Do not I tell you, that I like her best atfirst?"
"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 powers 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 straws 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 takenin, I would 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. Every body is taken in at some period or
other." "Not always in marriage, dearMary." "In marriage
especially. With all due respect 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 so, when I consider that it is, of all transactions, the
one in which people expect 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 mano euvring
business. I know so many who have married in the full expectation and
confidence of some one particular advantage in the connection, or accomplishment
or good quality in the person, who have found themselves entirely deceived, and
been obliged to put up with exactly the reverse! What 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 every where, 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 heart-ache." "You are as bad as your brother,
Mary; but we will cure you both. Mansfield shall cure you both -- and without
any taking in. Stay with us and we will cure you." The Crawfords, without
wanting to be cured, were very willing to stay. Mary was satisfied with the
parsonage as a present home, and Henry equally ready to lengthen his visit. He
had come, intending to spend 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 every day. The Miss Bertrams' admiration of
Mr. Crawford was more rapturous than any thing whichMiss 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, and 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 strong claim. She had felt an early presentiment that she should
like the eldest best. 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, that he and his situation might do. She looked about her with
due consideration, and found almost every thing 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 mother, 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 she 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 after 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 eagerness 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 new-comers? Few young ladies of eighteen could be less called on
to speak their opinion than Fanny. In a quiet way, very little attended to, she
paid her tribute of admiration to Miss Crawford's beauty; but as she still
continued to think Mr. Crawford very plain, in spite of her two cousins having
repeatedly proved the contrary, she never mentioned him. The notice which she
excited herself, was to this effect. "I begin 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." 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 appearance 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 -- and 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 every thing -- and
perhaps when one has seen her hardly able to speak the year before. Mr.
Bertram, I dare say you have sometimes met with such changes." "I
believe I have; but this is hardly fair; 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 cannot 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 other day, you know. Edmund, you have heard me
mention Charles Anderson. The circumstance was precisely as this lady has
represented it. When Anderson first introduced 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 Anderson, with only her and a little girl
or two in the room -- the governess being sick 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 civil 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 did not know which way to look. I
felt that I must be the jest of the room at the 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
common a fault. Mothers certainly have not yet got quite the right way of
managing their daughters. I do not know where the error lies. I do not pretend
to set people right, but I do see that they are often wrong." "Those
who are showing the world what female manners shouldbe," 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 appear in public than afterwards." "I do
not know," replied Miss Crawford hesitatingly. "Yes, I cannot agree
with you there. It is certainly the modestest part of the business. It is much
worse to have girls notout, give themselves the same airs and take the same
liberties as if they were, which I have seen done. That is worse than any thing
-- quite disgusting!" "Yes, that is very inconvenient indeed,"
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
juster,) 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
September -- just after my return from the West Indies -- my friend Sneyd --
you have heard me speak 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 found 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 men, attached myself to one of her daughters, walked by her side
all the way home, and made myself as agreeable as I could; the young lady
perfectly easy in her manners, and as ready to talk as to listen. I had not a
suspicion that I could be doing any thing 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 next six months, and Miss Sneyd, I believe, has never
forgiven me." "That was bad indeed. Poor Miss Sneyd! Though 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 prosper. But now I must be
satisfied about Miss Price. Does she go to balls? Does she dine 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
herself, and dines no where but with Mrs. Grant, and Fanny stays at home with
her." "Oh! then the point is clear. Miss Price is not out."
Mr. Bertram set off for
@@@@, and Miss Crawford was prepared to find a great chasm in their society,
and to miss him decidedly 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 her 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, wine drank without any smiles, or agreeable trifling, and
the venison cut up without supplying one pleasant anecdote of any former
haunch, or a single entertaining story about "my friend such a one."
She must try to find amusement 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 a neighbouring 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 life.
I told Smith I did not know where I was. The approach now is one of the finest
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 --
quite 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 any thing. I never saw a
place that wanted so much improvement in my life; and it is so forlorn, that I
do not know what can be done with it." "No wonder that Mr. Rushworth
should think 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 heart 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 every thing done in the best
style, and made as nice as possible. Such a place as Sotherton Court deserves
every thing that taste and money can do. You have space to work upon there, and
grounds that will well reward you. For my own part, if I had any thing 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 any thing 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 deal 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
dearSir Thomas were here, he could tell you what improvements we made; and a
great deal more would have been done, but for poor Mr. Norris's sad state of
health. He could hardly ever get out, poor man, to enjoy any thing, and that disheartened
me from doing several things that Sir Thomas and I used to talk of. If it had
not been for that, we should have carried on the garden 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 apricot, 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. Grant,
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 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
friends; 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."
"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 between his
submission to her taste, and his having always intended the same himself, with
the super-added objects of professing attention to the comfort of ladies 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 much
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. There have
been two or three fine old trees cut down that grew too near the house, and it
opens the prospect amazingly, which makes me think that Repton, or any body 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," turning 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 listening,
now looked at him, and said in a low voice, "Cut down an avenue! What a
pity! Does not it 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 suppose 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 contrive it." "Oh! it does not signify. Whenever I do
see 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 said 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 country, I should be most thankful to any Mr.
Repton who would undertake it, and give 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 was 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 inhand as the greatest of nuisances.
Three years ago, the admiral, my honoured uncle, 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 every thing as complete
as possible in the country, shrubberies and flower gardens, and rustic seats
innumerable; but it must be all done without 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 assurances 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 farther
delay." "I am to have it to morrow; but how do you think it is to be
conveyed? Not by a waggon or cart; -- Oh! no, nothing of that kind could be
hired in the village. I might as well have asked for porters and a
hand-barrow." "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 impossible, so I told my maid to speak for one
directly; and as I cannot look out of my dressing-closet without seeing one
farm yard, nor walk in the shrubbery without 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 thought on the
subject before, but when you do think of it, you must see the importance 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 every thing is to be got with money, I was a little embarrassed at
first by the sturdy independence of your country customs. However, I am to have
my harp fetched to-morrow. Henry, who 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 gratified 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 gone a
twelvemonth, would you ever write to him, nor he to you, if it could be helped.
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 world;
and when obliged to take up the pen to say that such a horse is ill, or such a
relation dead, it is done in the fewest possible words. You have but one style
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 will
talk to me by the hour together, has never yet turned the page in a letter; and
very often it is nothing more than, ""DearMary, I am just arrived.
Bath seems full, and every thing as usual. Your's sincerely."" That
is the true manly style; that is a complete brother's letter." "When
they are at a distance from all their family," said Fanny, colouring for
William's sake, "they can write long letters." "Miss Price has a
brother at sea," said 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
story, but his determined silence obliged her to relate her brother's
situation; her 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 promotion. "Do you know any thing 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 used.
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
was 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 dearHenry, 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 fall of ground, and such timber!
What would not I 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
been of age three months before Everingham was all that it is now. My plan was
laid 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 quickly and act quickly," said Julia.
"You can never want employment. Instead 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
request 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 could 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.
Norris, as if reading in her two nieces' minds their little approbation of a
plan which 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 little party? Here are many that
would be interested in your improvements, my dearMr. 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 pleasant drive home by moonlight.
I dare say Mr. Crawford would take my two nieces and me in his barouche, and
Edmund can go on horseback, you know, sister, and Fanny 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 the 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 attractive. She has a wonderful play of
feature! But was there nothing in her conversation 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 very wrong -- very
indecorous." "And very ungrateful I think." "Ungrateful is
a strong word. I do not know 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 must be difficult to do justice to her affection
for Mrs. Crawford, without throwing 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 should acquit her aunt entirely. I do not
censure her opinions; but there certainly is impropriety in making them
public." "Do not you think," said Fanny, after a little
consideration, "that this impropriety is a reflection itself upon 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 suppose the faults of the niece to have been those of
the aunt; and it makes one more sensible of the disadvantages she has been
under. But I think her present home 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 short letters.
She made me almost laugh; but I cannot rate so very highly the love or good
nature of a brother, who will not give himself the trouble of writing any thing
worth reading, to his sisters, when they are separated. I am sure William would
never have used me so, under any circumstances. And what right had she to
suppose, that you would not write long letters when you were absent?"
"The right of a lively mind, Fanny, seizing 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 sharp, or loud, or coarse. She is perfectly
feminine, except in the instances we have 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 affections, 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 was in a line of admiration of Miss Crawford, which might
lead him where Fanny could not follow. Miss Crawford's attractions did not
lessen. The harp arrived, and 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 air. 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 could not be unwilling to have a listener, and every thing was
soon in a fair train. 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 summer, was enough
to catch any man's heart. The season, the scene, the air, were all favourable
to tenderness and sentiment. Mrs. Grant and her tambour frame were not without
their use; it was all in harmony; and as every thing 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 business, 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 the 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 common 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, whichMiss 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 him 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 have 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, while Mr. Crawford was devoted to the
ladies of the park; but she thought it a very bad exchange, and if Edmund were
not there to mix the wine and water for her, would rather go without it than
not. She was a little surprised that he could spend so many hours with Miss
Crawford, and not see more of the sort of fault which 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 actual pain whichMiss Crawford
occasioned her, was the consequence of an inclination 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 the 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 not 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 being first proposed, so far from feeling
slighted, was almost overpowered 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, before either Fanny or the
steady old coachman, who always attended her when she rode 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 know how to leave
off. Active and fearless, and, though rather small, strongly made, she seemed
formed for a horsewoman; and to the pure genuine pleasure of the exercise,
something was probably added in Edmund's attendance and instructions, and
something more in the conviction of very much surpassing her sex in general by
her early progress, to make her unwilling to dismount. Fanny was ready and
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 him, 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 hall 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 meadow she
immediately saw the group -- Edmund and Miss Crawford both on horseback, 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 merriment
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 not
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 stopt 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-nature
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 his 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
tranquillized, 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 she stood. She
began then to be afraid of appearing rude and impatient; and walked to meet
them with a great anxiety to avoid the suspicion. "My dearMiss
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 say 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 from 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 like. Miss Price, I give way to you with a very bad grace; but I
sincerely hope you 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 with his own horse, now joining them,
Fanny was lifted on her's, 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 together to the village; nor did her
attendant do her much good by his comments on Miss Crawford's great cleverness
as a horsewoman, which he had been watching with 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 better. 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 me! 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 was
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 pleasure
in praising it. "I was sure she would ride well," said 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," said he; "but whenever you are next inclined to stay at home,
I think Miss Crawford would be glad to have her for 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 perfectly 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, you for health." "I shall not ride
to-morrow, certainly," 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 scheme 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 other 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 lane. Four fine
mornings successively were spent in this manner, in shewing the Crawfords the
country, and doing the honours of its finest spots. Every thing answered; it
was all gaiety and good-humour, the heat only supplying inconvenience enough to
be talked of with pleasure -- till the fourth day, when 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 was 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, and 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 asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, discomposed by her niece's ill-humour,
and having asked one 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?" "No, not that I know of," replied Mrs. Norris; "she
was here a moment ago." Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end
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 week,
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 any body in the house." "Fanny," said
Edmund, after looking at her attentively; "I am sure you have the
headach?" She could not deny it, but said it was not very bad. "I can
hardly believe you," he replied; "I know your looks too well. How
long have you had it?" "Since a little before dinner. It is nothing
but the heat." "Did you go out in the heat?" "Go out! to be
sure she did," said Mrs. 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?" "Yes,
and I am afraid they will be the last 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," rejoined Mrs. Norris, in a rather softened
voice; "but I question whether her headach 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 well 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 her to go twice?" "No;
but they were to be put into the spare 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, saying, "And
could nobody be employed on such an errand but Fanny? -- Upon my word, ma'am,
it has been a very ill-managed business." "I am sure I do not know
how it was to have 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 once; and I was talking to Mr. Green at that very time about your
mother's dairymaid, 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 every thing at once. And as for Fanny's just stepping down
to my house for me, 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 ride,
she ought to walk. If she had been riding before, I should not have asked it of
her. But I thought it would rather do her good after being stooping among the 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 the more candid Lady Bertram, who
had overheard her, "I am very much afraid she caught the headach there,
for the heat was enough to kill any body. It was as much as I could bear myself.
Sitting and calling to Pug, and trying to keep 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 than any thing which they had done. Nothing of this would have
happened had she been properly considered; but she had been left four days
together without any choice of companions or exercise, and without any excuse for
avoiding whatever 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 probably 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 leant 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, and 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 would 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 fortnight 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 its revival, and an early day was named,
and agreed to, provided Mr. Crawford should be disengaged; the young ladies did
not forget that stipulation, and though Mrs. Norris would willingly have
answered for his being so, they would neither authorize 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 for 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 house, 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 any thing else should be talked of, for Mrs. Norris was in high spirits about
it, and Mrs. Rushworth, a well-meaning, civil, prosing, 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. Norris's more numerous
words and louder tone convinced her of the truth. "The fatigue would be
too much for my sister, a great deal too much I assure you, my dearMrs.
Rushworth. Ten miles there, and ten back, you know. You must excuse my sister
on this occasion, and accept of our two dear girls and myself without her.
Sotherton is the only place that 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 tooMiss 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 possibly spare her." "Oh! no -- I cannot do without Fanny."
Mrs. Rushworth proceeded next, under the conviction that every body 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 accepting her share of the civility. Mr.
Rushworth came back from the parsonage successful; 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 one might go
with him. "But why is it necessary," said Edmund, "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 box'd up
three in a post-chaise in this weather, when we may have seats in a barouche!
No, my dearEdmund, that will not quite do." "Besides," said
Maria, "I know that Mr. Crawford depends upon taking us. After what passed
at first, he would claim it as a promise." "And my dearEdmund,"
added Mrs. Norris, "taking out two carriages when one will do, would be
trouble for nothing; and between ourselves, coachman is not very fond of the
roads between this and Sotherton; he always complains bitterly of the narrow
lanes scratching his carriage, and you know one should not like to have dear
Sir Thomas when 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 that 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 Fanny's
going with you; there can be no doubt of your having room for her."
"Fanny!" repeated Mrs. Norris; "my dearEdmund, 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 could 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, and 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 objection which could
remain, their having positively assured Mrs. Rushworth, that Fanny could not
go, and the very strange appearance there would consequently be in taking her,
which seemed to her a difficulty quite impossible to be got over. It must 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 any thing else.
She felt that she had arranged every thing 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 herself
on Mrs. Rushworth's account, because he had taken the opportunity as he walked
with her through the hall, of mentioning Miss Price as one who would probably
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 choose, settle it your
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 obliged 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, was in fact much greater than her
pleasure. She felt Edmund's kindness with all, and more than all, the
sensibility which he, unsuspicious of her fond attachment, could be aware of;
but that he should forego any enjoyment on her account gave her pain, and her
own satisfaction in seeing Sotherton would be nothing without him. The next
meeting of the two Mansfield families produced another alteration in the plan,
and one that was admitted with general approbation. Mrs. Grant offered herself
as companion for the day to Lady Bertram 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 it at her tongue's end, and was on the
point of proposing it when Mrs. Grant spoke. Wednesday was fine, and soon after
breakfast the barouche arrived, Mr. Crawford driving his sisters; and as every
body was ready, 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 honour, was unappropriated. To whose happy lot was it to fall? While
each of the Miss Bertrams were meditating how best, and with 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 wished 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 pretty. She was not often invited to join in the
conversation of the others, nor did 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 every thing but a value for Edmund, Miss Crawford was
very unlike her. She had none of Fanny's delicacy of taste, of mind, of
feeling; she saw nature, inanimate nature, with 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 considerable hill, they were
united, and a "there he is" broke at the same moment 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 sister sitting side
by side full of conversation and merriment; and to see only his expressive
profile as he turned with a smile to Julia, or to catch the laugh 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 highest spirits;
"her view of the country was charming, she wished they could all see it,
&c." but her only offer of exchange was addressed to Miss Crawford, as
they gained the summit of a long hill, and was not more inviting than this,
"Here is a fine burst of country. I wish you had my seat, but 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 Sotherton 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 woods belonged to
Sotherton," she could not carelessly observe that "she believed 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 residence of the family, with
all its rights of Court-Leet and Court-Baron. "Now we shall have no more
rough road, Miss Crawford, our difficulties are over. The rest of the way is
such as it ought to be. Mr. Rushworth has made it since he succeeded to the
estate. Here begins the village. Those cottages are really a disgrace. 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
alms-houses, built by some of the family. To the right is the steward's house;
he is a very respectable man. Now we are coming to the lodge gates; but we have
nearly a mile through the park still. It is not ugly, you see, at this end;
there is some fine timber, but the situation of the house is dreadful. We go
down hill to it for half-a-mile, 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 pretty well guessed Miss Bertram's feelings, and made it a point
of honour to promote her enjoyment to the utmost. Mrs. Norris was all delight
and volubility; and even Fanny had something to say in admiration, and might be
heard with complacency. Her eye was eagerly taking in every thing within her
reach; and after being at some pains to get a view of the house, and observing
that "it was a sort of building which she 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 west front." "Yes, it is exactly behind the house;
begins at a little distance, and ascends for half-a-mile to the extremity of
the grounds. You may see something of it here -- something of the more distant
trees. 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 fair 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 business of arriving was over, it was first necessary to eat,
and the doors were thrown 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 would he choose, 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 the 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 such 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
Mrs. Rushworth's guidance were shewn through a number of rooms, all lofty, and
many large, and amply furnished in the taste of fifty years back, with shining
floors, 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
part were family portraits, no longer any thing to any body 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 every thing 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
grandeur, regal visits and loyal efforts, delighted to connect any thing 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 some of the others were attending Mrs.
Rushworth, Henry Crawford was looking grave and shaking his head at the
windows. Every room on the west front looked across a lawn to the beginning of
the avenue immediately beyond tall iron palisades and gates. Having visited
many more rooms than could be supposed to be of any other use than to
contribute to the window tax, and find employment for housemaids,
"Now," said Mrs. Rushworth, "we are coming to the chapel, which
properly we ought to enter from above, and look down upon; but as we are quite
among friends, I will take you in this way, 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 ledge of the family gallery above.
"I am disappointed," said she, in a low voice, to Edmund. "This
is not my idea of a chapel. There is nothing awful here, nothing melancholy,
nothing grand. Here are no aisles, no arches, no inscriptions, no banners. No
banners, cousin, to be ""blown by the night wind of
Heaven."" No signs that a ""Scottish monarch sleeps
below.""" "You forget, Fanny, how lately all this has been
built, and for how confined a purpose, compared with the old chapels of castles
and monasteries. It was only for the private use of the family. They have been
buried, I suppose, in the parish church. There you must look for the banners
and the atchievements." "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 reason to think that the linings and cushions of the pulpit and family-seat
were only purple cloth; but this is not quite certain. It is a handsome chapel,
and was 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 left it off." "Every generation has its
improvements," 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,
"that 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
with 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 Crawford, 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, and say their prayers here twice a
day, while they are inventing excuses themselves for staying away."
"That is hardly Fanny's idea of a family assembling," said Edmund.
"If the master and mistress do not attend themselves, there must be more
harm than good in the custom." "At any rate, is safer to leave people
to their own devices on such subjects. Every body likes to go their own way --
to choose 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 headach, without danger of reprobation, because chapel was missed, they
would have jumped with joy and envy. Cannot you imagine with what unwilling
feelings the former belles of the house of Rushworth did many a time repair to
this chapel? 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 nature cannot say it was not so. We must all feel
attimes 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 attention 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 other, I believe; and
the influence of the place and of example may often rouse better 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 stepping 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 license,
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 comprehension 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 dearEdmund, 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, might 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. The chapel was soon afterwards left to
the silence and stillness which reigned in it with few interruptions throughout
the year. Miss Bertram, displeased with her sister, led the way, and all seemed
to feel that they had been there long enough. The lower part of the house had
been now entirely shown, and Mrs. Rushworth, never weary in the cause, would
have proceeded towards the principal stair-case, and taken them through all the
rooms above, if her son had not interposed with a doubt of there being time
enough. "For 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 with 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 them. "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
Bertrams 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 the capabilities of that end of the house. The lawn,
bounded on each side by a high wall, contained beyond the first planted a erea,
a bowling-green, and beyond the bowling-green a long terrace walk, backed by
iron palissades, 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 followed 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 unite, 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 prevailed, was obliged to keep by the side of Mrs. Rushworth, and
restrain her impatient feet 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 Miss 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 they 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
chiefly 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 only 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
suppose me designed for some profession, and might perceive that I am neither a
lawyer, nor a soldier, nor a sailor." "Very true; but, in short, it
had not occurred 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 thought that was always the lot of
the youngest, where there were many to choose before him." "Do you
think the church itself never chosen then?" "Never is a black word.
But yes, in the never of conversation which means notveryoften, 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 is nothing." "The nothing of conversation has its
gradations, I hope, as well as the never. A clergyman cannot be high in state
or fashion. He must not head mobs, or set the ton in dress. But I cannot call
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
comprehend. 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 sermons 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 speaking of the nation at large." "The
metropolis, I imagine, is a pretty fair 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 our 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 their 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 breeding, 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 it is their duty to teach and recommend; and it will, I
believe, be every where found, 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 something
better. Come, do change your mind. It is not too late. Go into the law."
"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 only 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 borders of a
repartee for half an hour together without striking it out." A general
silence succeeded. Each was thoughtful. 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 dearFanny,"
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." She took it, however, as she
spoke, and the gratification of having her do so, of feeling such a connection
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 man! At Oxford I have been a good
deal used to have a man lean on me for the length of a street, and you are only
a fly in the comparison." "I am really not tired, which I almost
wonder 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 itself 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 than 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
ever 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." A few steps farther brought them out at the bottom of the very
walk they had been talking of; and standing back, well shaded and 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," 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 make me more sensible of my own neglect.
Fanny's interest seems in safer hands with you than with me." "That
she should be tired now, however, gives me no surprise; for there is nothing in
the course of one's duties so fatiguing 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 allowed 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 iron 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 she; "I see that with a glance." He still
reasoned with her, but in vain. She would 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 should 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, and be back in a few minutes.
Fanny said she was rested, and would have moved too, 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 stronger. She watched
them till they had turned the corner, and listened till all sound of them had
ceased.
A quarter of an hour,
twenty minutes, passed away, 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 again. She listened, and at length she
heard; she heard voices and feet approaching; but she had just satisfied
herself that it was not those she wanted, when Miss 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 dearFanny, how comes
this?" were the first salutations. She told her story. "Poor
dearFanny," 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
discussed 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 into
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 directly
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 accordingly.
"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. But now, sincerely, do not you find the place
altogether worse than you expected?" "No, indeed, far otherwise. I
find it better, 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 that 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 replied, "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
man of the world as might be good for me in some points. My feelings are not
quite so evanescent, nor my memory of the past under such easy dominion as one
finds to be the case with men of the world." This was followed by a short
silence. Miss Bertram began again. "You seemed to enjoy your drive here
very much this morning. 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 have 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 very 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, here, with my assistance; I think it might be done,
if you really wished to be more 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 those 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 these words
were spoken, and smiling with all the good-humour of success, she said,
"Thank you, my dearFanny, 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, and as it appeared to her, very unreasonable direction to the
knoll, they were soon beyond her eye; and for some minutes longer she 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. She
was again roused from disagreeable musings by sudden footsteps, somebody was
coming at a quick pace down the principal walk. She expected Mr. Rushworth, but
it was Julia, who hot and out of breath, and with a look of disappointment,
cried out on seeing her, "Hey-day! Where are the others? I thought Maria
and Mr. Crawford were with you." Fanny explained. "A pretty trick,
upon my word! I cannot see them any where," 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 in
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 sitting 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." This was a most unjust reflection, but Fanny
could allow for it, and let it pass; Julia was vexed, and her temper was hasty,
but 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 away 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 that he should
have so much trouble 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
long 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 any
thing of Miss Crawford and Edmund. The sort of dread in whichFanny now sat of
seeing Mr. Rushworth prevented her thinking so much of their continued absence,
however, as she might have done. She felt that he had been very ill-used, and
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 first
he scarcely said any thing; 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." "I do not
believe I shall go any further," said he sullenly; "I see nothing of
them. By the time I get to the knoll, they may be gone some where else. I have
had walking enough." And he sat down with a most gloomy countenance by
Fanny. "I am very sorry," said she; "it is very unlucky."
And she longed to be able to say something more to the purpose. After an
interval of silence, "I think they might as well have staid for me,"
said he. "Miss Bertram thought you would follow her." "I should
not have had to follow if she had staid." This could not be denied, and
Fanny was silenced. After another pause, he went on. "Pray, Miss Price,
are you such a great admirer of this Mr. Crawford as some people are? For my
part, I can see nothing in him." "I do not think him at all
handsome." "Handsome! Nobody can call such an under-sized man
handsome. He is not five foot nine. I should not wonder if he was not more than
five foot eight. I think he is an ill-looking fellow. In my opinion, these
Crawfords are no addition at all. We did very well without them." A small
sigh escaped Fanny here, and she did not know how to contradict him. "If I
had made any difficulty about fetching 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 still it is some distance, you know, from this spot
to the house, quite into the house; and when people are waiting, they are bad
judges of time, and every half minute 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 should not join them. They expected to have a better
view of the house from that part 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 away, than in retaining
a companion. Mr. Rushworth was worked on. "Well," 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 without further 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 which a side
gate, not fastened, had tempted them very soon after their leaving her, and
they had been across a portion of the park into the very avenue which Fanny had
been hoping the whole morning to reach at last; and had been sitting down 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 their
absence. Fanny's best consolation was in being assured that Edmund had wished
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 the 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 return to the house. On
reaching the bottom of the steps to the terrace, Mrs. Rushworth and Mrs. Norris
presented themselves at the top, just ready for the wilderness, at the end of
an hour and half from their leaving 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 morning 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 their 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 most satisfactory
acquaintance, for she had set him right as to his grandson's illness, convinced
him 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 actually presented her with a
very curious specimen of heath. On this rencontre they all returned to the house
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 gentlemen
came in, and their ramble did not appear to have been more than partially
agreeable, or at all productive of any thing useful with regard to the object
of the day. 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 have been as much too late for re-establishing harmony, as it confessedly
had been for determining on any alteration. She felt, as she looked at Julia
and Mr. Rushworth, that her's 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
humour. Dinner was soon followed by tea and coffee, a ten miles' drive home
allowed no waste of hours, and from the time of their sitting down to table, it
was a quick succession of busy nothings till the carriage came to the door, and
Mrs. Norris, having fidgetted about, and obtained a few pheasant's 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 moment 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." The request had not
been foreseen, but was very graciously received, and Julia'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 conviction 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 ascending 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, which 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 cheese, just like the excellent one we
had at dinner. Nothing would satisfy that good 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. ThatMrs. Whitaker is a treasure! She was quite shocked when I
asked her whether wine was allowed at the second 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 four of those
beautiful pheasant's eggs, whichMrs. 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 dairy maid to set them under the
first spare hen, and if they come to good I can have them moved to my own 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 within. Their spirits were in general
exhausted -- and to determine whether the day had afforded most pleasure or
pain, might occupy the meditations of almost all.
The day at Sotherton,
with all its imperfections, afforded the Miss Bertrams much more agreeable
feelings than were derived from the letters from Antigua, which soon afterwards
reached Mansfield. It was much pleasanter to think of Henry Crawford than of
their father; and to think of their father 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 return. Sir Thomas wrote of it with
as much decision as experience and anxiety could authorize. His business was so
nearly concluded as to justify him in proposing to take his passage in the
September packet, and he consequently looked forward 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
that 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 every body who shuts their 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 middle 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 excited 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 seeming 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, "How 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 fore-runner also of other interesting events; your sister's marriage, and
your taking orders." "Yes." "Don't be affronted," said
she laughing; "but it does put me in mind of some of the old heathen
heroes, 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
piano-forte 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 doubt 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," cried 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 reason
why a man should make a worse clergyman for knowing that he will have a
competence 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 biassed, 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 the navy, or the son
of a general to be in the army, and nobody sees any thing wrong 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 dearMiss Price, and for reasons good. The profession, either navy
or army, is its own justification. It has every thing 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 complete 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, for 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 feelings 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 good 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, and 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 to 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 their general character. I suspect that in this comprehensive and
(may I say) common-place censure, you are not judging from yourself, but from
prejudiced persons, whose opinions you have been in the habit of hearing. It is
impossible 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 condemn 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 have 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 whom,
good or bad, they were always wishing away." "Poor William! He has
met with great kindness 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 entirely 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 respectable, I see him to be an
indolent selfish bon vivant, who must have his palate consulted in every thing,
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 very 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 exceedingly painful to such feelings as your's. Fanny, it goes against
us. We cannot attempt to defend Dr. Grant." "No," replied Fanny,
"but we need not give up his profession for all that; because, whatever
profession Dr. Grant had chosen, he would have taken a -- not a good temper
into it; and as he must either in the navy or army have had a great many more
people under his command than he has now, I think more would have been made
unhappy by him as a sailor 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 twice every Sunday and preach such very
good sermons in so good a manner as he does, 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 any thing but a
clergyman." "We cannot prove the contrary, to be sure -- 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 about 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
Price 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 ecstacy of admiration of
all her many virtues, from her obliging manners down to her light and graceful
tread. "There goes good humour I am sure," said he presently.
"There goes a temper which would never give pain! How 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 seeing him continue at the window with her, in
spite of the expected glee; and of having his eyes soon turned like her's
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 attempt to describe. Here's what may
tranquillize 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 less 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.
It 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 Arcturus looking very bright." "Yes, and the bear. I wish I
could see Cassiopeia." "We must go out on the lawn for that. Should
you be afraid?" "Not in the least. It is a great while since 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, she 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 singers, 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 then 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 listened 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 sorry 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 any thing but pleasure in view, and his own will to consult, made it
perfectly clear that he did not 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
fortnight of such dulness to the Miss Bertrams, as ought to have put them both
on their 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 the 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 farther. Maria,
with only Mr. Rushworth to attend to her, and doomed to the repeated details of
his day's sport, good or bad, his boast of his dogs, his jealousy of his
neighbours, his doubts of their qualification, and his zeal after poachers, --
subjects which will not find their way to female feelings without some talent
on one side, or some attachment on the other, had missed Mr. Crawford
grievously; and Julia, unengaged and unemployed, felt all the right of missing
him much more. Each sister believed herself the 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. Every thing returned
into the same channel as before his absence; his 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 any
thing 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 exercise
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
communications 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. Crawford 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
take 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 must please. Mrs. Grant, I believe, suspects him of a
preference for Julia; I have 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 distinguish the sister or intimate friend of
the woman he is really thinking of, more than the woman herself. Crawford has
too much sense to stay here if he found himself 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 occasionally
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 this 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 thought
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 visit.
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 between
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 second time -- "we shall see some happy faces again
now." "Yes, ma'am, indeed" -- replied the other, 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. Young 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 dearMaria has such a strict sense of propriety,
so much of that true delicacy which one seldom meets with now-a-days, Mrs.
Rushworth, that wish of avoiding particularity! -- Dear ma'am, only look at her
face at this moment; -- how different from what it was the two last
dances!" Miss Bertram did indeed look happy, her eyes were sparkling with
pleasure, and she was speaking with great animation, for Julia and her partner,
Mr. Crawford, were close to her; they were all in a cluster together. How she
had looked before, Fanny could not recollect, for she had been dancing 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,
and so much the thing! I cannot but think of dearSir Thomas's delight. And what
do you say, ma'am, to the chance of another match? Mr. Rushworth has set a good
example, and such things are very catching." Mrs. Rushworth, who saw
nothing but her son, was quite at a loss. "The couple above, ma'am. Do you
see no symptoms there?" "Oh! dear -- Miss Julia and Mr. Crawford.
Yes, 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 willbe. -- 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 again, and though feeling it would be a great honour to be asked by
him, she thought 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 state 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 immediately 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." -- 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 wonder 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 her's 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 every thing,
could hardly help laughing at. -- "A strange business this in America, Dr.
Grant! -- What is your opinion? -- I always come to you to know what I am to
think of public matters." "My dearTom," cried his aunt soon
afterwards, "as you are not dancing, I dare say you will have no objection
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
table for Mrs. Rushworth, you know. -- Your mother is quite anxious about it,
but cannot very well spare time to sit down herself, because of her fringe.
Now, you and I and Dr. Grant will just do; and though we play but half-crowns, you
know you 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," -- taking her hand -- "do not be dawdling any longer,
or the dance will be over." Fanny was led off very willingly, though it
was impossible for her to feel much gratitude towards her cousin, or
distinguish, as he certainly did, between the selfishness of another person and
his own. "A pretty modest request upon my word!" 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 quarrelling, and that
poking old woman, who knows no more of whist than of algebra. I wish 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! That
is what I dislike most particularly. It raises my spleen more than any thing,
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 out 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 the 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
theatrical 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 connections
of the 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 theatricals at Ecclesford, the seat of the Right Hon. Lord Ravenshaw,
in Cornwall, which would of course have immortalized the whole party for at
least a twelvemonth! 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 subject, 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 hardly 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 play had been Lovers' Vows, and Mr. Yates was
to have been Count Cassel. "A trifling 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 difficulties. 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 him 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 make 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. Luckily the strength of the piece did not depend upon
him. Our Agatha was inimitable, and the duke was thought very great by many.
And upon the whole it would certainly 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 responses of listening sympathy. "It is
not worth complaining about, but to 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 grand-mother, and all happening two hundred miles off, I think
there would have been no great harm, and it was suggested, I know; but Lord
Ravenshaw, who I suppose is one of the most correct men in England, would not
hear of it." "An after-piece 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 credit 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 such 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 could 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 III. down to the singing hero of a
farce in his scarlet coat and cocked hat. I feel as if I could be any thing or
every thing, as if I could rant and storm, or sigh, or cut capers in any
tragedy or comedy in the English language. Let us be doing 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 may 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 difficulties 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 listen with alarm. "Let us do nothing by halves. If
we are to act, let it be in a theatre completely fitted up with pit, box, and
gallery, and let us have a play entire from beginning to end; so as it be a
German play, no matter what, with a good tricking, shifting after-piece, and a
figure-dance, and a horn-pipe, and a song between the acts. If we do not out do
Ecclesford, we do nothing." "Now, Edmund, do not be
disagreeable," 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 raw 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
inclination increasing by the discussion, and a knowledge of the inclination of
the rest; 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 could 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 uncomfortable. 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 other
as they may be made to do in five minutes, by merely moving the book-case in my
father's room, is the very thing we could have desired, if we had set down to
wish for it. And my father's room will be an excellent green-room. 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 general 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 any thing of the kind. It would show great want of feeling on my
father's account, absent as he is, and in some degree of constant danger; and
it would be imprudent, I think, with regard to Maria, whose situation is a very
delicate one, considering every thing, extremely delicate." "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 but 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 choosing some play most perfectly
unexceptionable, and I can conceive 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 expectation 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 mother. 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." "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. -- Nobody is
fonder of the exercise of talent in young people, or promotes it more, than my
father; and for any thing 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 many
a time have we mourned over the dead body of Julius Ca esar, and tobe'd and
nottobe'd, in this very room, for his amusement! And I am sure,
mynamewasNorval, 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 school-boys, 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 displeased. "I know my father as
well as you do, and I'll take care that his daughters 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," replied the
persevering Edmund, "I must hope it will be in a very small and quiet 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 every thing 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 book-case, 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 well
suppose he would object to our sitting more in this room, and less in the
breakfast-room, than we did before he went away, or to my sisters' piano-forte
being moved from 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,
every thing 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 every body else." "No, as to acting
myself," said Edmund, "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 persist in the
scheme they will find something -- I shall speak to my sisters, and try 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 squabling is the greatest evil of all, and we
had better do any thing 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 pleasure, 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 any thing to censure in a plan
like their's, 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, when Henry
Crawford entered the room, fresh from the Parsonage, calling out, "No want
of hands in our Theatre, Miss Bertram. No want of under strappers -- 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?" And Edmund
silenced, was obliged to acknowledge that the charm of acting might well carry
fascination to the mind of genius; and with the ingenuity of love, to dwell
more on the obliging, accommodating purport of the message than on any thing
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 eldest nephew and niece, who
were all-powerful with her; and, as the whole arrangement was to bring very
little expense to any body, 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 their's, 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 every body, proved to 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 evident, 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 three 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
attended to, so many people to be pleased, so many best characters required,
and above all, such a need that the play should be at once both tragedy and
comedy, that there did seem as little chance of a decision, as any thing
pursued by youth and zeal could hold out. On the tragic side were the Miss
Bertrams, Henry Crawford, and Mr. Yates; on the comic, Tom Bertram, not quite
alone, because it was evident that Mary Crawford's wishes, though politely kept
back, inclined the same way; but his determinateness and his power, seemed to
make allies unnecessary; and independent of this great irreconcileable
difference, they wanted a piece containing very few characters in the whole,
but every character 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 Gamester, presented any thing that could satisfy even the tragedians;
and the Rivals, the School for Scandal, Wheel of Fortune, Heir at Law, and a
long etcetera, were successively dismissed with yet warmer objections. No piece
could be proposed that did not supply somebody with a difficulty, and on one
side or the other 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 -- Any thing but that, my dearTom. It would
be impossible to fill it up -- one could not expect any body 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 use, but I think we could not choose
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 have wished that something might
be acted, for she had never seen even half a play, but every thing of higher
consequence was against it. "This will never do," said Tom Bertram 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 descend
a little. If a part is insignificant, the greater our credit in making any
thing of it. From this moment I make no difficulties. I take any part you
choose 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 personae9. 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' Vows! And why should not Lovers'
Vows do for us as well as for the Ravenshaws? How 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 any
thing and do my best. And as for the rest, they may be filled up by any body.
It is only Count Cassel and Anhalt." The suggestion was generally welcome.
Every body was growing weary of indecision, and the first idea with every body
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. To storm through Baron Wildenhaim was the
height of his theatrical ambition, and with the advantage of knowing half the
scenes 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 thatHenry Crawford was
ready to take either. Whichever Mr. Yates did not choose, would perfectly
satisfy him, and a short parley of compliment ensued. Miss Bertram feeling all
the interest of 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 accordingly, she was certain of the proper Frederick. Three of the
characters were now cast, besides Mr. Rushworth, who was always answered for by
Maria as willing to do any thing; 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." 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 useful, 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 restHenry 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 Frederick 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 whichMaria 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 Julia 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; you 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 deal 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
common-place -- 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 any body else. A little 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 guess-work; 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 every thing 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 enough 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 all my heart." "With all your partiality for Cottager's
wife," said Henry Crawford, "it will be impossible to make any thing
of it fit for your sister, and we must not suffer her good nature to be imposed
on. We must not allow her to accept the part. She must not be left to her own
complaisance. Her talents will be wanted in Amelia. Amelia is a character more
difficult to be well represented than even Agatha. I consider Amelia as the
most difficult character in the whole piece. It requires great powers, great
nicety, to give her playfulness and simplicity without extravagance. I have
seen good actresses fail in the part. Simplicity, indeed, is beyond the reach
of almost every actress by profession. It requires a delicacy of feeling which
they have not. 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 figure. It is fit for Miss Crawford and Miss Crawford only. She looks
the part, and 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 will feel it suit you. Tragedy may be your choice, but it will
certainly appear that comedy chooses 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 coming 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 overlook the previous affront? She distrusted him. The slight had been most
determined. 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 basket
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 foolish, and as if he did not know what to say. Tom Bertram began again,
"Miss Crawford must be Amelia. -- She will be 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 comedy, and this is comedy in
its worst form." And so saying, she walked hastily 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 looking over the play, with Mr. Yates's help,
to ascertain what scenery would be necessary -- 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 part 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 theTheatre, 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 herself 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 they 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 and Anhalt, and at first did not know which to choose,
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 learn the better; and though she could not sympathize 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 choosing his colours. Mr.
Rushworth liked the idea of his finery very well, 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 conclusions, or feel any of that displeasure,
whichMaria had been half prepared for. Thus much was settled before Edmund, who
had been out all the morning, knew any thing of the matter; but when he entered
the drawing-room before dinner, the buz of discussion was high between Tom,
Maria, 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 I shall
like it." Fanny's eyes followed Edmund, and her heart beat 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 towards 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 any thing of a model! -- We have cast almost every
part." "But what do you do for women?" said Edmund gravely, and
looking at Maria. Maria blushed in spite of herself as she answered, "I
take the part whichLady Ravenshaw was to have done, and (with 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 come
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. Rushworth, Edmund almost immediately took the opportunity of
saying, "I cannot before Mr. Yates speak what I feel as to this play,
without reflecting on his friends at Ecclesford -- but I must now, my
dearMaria, 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," cried Maria --
"I am perfectly acquainted with the play, I assure you -- and with 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 example. -- 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 effect, for no one loved better to lead than Maria; -- and with far more
good humour she 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 examining 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 understand your motive. -- The play will be given
up, and your delicacy honoured as it ought." "Do not act any thing
improper, my dear," said Lady Bertram. "Sir Thomas would not like it.
-- Fanny, ring the bell; 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 whatEdmund says?" "If I were to decline the part," said
Maria with renewed zeal, "Julia would certainly take it."
"What!" -- cried Edmund, "if she knew your reasons!"
"Oh! she might think the difference between 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; every body would be so disappointed. Tom would
be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we shall never act any thing."
"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 away -- 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 any thing a little too warm (and it is so with most 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 forgot 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 others
soon returned, and Edmund found that to have endeavoured to set them right must
be his only satisfaction. Dinner passed heavily. Mrs. Norris related again her
triumph over Dick Jackson, but neither play nor preparation were otherwise 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 animating support,
thought the subject better avoided. Mr. Yates, who was trying to make himself
agreeable to Julia, found her gloom less impenetrable on any topic than that of
his regret at her secession from their company, and Mr. Rushworth having only
his own part, and his own dress in his head, had soon talked away all that
could 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 after 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 deep in
the subject when a most welcome interruption was given by the entrance of Mr.
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 three at the table, while his sister made her
way to Lady Bertram, and with pleasant attention was complimenting her. "I
must really congratulate your ladyship," said she, "on the play being
chosen; for though you have borne it with exemplary patience, I am sure you
must be sick of all our noise and difficulties. The actors may be glad, but the
by-standers must be infinitely more thankful for a decision; and I do sincerely
give you joy, madam, as well as Mrs. Norris, and every body else who is in the
same predicament," glancing half fearfully, half slily, beyond Fanny to
Edmund. She was very civilly answered by Lady Bertram, but Edmund said nothing.
His being only a by-stander was not disclaimed. After continuing in chat with
the party round the fire a few minutes, Miss Crawford returned to the party
round the table; and standing by them, seemed to interest 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
ale-houses, 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."
"TheCount has two and forty speeches," returned Mr. Rushworth,
"which is no trifle." "I am not at all surprised," said
Miss Crawford, after a short pause, "at this want of an Anhalt. Amelia
deserves 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 soon afterwards rejoined the party at the fire.
"They do not want me at all," said she, 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 Amelia if well supported -- that is, if every thing went
well -- I shall be sorry to be an inconvenience -- but as they do not choose to
hear your advice at thattable -- (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 chooses 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 feelings of
resentment and mortification, moved her chair considerably nearer the
tea-table, and gave all her attention to Mrs. Norris, who was presiding there.
"Fanny," cried Tom Bertram, from the other table, where the
conference was eagerly carrying on, and the conversation incessant, "we
want your services." Fanny was up in a moment, expecting some errand, for
the habit of employing her in that way was not yet overcome, in spite of all
thatEdmund could do. "Oh! we do not want to disturb you from your seat. We
do not want your present services. We shall only want you in our play. 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 act any
thing if you were to give me the world. No, indeed, I cannot act."
"Indeed but you must, for we cannot excuse you. It need not frighten you;
it is a nothing of a part, a mere nothing, not above half a dozen speeches
altogether, and it will not much signify if nobody hears a word you say, so you
may be as creepmouse 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 part 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 scenes, and as I shall be Cottager,
I'll put you in and push you about; and you will 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 were 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, and 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 excuse me," cried Fanny, growing
more and more red from excessive agitation, and looking distressfully at
Edmund, who was kindly observing her, but unwilling 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 being more gentle or more
ceremonious, and which altogether was quite overpowering to Fanny; and before
she could breathe after it, Mrs. Norris completed the whole, 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 make such a difficulty
of obliging your cousins in a trifle of this sort, -- So kind 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 Edmund. "It is not
fair to urge her in this manner. -- You see she does not like to act. -- Let
her choose 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, ungrateful girl, if she does not do what her aunt and cousins
wish her -- very ungrateful indeed, considering who and what she is."
Edmund was too angry to speak; but Miss Crawford looking for a moment with
astonished eyes at Mrs. Norris, and then at Fanny, whose tears were beginning
to show themselves, immediately said with some keenness, "I do not like my
situation; this place is too hot for me" -- 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 mind, my dearMiss 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 the theatrical board, and
the really good feelings by which she was almost purely governed, were rapidly
restoring her to all the little she had lost in Edmund's favour. Fanny did not
love Miss Crawford; but she felt very much obliged to her for her present
kindness; and when from taking notice of her work and wishing she could work as
well, and begging for the pattern, 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 Fanny 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 telling her, with infinite regret,
that he found it absolutely impossible for him to undertake the part of Anhalt
in addition to the Butler; -- he had been most anxiously trying 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 choose. -- 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 not disgrace us.
-- I should not be afraid to trust either of the Olivers or Charles Maddox. --
Tom Oliver is a very clever fellow, and Charles Maddox is as gentlemanlike a
man as you will see any where, 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 apprehensively 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 far as I am concerned, I can have no
objection to any thing that you all think eligible. 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
Theatricals 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" -- said Miss Crawford in an
under voice, to Fanny, after some consideration; "and I can tell Mr.
Maddox, that I shall shorten some of his speeches, and a great many of myown,
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 Fanny 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 infinitely worse, to be told that she must do what
was so impossible as to act; and then to have the charge of obstinacy and
ingratitude follow it, enforced with such a hint at the dependence of her
situation, had been too distressing at the time, to make the remembrance when
she was alone much less so, -- especially with the 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 again among
themselves with all the authoritative urgency thatTom and Maria were capable
of; and Edmund perhaps away -- what should she do? She fell asleep before 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, more
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-room;
so called till the Miss Bertrams would not allow it to be called so any longer,
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 three
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
deficiency of space and accommodation in her little chamber above; -- but gradually,
as her value for the comforts of it increased, she had added to her
possessions, and 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 her's. 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 fire in it on Fanny's account, was tolerably resigned to her having the
use of what nobody else wanted, though the terms in which she sometimes spoke
of the indulgence, 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 such 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 any thing unpleasant below, and find
immediate consolation in some pursuit, or some train of thought 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 object in that room
which had not an interesting remembrance connected with it. -- Every thing 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 been often misunderstood,
her feelings disregarded, and her comprehension under-valued; though she had
known the pains of tyranny, of ridicule, and neglect, yet almost every
recurrence of either had led to something consolatory; her aunt Bertram 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 harmonized by distance, that every former
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
greatest elegancies and ornaments were a faded footstool of Julia's work, too
ill done 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
mantle-piece, and by their side and pinned against the wall, a small sketch of
a ship sent four years ago from the Mediterranean by William, with H. M. S.
Antwerp at the bottom, in letters as tall as the main-mast. 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 undecided as to what she oughttodo; 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 would 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 present 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 which all these kind remembrances
produced. A tap at the door roused her in the midst of this attempt to find her
way to her duty, and her gentle "come in," 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 from such
a compliment, highly as it gratified her. "Yes, your advice and opinion. I
do not know what to do. This acting scheme gets worse and worse you see. They
have chosen 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, ifpossible, 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, there is absurdity in the face of my
joining them now, when they are exceeding their first plan in every respect;
but I can think of no other alternative. Can you, 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
-- authorized 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 very bad! Put yourself in Miss Crawford's place,
Fanny. Consider what it would be 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 night, 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 ought to be respected. Does not it strike you soFanny? You
hesitate." "I am sorry for Miss Crawford; but I am more 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 will be, and I must
brave it. But if I can be the means of restraining the publicity 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
road for. This will be a material gain. My object is to confine it to Mrs.
Rushworth and the Grants. Will not this be worth gaining?" "Yes, it
will be a great point." "But still it has not your approbation. Can
you mention any other measure by which I have a chance of doing equal
good?" "No, I cannot think of any thing else." "Give me
your approbation, then, Fanny. I am not comfortable without it." "Oh!
cousin." "If you are against me, I ought to distrust myself -- and
yet -- But it is absolutely impossible to let Tom go on in this way, riding about
the country in quest of any body who can be persuaded to act -- no matter whom;
the look of a gentleman is to be enough. I thought you would have 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 good will." "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 now,
dearFanny, I will not interrupt you any longer. You want to be reading. But I
could not be easy till I had spoken to you, and come to a decision. Sleeping 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
Macartney 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 feeling. 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 her own conduct,
which had previously distressed her, and which had all slept while she listened
to him, were become of little consequence now. This deeper anxiety swallowed
them up. Things should take their course; she cared not how it ended. 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.
It was, indeed, a
triumphant day to Mr. Bertram and Maria. Such a victory over Edmund's
discretion had been beyond their hopes, and was most delightful. There was no
longer any thing to disturb them in their darling project, and they
congratulated each other in private on the jealous weakness to which they
attributed the change, with all the glee of feelings gratified in every way.
Edmund might still look grave, and say he did not like the scheme in general,
and must disapprove the play in particular; their point was gained; he was to
act, and he was driven to it by the force of selfish inclinations only. Edmund
had descended from that moral elevation which he had maintained before, and
they were both as much the better as the happier for the descent. They behaved
very well, however, tohim on the occasion, betraying no exultation beyond the
lines about the corners of the mouth, and seemed to think it as great an escape
to be quit of the intrusion of Charles Maddox, as if they had been forced into
admitting him against their inclination. "To have it quite in their own family
circle was what they had particularly wished. A stranger among them would have
been the destruction of all their comfort," and when Edmund, pursuing that
idea, gave a hint of his hope as to the limitation of the audience, they were
ready, in the complaisance of the moment, to promise any thing. It was all good
humour and encouragement. Mrs. Norris offered to contrive his dress, Mr. Yates
assured him, that Anhalt's last scene with the Baron admitted a good deal of
action and emphasis, and Mr. Rushworth undertook to count his speeches.
"Perhaps," said Tom, "Fanny may be more disposed to oblige us
now. Perhaps you may persuade her." "No, she is quite determined. She
certainly will not act." "Oh! very well." And not another word
was said: but Fanny felt herself again in danger, and her indifference to the
danger was beginning to fail her already. There were not fewer smiles at the
parsonage than at the park on this change in Edmund; Miss Crawford looked very
lovely in her's, and entered with such an instantaneous renewal of cheerfulness
into the whole affair, as could have but one effect on him. "He was
certainly right in respecting such feelings; he was glad he had determined on
it." And the morning wore away in satisfactions very sweet, if not very sound.
One advantage resulted from it to Fanny; at the earnest request of Miss
Crawford, Mrs. Grant had with her usual good humour agreed to undertake the
part for whichFanny had been wanted -- and this was all that occurred to
gladden her heart during the day; and even this, when imparted by Edmund,
brought a pang with it, for it was Miss Crawford to whom she was obliged, it
was Miss Crawford whose kind exertions were to excite her gratitude, and whose
merit in making them was spoken of with a glow of admiration. She was safe; but
peace and safety were unconnected here. Her mind had been never farther from
peace. She could not feel that she had done wrong herself, but she was
disquieted in every other way. Her heart and her judgment were equally against
Edmund's decision; she could not acquit his unsteadiness; and his happiness
under it made her wretched. She was full of jealousy and agitation. Miss
Crawford came with looks of gaiety which seemed an insult, with friendly
expressions towards herself which she could hardly answer calmly. Every body
around her was gay and busy, prosperous and important, each had their object of
interest, their part, their dress, their favourite scene, their friends and
confederates, all were finding employment in consultations and comparisons, or
diversion in the playful conceits they suggested. She alone was sad and
insignificant; she had no share in any thing; she might go or stay, she might
be in the midst of their noise, or retreat from it to the solitude of the East
room, without being seen or missed. She could almost think any thing would have
been preferable to this. Mrs. Grant was of consequence; her good nature had
honourable mention -- her taste and her time were considered -- her presence
was wanted -- she was sought for and attended, and praised; and Fanny was at
first in some danger of envying her the character she had accepted. But
reflection brought better feelings, and shewed her that Mrs. Grant was entitled
to respect, which could never have belonged to her, and that had she received
even the greatest, she could never have been easy in joining a scheme which,
considering only her uncle, she must condemn altogether. Fanny's heart was not
absolutely the only saddened one amongst them, as she soon began to acknowledge
herself. -- Julia was a sufferer too, though not quite so blamelessly. Henry
Crawford had trifled with her feelings; but she had very long allowed and even
sought his attentions, with a jealousy of her sister so reasonable as ought to
have been their cure; and now that the conviction of his preference for Maria
had been forced on her, she submitted to it without any alarm for Maria's
situation, or any endeavour at rational tranquillity for herself. -- She either
sat in gloomy silence, wrapt in such gravity as nothing could subdue, no
curiosity touch, no wit amuse; or allowing the attentions of Mr. Yates, was
talking with forced gaiety to him alone, and ridiculing the acting of the
others. For a day or two after the affront was given, Henry Crawford had
endeavoured to do it away by the usual attack of gallantry and compliment, but
he had not cared enough about it to persevere against a few repulses; and
becoming soon too busy with his play to have time for more than one flirtation,
he grew indifferent to the quarrel, or rather thought it a lucky occurrence, as
quietly putting an end to what might ere long have raised expectations in more
than Mrs. Grant. -- She was not pleased to see Julia excluded from the play,
and sitting by disregarded; but as it was not a matter which really involved
her happiness, as Henry must be the best judge of his own, and as he did assure
her, with a most persuasive smile, that neither he nor Julia had ever had a
serious thought of each other, she could only renew her former caution as to
the elder sister, entreat him not to risk his tranquillity by too much
admiration there, and then gladly take her share in any thing that brought
cheerfulness to the young people in general, and that did so particularly
promote the pleasure of the two so dear to her. "I rather wonder Julia is
not in love with Henry," was her observation to Mary. "I dare say she
is," replied Mary, coldly. "I imagine both sisters are."
"Both! no, no, that must not be. Do not give him a hint of it. Think of
Mr. Rushworth." "You had better tell Miss Bertram to think of Mr.
Rushworth. It may do her some good. I often think of Mr. Rushworth's property
and independence, and wish them in other hands -- but I never think of him. A
man might represent the county with such an estate; a man might escape a
profession and represent the county." "I dare say he will be in
parliament soon. When Sir Thomas comes, I dare say he will be in for some
borough, but there has been nobody to put him in the way of doing any thing
yet." "Sir Thomas is to achieve mighty things when he comes
home," said Mary, after a pause. "Do you remember Hawkins Browne's
""Address to Tobacco,"" in imitation of Pope? --
""Blest leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense To Templars modesty, to Parsons
sense."" I will parody them: Blest Knight! whose dictatorial looks
dispense To Children affluence, to Rushworth sense. Will not that do, Mrs.
Grant? Every thing 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 every body in
their place. Lady Bertram seems more of a cipher now than when he is at home;
and nobody else can keep Mrs. Norris in order. But, Mary, do not fancy that
Maria Bertram cares for Henry. I am sure Julia does not, or she would not have
flirted as she did last night with Mr. Yates; and though he and Maria are very
good friends, I think she likes Sotherton too well to be inconstant."
"I would not give much for Mr. Rushworth's chance, if Henry stept in
before the articles were signed." "If you have such a suspicion,
something must be done, and as soon as the play is all over, we will talk to him
seriously, and make him know his own mind; and if he means nothing, we will
send him off, though he is Henry, for a time." Julia did suffer, however,
though Mrs. Grant discerned it not, and though it escaped the notice of many of
her own family likewise. She had loved, she did love still, and she had all the
suffering which a warm temper and a high spirit were likely to endure under the
disappointment of a dear, though irrational hope, with a strong sense of
ill-usage. Her heart was sore and angry, and she was capable only of angry
consolations. The sister with whom she was used to be on easy terms, was now
become her greatest enemy; they were alienated from each other, and Julia was
not superior to the hope of some distressing end to the attentions which were
still carrying on there, some punishment to Maria for conduct so shameful
towards herself, as well as towards Mr. Rushworth. With no material fault of
temper, or difference of opinion, to prevent their being very good friends
while their interests were the same, the sisters, under such a trial as this,
had not affection or principle enough to make them merciful or just, to give
them honour or compassion. Maria felt her triumph, and pursued her purpose
careless of Julia; and Julia could never see Maria distinguished by Henry
Crawford, without trusting that it would create jealousy, and bring a public
disturbance at last. Fanny saw and pitied much of this in Julia; but there was
no outward fellowship between them. Julia made no communication, and Fanny took
no liberties. They were two solitary sufferers, or connected only by Fanny's
consciousness. The inattention of the two brothers and the aunt to Julia's
discomposure, and their blindness to its true cause, must be imputed to the
fulness of their own minds. They were totally pre-occupied. Tom was engrossed
by the concerns of his theatre, and saw nothing that did not immediately relate
to it. Edmund, between his theatrical and his real part, between Miss
Crawford's claims and his own conduct, between love and consistency, was equally
unobservant; and Mrs. Norris was too busy in contriving and directing the
general little matters of the company, superintending their various dresses
with economical expedient, for which nobody thanked her, and saving, with
delighted integrity, half-a-crown here and there to the absent Sir Thomas, to
have leisure for watching the behaviour, or guarding the happiness of his
daughters.
Every thing was now in
a regular train; theatre, actors, actresses, and dresses, were all getting forward:
but though no other great impediments arose, Fanny found, before many days were
past, that it was not all uninterrupted enjoyment to the party themselves, and
that she had not to witness the continuance of such unanimity and delight, as
had been almost too much for her at first. Every body began to have their
vexation. Edmund had many. Entirely against his judgment, a scene painter
arrived from town, and was at work, much to the increase of the expenses, and
what was worse, of the eclat of their proceedings; and his brother, instead of
being really guided by him as to the privacy of the representation, was giving
an invitation to every family who came in his way. Tom himself began to fret
over the scene painter's slow progress, and to feel the miseries of waiting. He
had learned his part -- all his parts -- for he took every trifling one that
could be united with the Butler, and began to be impatient to be acting; and
every day thus unemployed, was tending to increase his sense of the
insignificance of all his parts together, and make him more ready to regret
that some other play had not been chosen. Fanny, being always a very courteous
listener, and often the only listener at hand, came in for the complaints and
distresses of most of them. She knew that Mr. Yates was in general thought to
rant dreadfully, that Mr. Yates was disappointed in Henry Crawford, that Tom
Bertram spoke so quick he would be unintelligible, that Mrs. Grant spoilt every
thing by laughing, that Edmund was behind-hand with his part, and that it was
misery to have any thing to do with Mr. Rushworth, who was wanting a prompter
through every speech. She knew, also, that poor Mr. Rushworth could seldom get
any body to rehearse with him; his complaint came before her as well as the
rest; and so decided to her eye was her cousin Maria's avoidance of him, and so
needlessly often the rehearsal of the first scene between her and Mr. Crawford,
that she had soon all the terror of other complaints from him. -- So far from
being all satisfied and all enjoying, she found every body requiring something
they had not, and giving occasion of discontent to the others. -- Every body
had a part either too long or too short; -- nobody would attend as they ought,
nobody would remember on which side they were to come in -- nobody but the
complainer would observe any directions. Fanny believed herself to derive as
much innocent enjoyment from the play as any of them; -- Henry Crawford acted
well, and it was a pleasure to her to creep into the theatre, and attend the
rehearsal of the first act -- in spite of the feelings it excited in some
speeches for Maria. -- Maria she also thought acted well -- too well; -- and
after the first rehearsal or two, Fanny began to be their only audience, and --
sometimes as prompter, sometimes as spectator -- was often very useful. -- As
far as she could judge, Mr. Crawford was considerably the best actor of all; he
had more confidence than Edmund, more judgment than Tom, more talent and taste
than Mr. Yates. -- She did not like him as a man, but she must admit him to be
the best actor, and on this point there were not many who differed from her.
Mr. Yates, indeed, exclaimed against his tameness and insipidity -- and the day
came at last, when Mr. Rushworth turned to her with a black look, and said --
"Do you think there is any thing so very fine in all this? For the life
and soul of me, I cannot admire him; -- and between ourselves, to see such an
undersized, little, mean-looking man, set up for a fine actor, is very
ridiculous in my opinion." From this moment there was a return of his
former jealousy, whichMaria, from increasing hopes of Crawford, was at little
pains to remove; and the chances of Mr. Rushworth's ever attaining to the
knowledge of his two and forty speeches became much less. As to his ever making
any thing tolerable of them, nobody had the smallest idea of that except his
mother -- She, indeed, regretted that his part was not more considerable, and
deferred coming over to Mansfield till they were forward enough in their
rehearsal to comprehend all his scenes, but the others aspired at nothing
beyond his remembering the catchword, and the first line of his speech, and
being able to follow the prompter through the restFanny, in her pity and
kind-heartedness, was at great pains to teach him how to learn, giving him all
the helps and directions in her power, trying to make an artificial memory for
him, and learning every word of his part herself, but without his being much
the forwarder. Many uncomfortable, anxious, apprehensive feelings she certainly
had; but with all these, and other claims on her time and attention, she was as
far from finding herself without employment or utility amongst them, as without
a companion in uneasiness; quite as far from having no demand on her leisure as
on her compassion. The gloom of her first anticipations was proved to have been
unfounded. She was occasionally useful to all; she was perhaps as much at peace
as any. There was a great deal of needle-work to be done moreover, in which her
help was wanted; and that Mrs. Norris thought her quite as well off as the
rest, was evident by the manner in which she claimed it: "Come
Fanny," she cried, "these are fine times for you, but you must not be
always walking from one room to the other and doing the lookings on, at your
ease, in this way, -- I want you here. -- I have been slaving myself till I can
hardly stand, to contrive Mr. Rushworth's cloak without sending for any more
satin; and now I think you may give me your help in putting it together. --
There are but three seams, you may do them in a trice. -- It would be lucky for
me if I had nothing but the executive part to do. -- You are best off, I can
tell you; but if nobody did more than you, we should not get on very
fast." Fanny took the work very quietly without attempting any defence;
but her kinder aunt Bertram observed on her behalf, "One cannot wonder,
sister, that Fanny should be delighted; it is all new to her, you know, -- you
and I used to be very fond of a play ourselves -- and so am I still; -- and as
soon as I am a little more at leisure, I mean to look in at their rehearsals
too. What is the play about, Fanny, you have never told me?" "Oh!
sister, pray do not ask her now; for Fanny is not one of those who can talk and
work at the same time. -- It is about Lovers' Vows." "I believe"
said Fanny to her aunt Bertram, "there will be three acts rehearsed
to-morrow evening, and that will give you an opportunity of seeing all the
actors at once." "You had better stay till the curtain is hung,"
interposed Mrs. Norris -- "the curtain will be hung in a day or two, --
there is very little sense in a play without a curtain -- and I am much
mistaken if you do not find it draw up into very handsome festoons." Lady
Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting. -- Fanny did not share her aunt's
composure; she thought of the morrow a great deal, -- for if the three acts
were rehearsed, Edmund and Miss Crawford would then be acting together for the
first time; -- the third act would bring a scene between them which interested
her most particularly, and which she was longing and dreading to see how they
would perform. The whole subject of it was love -- a marriage of love was to be
described by the gentleman, and very little short of a declaration of love be made
by the lady. She had read, and read the scene again with many painful, many
wondering emotions, and looked forward to their representation of it as a
circumstance almost too interesting. She did not believe they had yet rehearsed
it, even in private. The morrow came, the plan for the evening continued, and
Fanny's consideration of it did not become less agitated. She worked very
diligently under her aunt's directions, but her diligence and her silence
concealed a very absent, anxious mind; and about noon she made her escape with
her work to the East room, that she might have no concern in another, and, as
she deemed it, most unnecessary rehearsal of the first act, whichHenry Crawford
was just proposing, desirous at once of having her time to herself, and of
avoiding the sight of Mr. Rushworth. A glimpse, as she passed through the hall,
of the two ladies walking up from the parsonage, made no change in her wish of
retreat, and she worked and meditated in the East room, undisturbed, for a
quarter of an hour, when a gentle tap at the door was followed by the entrance
of Miss Crawford. "Am I right? -- Yes; this is the East room. My dear Miss
Price, I beg your pardon, but I have made my way to you on purpose to entreat
your help." Fanny, quite surprised, endeavoured to show herself mistress
of the room by her civilities, and looked at the bright bars of her empty grate
with concern. "Thank you -- I am quite warm, very warm. Allow me to stay
here a little while, and do have the goodness to hear me my third act. I have
brought my book, and if you would but rehearse it with me, I should be so
obliged! I came here to-day intending to rehearse it with Edmund -- by
ourselves -- against the evening, but he is not in the way; and if he were, I
do not think I could go through it with him, till I have hardened myself a
little, for really there is a speech or two -- You will be so good, won't
you?" Fanny was most civil in her assurances, though she could not give
them in a very steady voice. "Have you ever happened to look at the part I
mean?" continued Miss Crawford, opening her book. "Here it is. I did
not think much of it at first -- but, upon my word -- . There, look at that
speech, and that, and that. How am I ever to look him in the face and say such
things? Could you do it? But then he is your cousin, which makes all the
difference. You must rehearse it with me, that I may fancy you him, and get on
by degrees. You have a look of his sometimes." "Have I? -- I will do
my best with the greatest readiness -- but I must read the part, for I can say
very little of it." "None of it, I suppose. You are to have the book
of course. Now for it. We must have two chairs at hand for you to bring forward
to the front of the stage. There -- very good school-room chairs, not made for
a theatre, I dare say; much more fitted for little girls to sit and kick their
feet against when they are learning a lesson. What would your governess and
your uncle say to see them used for such a purpose? Could Sir Thomas look in
upon us just now, he would bless himself, for we are rehearsing all over the
house. Yates is storming away in the dining room. I heard him as I came up
stairs, and the theatre is engaged of course by those indefatigable rehearsers,
Agatha and Frederick. If they are not perfect, I shall be surprised. By the
bye, I looked in upon them five minutes ago, and it happened to be exactly at
one of the times when they were trying not to embrace, and Mr. Rushworth was
with me. I thought he began to look a little queer, so I turned it off as well
as I could, by whispering to him, ""We shall have an excellent
Agatha, there is something so maternal in her manner, so completely maternal in
her voice and countenance."" Was not that well done of me? He
brightened up directly. Now for my soliloquy." She began, and Fanny joined
in with all the modest feeling which the idea of representing Edmund was so
strongly calculated to inspire; but with looks and voice so truly feminine, as
to be no very good picture of a man. With such an Anhalt, however, Miss Crawford
had courage enough, and they had got through half the scene, when a tap at the
door brought a pause, and the entrance of Edmund the next moment, suspended it
all. Surprise, consciousness, and pleasure, appeared in each of the three on
this unexpected meeting; and as Edmund was come on the very same business that
had brought Miss Crawford, consciousness and pleasure were likely to be more
than momentary in them. He too had his book, and was seeking Fanny, to ask her
to rehearse with him, and help him 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 sympathizing in praise of
Fanny's kind offices. She could not equal them in their warmth. Her spirits
sank under the glow of theirs, and she felt herself becoming too nearly nothing
to both, to have any comfort in having been sought by either. They must now
rehearse together. Edmund proposed, urged, entreated it -- till the lady, not
very unwilling at first, could refuse no longer -- and Fanny was wanted only to
prompt and observe them. She was invested, indeed, with the office of judge and
critic, and earnestly desired to exercise it and tell them all their faults;
but from doing so every feeling within her shrank, she could not, would not,
dared not attempt it; had she been otherwise qualified for criticism, her
conscience must have restrained her from venturing at disapprobation. She
believed herself to feel too much of it in the aggregate for honesty or safety
in particulars. To prompt them must be enough for her; and it was sometimes
more than enough; for she could not always pay attention to the book. In
watching them she forgot herself; and agitated by the increasing spirit of
Edmund's manner, had once closed the page and turned away exactly as he wanted
help. It was imputed to very reasonable weariness, and she was thanked and
pitied; but she deserved their pity, more than she hoped they would ever
surmise. At last the scene was over, and Fanny forced herself to add her praise
to the compliments each was giving the other; and when again alone and able to
recall the whole, she was inclined to believe their performance would, indeed,
have such nature and feeling in it, as must ensure their credit, and make it a
very suffering exhibition to herself. Whatever might be its effect, however,
she must stand the brunt of it again that very day. The first regular rehearsal
of the three first acts was certainly to take place in the evening; Mrs. Grant
and the Crawfords were engaged to return for that purpose as soon as they could
after dinner; and every one concerned was looking forward with eagerness. There
seemed a general diffusion of cheerfulness on the occasion; Tom was enjoying
such an advance towards the end, Edmund was in spirits from the morning's
rehearsal, and little vexations seemed every where smoothed away. All were
alert and impatient; the ladies moved soon, the gentlemen soon followed them,
and with the exception of Lady Bertram, Mrs. Norris, and Julia, every body was
in the theatre at an early hour, and having lighted it up as well as its
unfinished state admitted, were waiting only the arrival of Mrs. Grant and the
Crawfords to begin. They did not wait long for the Crawfords, but there was no
Mrs. Grant. She could not come. Dr. Grant, professing an indisposition, for
which he had little credit with his fair sister-in-law, could not spare his
wife. "Dr. Grant is ill," said she, with mock solemnity. "He has
been ill ever since; he did not eat any of the pheasant to day. He fancied it
tough -- sent away his plate -- and has been suffering ever since." Here
was disappointment! Mrs. Grant's non-attendance was sad indeed. Her pleasant
manners and cheerful conformity made her always valuable amongst them -- but
now she was absolutely necessary. They could not act, they could not rehearse
with any satisfaction without her. The comfort of the whole evening was
destroyed. What was to be done? Tom, as Cottager, was in despair. After a pause
of perplexity, some eyes began to be turned towards Fanny, and a voice or two,
to say, "If Miss Price would be so good as to read the part." She was
immediately surrounded by supplications, every body asked it, even Edmund said,
"Do Fanny, if it is not very disagreeable to you." But Fanny still
hung back. She could not endure the idea of it. Why was not Miss Crawford to be
applied to as well? Or why had not she rather gone to her own room, as she had
felt to be safest, instead of attending the rehearsal at all? She had known it
would irritate and distress her -- she had known it her duty to keep away. She
was properly punished. "You have only to read the part," said Henry
Crawford with renewed entreaty. "And I do believe she can say every word
of it," added Maria, "for she could put Mrs. Grant right the other
day in twenty places. Fanny, I am sure you know the part." Fanny could not
say she did not -- and as they all persevered -- as Edmund repeated his wish,
and with a look of even fond dependence on her good nature, she must yield. She
would do her best. 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 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 Thomas in the house! All felt the instantaneous
conviction. Not a hope of imposition or mistake was harboured any where.
Julia's looks were an evidence of the fact that made it indisputable; and after
the first starts and exclamations, not a word was spoken for half a minute;
each with an altered countenance was looking at some other, and almost each was
feeling it a stroke the most unwelcome, most ill-timed, most appalling! Mr.
Yates might consider it only as a vexatious interruption for the evening, and
Mr. Rushworth might imagine it a blessing, but every other heart was sinking
under some degree of self-condemnation or undefined alarm, every other heart
was suggesting "What will become of us? what is to be done now?" It
was a terrible pause; and terrible to every ear were the corroborating sounds
of opening doors and passing footsteps. Julia was the first to move and speak
again. Jealousy and bitterness had been suspended: selfishness was lost in the
common cause; but at the moment of her appearance, Frederick was listening with
looks of devotion to Agatha's narrative, and pressing her hand to his heart,
and as soon as she could notice this, and see that, in spite of the shock of
her words, he still kept his station and retained her sister's hand, her
wounded heart swelled again with injury, and looking as red as she had been
white before, she turned out of the room, saying "I need not be afraid of
appearing before him." Her going roused the rest; and at the same moment,
the two brothers stepped forward, feeling the necessity of doing something. A
very few words between them were sufficient. The case admitted no difference of
opinion; they must go to the drawing-room directly. Maria joined them with the
same intent, just then the stoutest of the three; for the very circumstance
which had driven Julia away, was to her the sweetest support. Henry Crawford's
retaining her hand at such a moment, a moment of such peculiar proof and
importance, was worth ages of doubt and anxiety. She hailed it as an earnest of
the most serious determination, and was equal even to encounter her father.
They walked off, utterly heedless of Mr. Rushworth's repeated question of, "Shall
I go too? -- Had not I better go too? -- will not it be right for me to go
too?" but they were no sooner through the door than Henry Crawford
undertook to answer the anxious inquiry, and encouraging him by all means to
pay his respects to Sir Thomas without delay, sent him after the others with
delighted haste. Fanny was left with only the Crawfords and Mr. Yates. She had
been quite overlooked by her cousins; and as her own opinion of her claims on
Sir Thomas's affection was much too humble to give her any idea of classing
herself with his children, she was glad to remain behind and gain a little
breathing time. Her agitation and alarm exceeded all that was endured by the
rest, by the right of a disposition which not even innocence could keep from
suffering. She was nearly fainting: all her former habitual dread of her uncle
was returning, and with it compassion for him and for almost every one of the
party on the development before him -- with solicitude on Edmund's account
indescribable. She had found a seat, where in excessive trembling she was
enduring all these fearful thoughts, while the other three, no longer under any
restraint, were giving vent to their feelings of vexation, lamenting over such
an unlooked-for premature arrival as a most untoward event, and without mercy
wishing poor Sir Thomas had been twice as long on his passage, or were still in
Antigua. The Crawfords were more warm on the subject than Mr. Yates, from
better understanding the family and judging more clearly of the mischief that
must ensue. The ruin of the play was to them a certainty, they felt the total
destruction of the scheme to be inevitably at hand; while Mr. Yates considered
it only as a temporary interruption, a disaster for the evening, and could even
suggest the possibility of the rehearsal being renewed after tea, when the
bustle of receiving Sir Thomas were over and he might be at leisure to be
amused by it. The Crawfords laughed at the idea; and having soon agreed on the
propriety of their walking quietly home and leaving the family to themselves,
proposed Mr. Yates's accompanying them and spending the evening at the
Parsonage. But Mr. Yates, having never been with those who thought much of
parental claims, or family confidence, could not perceive that any thing of the
kind was necessary, and therefore, thanking them, said, "he preferred
remaining where he was that he might pay his respects to the old gentleman
handsomely since he was come; and besides, he did not think it would be fair by
the others to have every body run away." Fanny was just beginning to
collect herself, and to feel that if she staid longer behind it might seem
disrespectful, when this point was settled, and being commissioned with the
brother and sister's apology, saw them preparing to go as she quitted the room
herself to perform the dreadful duty of appearing before her uncle. Too soon
did she find herself at the drawing-room door, and after pausing a moment for
what she knew would not come, for a courage which the outside of no door had
ever supplied to her, she turned the lock in desperation, and the lights of the
drawing-room and all the collected family were before her. As she entered, her
own name caught her ear. Sir Thomas was at that moment looking round him, and
saying "But where is Fanny? -- Why do not I see my little Fanny?",
and on perceiving her, came forward with a kindness which astonished and
penetrated her, calling her his dearFanny, kissing her affectionately, and
observing with decided pleasure how much she was grown! Fanny knew not how to
feel, nor where to look. She was quite oppressed. He had never been so kind, so
very kind to her in his life. His manner seemed changed; his voice was quick
from the agitation of joy, and all that had been awful in his dignity seemed
lost in tenderness. He led her nearer the light and looked at her again --
inquired particularly after her health, and then correcting himself, observed,
that he need not inquire, for her appearance spoke sufficiently on that point.
A fine blush having succeeded the previous paleness of her face, he was
justified in his belief of her equal improvement in health and beauty. He
inquired next after her family, especially William; and his kindness altogether
was such as made her reproach herself for loving him so little, and thinking
his return a misfortune; and when, on having courage to lift her eyes to his
face, she saw that he was grown thinner and had the burnt, fagged, worn look of
fatigue and a hot climate, every tender feeling was increased, and she was
miserable in considering how much unsuspected vexation was probably ready to
burst on him. Sir Thomas was indeed the life of the party, who at his
suggestion now seated themselves round the fire. He had the best right to be
the talker; and the delight of his sensations in being again in his own house,
in the centre of his family, after such a separation, made him communicative
and chatty in a very unusual degree; and he was ready to give every information
as to his voyage, and answer every question of his two sons almost before it
was put. His business in Antigua had latterly been prosperously rapid, and he
came directly from Liverpool, having had an opportunity of making his passage
thither in a private vessel, instead of waiting for the packet; and all the
little particulars of his proceedings and events, his arrivals and departures,
were most promptly delivered, as he sat by Lady Bertram and looked with
heartfelt satisfaction on the faces around him -- interrupting himself more
than once, however, to remark on his good fortune in finding them all at home
-- coming unexpectedly as he did -- all collected together exactly as he could
have wished, but dared not depend on. Mr. Rushworth was not forgotten; a most
friendly reception and warmth of hand-shaking had already met him, and with
pointed attention he was now included in the objects most intimately connected
with Mansfield. There was nothing disagreeable in Mr. Rushworth's appearance,
and Sir Thomas was liking him already. By not one of the circle was he listened
to with such unbroken unalloyed enjoyment as by his wife, who was really
extremely happy to see him, and whose feelings were so warmed by his sudden
arrival, as to place her nearer agitation than she had been for the last twenty
years. She had been almost fluttered for a few minutes, and still remained so
sensibly animated as to put away her work, move Pug from her side, and give all
her attention and all the rest of her sofa to her husband. She had no anxieties
for any body to cloud her pleasure; her own time had been irreproachably spent
during his absence; she had done a great deal of carpet work and made many
yards of fringe; and she would have answered as freely for the good conduct and
useful pursuits of all the young people as for her own. It was so agreeable to
her to see him again, and hear him talk, to have her ear amused and her whole
comprehension filled by his narratives, that she began particularly to feel how
dreadfully she must have missed him, and how impossible it would have been for
her to bear a lengthened absence. Mrs. Norris was by no means to be compared in
happiness to her sister. Not that she was incommoded by many fears of Sir
Thomas's disapprobation when the present state of his house should be known,
for her judgment had been so blinded, that except by the instinctive caution
with which she had whisked away Mr. Rushworth's pink satin cloak as her
brother-in-law entered, she could hardly be said to shew any sign of alarm; but
she was vexed by the manner of his return. It had left her nothing to do.
Instead of being sent for out of the room, and seeing him first, and having to
spread the happy news through the house, Sir Thomas, with a very reasonable
dependance perhaps on the nerves of his wife and children, had sought no
confidant but the butler, and had been following him almost instantaneously
into the drawing-room. Mrs. Norris felt herself defrauded of an office on which
she had always depended, whether his arrival or his death were to be the thing
unfolded; and was now trying to be in a bustle without having any thing 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 house-keeper with troublesome directions, and insulted the
footmen with injunctions of dispatch; but Sir Thomas resolutely declined all
dinner; he would take nothing, nothing till tea came -- he would rather wait
for tea. Still Mrs. Norris was at intervals urging something different, and in
the most interesting moment of his passage to England, when the alarm of a
French privateer was at the height, she burst through his recital with the
proposal of soup. "Sure, my dearSir Thomas, a basin of soup would be a
much better thing for you than tea. Do have a basin of soup." Sir Thomas
could not be provoked. "Still the same anxiety for every body's comfort,
my dearMrs. Norris," was his answer. "But indeed I would rather have
nothing but tea." "Well then, Lady Bertram, suppose you speak for tea
directly, suppose you hurry Baddeley a little, he seems behind hand
to-night." She carried this point, and Sir Thomas's narrative proceeded.
At length there was a pause. His immediate communications were exhausted, and
it seemed enough to be looking joyfully around him, now at one, now at another
of the beloved circle; but the pause was not long: in the elation of her
spirits Lady Bertram became talkative, and what were the sensations of her
children upon hearing her say, "How do you think the young people have
been amusing themselves lately, Sir Thomas? They have been acting. We have been
all alive with acting." "Indeed! and what have you been acting?"
"Oh! They'll tell you all about it." "The all will be soon
told," cried Tom hastily, and with affected unconcern; "but it is not
worth while to bore my father with it now. You will hear enough of it
to-morrow, sir. We have just been trying, by way of doing something, and
amusing my mother, just within the last week, to get up a few scenes, a mere
trifle. We have had such incessant rains almost since October began, that we
have been nearly confined to the house for days together. I have hardly taken
out a gun since the 3d. Tolerable sport the first three days, but there has
been no attempting any thing since. The first day I went over Mansfield Wood,
and Edmund took the copses beyond Easton, and we brought home six brace between
us, and might each have killed six times as many; but we respect your
pheasants, sir, I assure you, as much as you could desire. I do not think you
will find your woods by any means worse stocked than they were. I never saw
Mansfield Wood so full of pheasants in my life as this year. I hope you will
take a day's sport there yourself, sir, soon." For the present the danger
was over, and Fanny's sick feelings subsided; but when tea was soon afterwards
brought in, and Sir Thomas, getting up, said that he found he could not be any
longer in the house without just looking into his own dear room, every
agitation was returning. He was gone before any thing had been said to prepare
him for the change he must find there; and a pause of alarm followed his
disappearance. Edmund was the first to speak: "Something must be
done," said he. "It is time to think of our visitors," said
Maria, still feeling her hand pressed to Henry Crawford's heart, and caring
little for any thing else. -- "Where did you leave Miss Crawford,
Fanny?" Fanny told of their departure, and delivered their message.
"Then poor Yates is all alone," cried Tom. "I will go and fetch
him. He will be no bad assistant when it all comes out." To the Theatre he
went, and reached it just in time to witness the first meeting of his father
and his friend. Sir Thomas had been a good deal surprised to find candles
burning in his room; and on casting his eye round it, to see other symptoms of
recent habitation, and a general air of confusion in the furniture. The removal
of the book-case from before the billiard room door struck him especially, but
he had scarcely more than time to feel astonished at all this, before there were
sounds from the billiard room to astonish him still further. Some one was
talking there in a very loud accent -- he did not know the voice -- more than
talking -- almost hallooing. He stept 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 Wildenhaim into the well-bred
and easy Mr. Yates, making his bow and apology to Sir Thomas Bertram, was such
an exhibition, such a piece of true acting as he would not have lost upon any
account. It would be the last -- in all probability the last scene on that
stage; but he was sure there could not be a finer. The house would close with
the greatest eclat. There was little time, however, for the indulgence of any
images of merriment. It was necessary for him to step forward too and assist
the introduction, and with many awkward sensations he did his best. Sir Thomas
received Mr. Yates with all the appearance of cordiality which was due to his
own character, but was really as far from pleased with the necessity of the
acquaintance as with the manner of its commencement. Mr. Yates's family and
connections were sufficiently known to him, to render his introduction as the
"particular friend," another of the hundred particular friends of his
son, exceedingly unwelcome; and it needed all the felicity of being again at
home, and all the forbearance it could supply, to save Sir Thomas from anger on
finding himself thus bewildered in his own house, making part of a ridiculous
exhibition in the midst of theatrical nonsense, and forced in so untoward a
moment to admit the acquaintance of a young man whom he felt sure of
disapproving, and whose easy indifference and volubility in the course of the
first five minutes seemed to mark him the most at home of the two. Tom
understood his father's thoughts, and heartily wishing he might be always as
well disposed to give them but partial expression, began to see more clearly
than he had ever done before that there might be some ground of offence -- that
there might be some reason for the glance his father gave towards the ceiling
and stucco of the room; and that when he inquired with mild gravity after the
fate of the billiard table, he was not proceeding beyond a very allowable
curiosity. A few minutes were enough for such unsatisfactory sensations on each
side; and Sir Thomas, having exerted himself so far as to speak a few words of
calm approbation in reply to an eager appeal of Mr. Yates, as to the happiness
of the arrangement, the three gentlemen returned to the drawing-room together,
Sir Thomas with an increase of gravity which was not lost on all. "I come
from your theatre," said he composedly, as he sat down; "I found
myself in it rather unexpectedly. Its vicinity to my own room -- but in every
respect indeed it took me by surprize, as I had not the smallest suspicion of
your acting having assumed so serious a character. It appears a neat job,
however, as far as I could judge by candle-light, and does my friend
Christopher Jackson credit." And then he would have changed the subject,
and sipped his coffee in peace over domestic matters of a calmer hue; but Mr.
Yates, without discernment to catch Sir Thomas's meaning, or diffidence, or
delicacy, or discretion enough to allow him to lead the discourse while he mingled
among the others with the least obtrusiveness himself, would keep him on the
topic of the theatre, would torment him with questions and remarks relative to
it, and finally would make him hear the whole history of his disappointment at
Ecclesford. Sir Thomas listened most politely, but found much to offend his
ideas of decorum and confirm his ill opinion of Mr. Yates's habits of thinking
from the beginning to the end of the story; and when it was over, could give
him no other assurance of sympathy than what a slight bow conveyed. "This
was in fact the origin of our acting," said Tom after a moment's thought.
"My friend Yates brought the infection from Ecclesford, and it spread as
those things always spread you know, sir -- the faster probably from your having
so often encouraged the sort of thing in us formerly. It was like treading old
ground again." Mr. Yates took the subject from his friend as soon as
possible, and immediately gave Sir Thomas an account of what they had done and
were doing, told him of the gradual increase of their views, the happy
conclusion of their first difficulties, and present promising state of affairs;
relating every thing with so blind an interest as made him not only totally
unconscious of the uneasy movements of many of his friends as they sat, the
change of countenance, the fidget, the hem! of unquietness, but prevented him
even from seeing the expression of the face on which his own eyes were fixed --
from seeing Sir Thomas's dark brow contract as he looked with inquiring earnestness
at his daughters and Edmund, dwelling particularly on the latter, and speaking
a language, a remonstrance, a reproof, which he felt at his heart. Not less
acutely was it felt by Fanny, who had edged back her chair behind her aunt's
end of the sofa, and, screened from notice herself, saw all that was passing
before her. Such a look of reproach at Edmund from his father she could never
have expected to witness; and to feel that it was in any degree deserved, was
an aggravation indeed. Sir Thomas's look implied, "On your judgment,
Edmund, I depended; what have you been about?" -- She knelt in spirit to
her uncle, and her bosom swelled to utter, "Oh! not to him. Look so to all
the others, but not to him!" Mr. Yates was still talking. "To own the
truth, Sir Thomas, we were in the middle of a rehearsal when you arrived this
evening. We were going through the three first acts, and not unsuccessfully
upon the whole. Our company is now so dispersed from the Crawfords being gone
home, that nothing more can be done to-night; but if you will give us the
honour of your company to-morrow evening, I should not be afraid of the result.
We bespeak your indulgence, you understand, as young performers; we bespeak
your indulgence." "My indulgence shall be given, sir," replied
Sir Thomas gravely, "but without any other rehearsal." -- And with a
relenting smile he added, "I come home to be happy and indulgent."
Then turning away towards any or all of the rest, he tranquilly said, "Mr.
and Miss Crawford were mentioned in my last letters from Mansfield. Do you find
them agreeable acquaintance?" Tom was the only one at all ready with an
answer, but he being entirely without particular regard for either, without
jealousy either in love or acting, could speak very handsomely of both.
"Mr. Crawford was a most pleasant gentleman-like man; -- his sister a
sweet, pretty, elegant, lively girl." Mr. Rushworth could be silent no
longer. "I do not say he is not gentleman-like, considering; but you
should tell your father he is not above five feet eight, or he will be
expecting a well-looking man." Sir Thomas did not quite understand this,
and looked with some surprize at the speaker. "If I must say what I
think," continued Mr. Rushworth, "in my opinion it is very disagreeable
to be always rehearsing. It is having too much of a good thing. I am not so
fond of acting as I was at first. I think we are a great deal better employed,
sitting comfortably here among ourselves, and doing nothing." Sir Thomas
looked again, and then replied with an approving smile, "I am happy to
find our sentiments on the subject so much the same. It gives me sincere
satisfaction. That I should be cautious and quick-sighted, and feel many
scruples which my children do not feel, is perfectly natural; and equally so
that my value for domestic tranquillity, for a home which shuts out noisy
pleasures, should much exceed theirs. But at your time of life to feel all
this, is a most favourable circumstance for yourself and for every body
connected with you; and I am sensible of the importance of having an ally of
such weight." Sir Thomas meant to be giving Mr. Rushworth's opinion in
better words than he could find himself. He was aware that he must not expect a
genius in Mr. Rushworth; but as a well-judging steady young man, with better
notions than his elocution would do justice to, he intended to value him very
highly. It was impossible for many of the others not to smile. Mr. Rushworth
hardly knew what to do with so much meaning; but by looking as he really felt,
most exceedingly pleased with Sir Thomas's good opinion, and saying scarcely
any thing, he did his best towards preserving that good opinion 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 ingenuousness that his concession had been attended with such partial
good as to make his judgment in it very doubtful. He was anxious, while
vindicating himself, to say nothing unkind of the others; but there was only
one amongst them whose conduct he could mention without some necessity of
defence or palliation. "We have all been more or less to blame," said
he, "every one of us, excepting Fanny. Fanny is the only one who has
judged rightly throughout, who has been consistent. Her feelings have been
steadily against it from first to last. She never ceased to think of what was
due to you. You will find Fanny every thing you could wish." Sir Thomas
saw all the impropriety of such a scheme among such a party, and at such a
time, as strongly as his son had ever supposed he must; he felt it too much
indeed for many words; and having shaken hands with Edmund, meant to try to
lose the disagreeable impression, and forget how much he had been forgotten
himself as soon as he could, after the house had been cleared of every object
enforcing the remembrance, and restored to it 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 every thing, the sweep of every preparation would be
sufficient. There was one person, however, in the house whom he could not leave
to learn his sentiments merely through his conduct. He could not help giving
Mrs. Norris a hint of his having hoped, that her advice might have been
interposed to prevent what her judgment must certainly have disapproved. The
young people had been very inconsiderate in forming the plan; they ought to
have been capable of a better decision themselves; but they were young, and,
excepting Edmund, he believed of unsteady characters; and with greater surprize
therefore he must regard her acquiescence in their wrong measures, her
countenance of their unsafe amusements, than that such measures and such
amusements should have been suggested. Mrs. Norris was a little confounded, and
as nearly being silenced as ever she had been in her life; for she was ashamed
to confess having never seen any of the impropriety which was so glaring to Sir
Thomas, and would not have admitted that her influence was insufficient, that
she might have talked in vain. Her only resource was to get out of the subject
as fast as possible, and turn the current of Sir Thomas's ideas into a happier
channel. She had a great deal to insinuate in her own praise as to general
attention to the interest and comfort of his family, much exertion and many
sacrifices to glance at in the form of hurried walks and sudden removals from
her own fire-side, 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
connection with the Rushworths. There she was impregnable. She took to herself
all the credit of bringing Mr. Rushworth's admiration of Maria to any effect.
"If I had not been active," said she, "and made a point of being
introduced to his mother, and then prevailed on my sister to pay the first
visit, I am as certain as I sit here, that nothing would have come of it -- for
Mr. Rushworth is the sort of amiable modest young man who wants a great deal of
encouragement, and there were girls enough on the catch for him if we had been
idle. But I left no stone unturned. I was ready to move heaven and earth to
persuade my sister, and at last I did persuade her. You know the distance to
Sotherton; it was in the middle of winter, and the roads almost impassable, but
I did persuade her." "I know how great, how justly great your
influence is with Lady Bertram and her children, and am the more concerned that
it should not have been" -- "My dearSir Thomas, if you had seen the
state of the roads that day! I thought we should never have got through them,
though we had the four horses of course; and poor old coachman would attend us,
out of his great love and kindness, though he was hardly able to sit the box on
account of the rheumatism which I had been doctoring him for, ever since
Michaelmas. I cured him at last; but he was very bad all the winter -- and this
was such a day, I could not help going to him up in his room before we set off
to advise him not to venture: he was putting on his wig -- so I said,
"Coachman, you had much better not go, your Lady and I shall be very safe;
you know how steady Stephen is, and Charles has been upon the leaders so often
now, that I am sure there is no fear." But, however, I soon found it would
not do; he was bent upon going, and as I hate to be worrying and officious, I
said no more; but my heart quite ached for him at every jolt, and when we got
into the rough lanes about Stoke, where what with frost and snow upon beds of
stones, it was worse than any thing you can imagine, I was quite in an agony
about him. And then the poor horses too! -- To see them straining away! You
know how I always feel for the horses. And when we got to the bottom of
Sandcroft Hill, what do you think I did? You will laugh at me -- but I got out
and walked up. I did indeed. It might not be saving them much, but it was
something, and I could not bear to sit at my ease, and be dragged up at the
expense of those noble animals. I caught a dreadful cold, but that I did not
regard. My object was accomplished in the visit." "I hope we shall
always think the acquaintance worth any trouble that might be taken to
establish it. There is nothing very striking in Mr. Rushworth's manners, but I
was pleased last night with what appeared to be his opinion on one subject --
his decided preference of a quiet family-party to the bustle and confusion of
acting. He seemed to feel exactly as one could wish." "Yes, indeed,
-- and the more you know of him, the better you will like him. He is not a
shining character, but he has a thousand good qualities! and is so disposed to
look up to you, that I am quite laughed at about it, for every body considers
it as my doing. ""Upon my word, Mrs. Norris,"" said Mrs.
Grant, the other day, ""if Mr. Rushworth were a son of your own he
could not hold Sir Thomas in greater respect.""" Sir Thomas gave
up the point, foiled by her evasions, disarmed by her flattery; and was obliged
to rest satisfied with the conviction that where the present pleasure of those
she loved was at stake, her kindness did sometimes overpower her judgment. It
was a busy morning with him. Conversation with any of them occupied but a small
part of it. He had to reinstate himself in all the wonted concerns of his
Mansfield life, to see his steward and his bailiff -- to examine and compute --
and, in the intervals of business, to walk into his stables and his gardens,
and nearest plantations; but active and methodical, he had not only done all
this before he resumed his seat as master of the house at dinner, he had also
set the carpenter to work in pulling down what had been so lately put up in the
billiard room, and given the scene painter his dismissal, long enough to
justify the pleasing belief of his being then at least as far off as
Northampton. The scene painter was gone, having spoilt only the floor of one
room, ruined all the coachman's sponges, and made five of the under-servants
idle and dissatisfied; and Sir Thomas was in hopes that another day or two
would suffise to wipe away every outward memento of what had been, even to the
destruction of every unbound copy of "Lovers' Vows" in the house, for
he was burning all that met his eye. Mr. Yates was beginning now to understand
Sir Thomas's intentions, though as far as ever from understanding their source.
He and his friend had been out with their guns the chief of the morning, and
Tom had taken the opportunity of explaining, with proper apologies for his
father's particularity, what was to be expected. Mr. Yates felt it as acutely
as might be supposed. To be a second time disappointed in the same way was an
instance of very severe ill-luck; and his indignation was such, that had it not
been for delicacy towards his friend and his friend's youngest sister, he
believed he should certainly attack the Baronet on the absurdity of his
proceedings, and argue him into a little more rationality. He believed this
very stoutly while he was in Mansfield Wood, and all the way home; but there
was a something in Sir Thomas, when they sat round the same table, which made
Mr. Yates think it wiser to let him pursue his own way, and feel the folly of
it without opposition. He had known many disagreeable fathers before, and often
been struck with the inconveniences they occasioned, but never in the whole
course of his life, had he seen one of that class, so unintelligibly moral, so
infamously tyrannical as Sir Thomas. He was not a man to be endured but for his
children's sake, and he might be thankful to his fair daughter Julia that Mr.
Yates did yet mean to stay a few days longer under his roof. The evening passed
with external smoothness, though almost every mind was ruffled; and the music
which Sir Thomas called for from his daughters helped to conceal the want of
real harmony. Maria was in a good deal of agitation. It was of the utmost
consequence to her that Crawford should now lose no time in declaring himself,
and she was disturbed that even a day should be gone by without seeming to
advance that point. She had been expecting to see him the whole morning -- and
all the evening too was still expecting him. Mr. Rushworth had set off early
with the great news for Sotherton; and she had fondly hoped for such an immediate
eclaircissement as might save him the trouble of ever coming back again. But
they had seen no one from the Parsonage -- not a creature, and had heard no
tidings beyond a friendly note of congratulation and inquiry from Mrs. Grant to
Lady Bertram. It was the first day for many, many weeks, in which the families
had been wholly divided. Four-and-twenty hours had never passed before, since
August began, without bringing them together in some way or other. It was a sad
anxious day; and the morrow, though differing in the sort of evil, did by no
means bring less. A few moments of feverish enjoyment were followed by hours of
acute suffering. Henry Crawford was again in the house; he walked up with Dr.
Grant, who was anxious to pay his respects to Sir Thomas, and at rather an
early hour they were ushered into the breakfast room, where were most of the
family. Sir Thomas soon appeared, and Maria saw with delight and agitation the
introduction of the man she loved to her father. Her sensations were
indefinable, and so were they a few minutes afterwards upon hearing Henry
Crawford, who had a chair between herself and Tom, ask the latter in an under
voice, whether there were any plan for resuming the play after the present
happy interruption, (with a courteous glance at Sir Thomas,) because in that
case, he should make a point of returning to Mansfield, at any time required by
the party; he was going away immediately, being to meet his uncle at Bath
without delay, but if there were any prospect of a renewal of "Lovers' Vows",
he should hold himself positively engaged, he should break through every other
claim, he should absolutely condition with his uncle for attending them
whenever he might be wanted. The play should not be lost by his absence.
"From Bath, Norfolk, London, York -- wherever I may be," said he,
"I will attend you from any place in England, at an hour's notice."
It was well at that moment that Tom had to speak and not his sister. He could
immediately say with easy fluency, "I am sorry you are going -- but as to
our play, that is all over -- entirely at an end (looking significantly at his
father). The painter was sent off yesterday, and very little will remain of the
theatre to-morrow. -- I knew how that would be from the first. -- It is early
for Bath. -- You will find nobody there." "It is about my uncle's
usual time." "When do you think of going?" "I may perhaps
get as far as Banbury to-day." "Whose stables do you use at
Bath?" was the next question; and while this branch of the subject was
under discussion, Maria, who wanted neither pride nor resolution, was preparing
to encounter her share of it with tolerable calmness. To her he soon turned,
repeating much of what he had already said, with only a softened air and
stronger expressions of regret. But what availed his expressions or his air? --
He was going -- and if not voluntarily going, voluntarily intending to stay
away; for, excepting what might be due to his uncle, his engagements were all
self-imposed. -- He might talk of necessity, but she knew his independence. --
The hand which had so pressed her's to his heart! -- The hand and the heart
were alike motionless and passive now! Her spirit supported her, but the agony
of her mind was severe. -- She had not long to endure what arose from listening
to language, which his actions contradicted, or to bury the tumult of her
feelings under the restraint of society; for general civilities soon called his
notice from her, and the farewell visit, as it then became openly acknowledged,
was a very short one. -- He was gone -- he had touched her hand for the last
time, he had made his parting bow, and she might seek directly all that
solitude could do for her. Henry Crawford was gone -- gone from the house, and
within two hours afterwards from the parish; and so ended all the hopes his
selfish vanity had raised in Maria and Julia Bertram. Julia could rejoice that
he was gone. -- His presence was beginning to be odious to her; and if Maria
gained him not, she was now cool enough to dispense with any other revenge. --
She did not want exposure to be added to desertion. -- Henry Crawford gone, she
could even pity her sister. With a purer spirit did Fanny rejoice in the
intelligence. -- She heard it at dinner and felt it a blessing. By all the
others it was mentioned with regret, and his merits honoured with due gradation
of feeling, from the sincerity of Edmund's too partial regard, to the unconcern
of his mother speaking entirely by rote. Mrs. Norris began to look about her
and wonder that his falling in love with Julia had come to nothing; and could
almost fear that she had been remiss herself in forwarding it; but with so many
to care for, how was it possible for even her activity to keep pace with her
wishes? Another day or two, and Mr. Yates was gone likewise. In his departure
Sir Thomas felt the chief interest; wanting to be alone with his family, the
presence of a stranger superior to Mr. Yates must have been irksome; but of
him, trifling and confident, idle and expensive, it was every way vexatious. In
himself he was wearisome, but as the friend of Tom and the admirer of Julia he
became offensive. Sir Thomas had been quite indifferent to Mr. Crawford's going
or staying -- but his good wishes for Mr. Yates's having a pleasant journey, as
he walked with him to the hall door, were given with genuine satisfaction. Mr.
Yates had staid to see the destruction of every theatrical preparation at
Mansfield, the removal of every thing appertaining to the play; he left the
house in all the soberness of its general character; and Sir Thomas hoped, in
seeing him out of it, to be rid of the worst object connected with the scheme,
and the last that must be inevitably reminding him of its existence. Mrs.
Norris contrived to remove one article from his sight that might have
distressed him. The curtain over which she had presided with such talent and
such success, went off with her to her cottage, where she happened to be
particularly in want of green baize.
Sir Thomas's return
made a striking change in the ways of the family, independent of Lovers' Vows.
Under his government, Mansfield was an altered place. Some members of their
society sent away and the spirits of many others saddened, it was all sameness and
gloom, compared with the past; a sombre family-party rarely enlivened. There
was little intercourse with the Parsonage. Sir Thomas drawing back from
intimacies in general, was particularly disinclined, at this time, for any
engagements but in one quarter. The Rushworths were the only addition to his
own domestic circle which he could solicit. Edmund did not wonder that such
should be his father's feelings, nor could he regret any thing but the
exclusion of the Grants. "But they," he observed to Fanny, "have
a claim. They seem to belong to us -- they seem to be part of ourselves. I
could wish my father were more sensible of their very great attention to my
mother and sisters while he was away. I am afraid they may feel themselves
neglected. But the truth is that my father hardly knows them. They had not been
here a twelvemonth when he left England. If he knew them better, he would value
their society as it deserves, for they are in fact exactly the sort of people
he would like. We are sometimes a little in want of animation among ourselves;
my sisters seem out of spirits, and Tom is certainly not at his ease. Dr. and
Mrs. Grant would enliven us, and make our evenings pass away with more
enjoyment even to my father." "Do you think so?" said Fanny.
"In my opinion, my uncle would not like any addition. I think he values
the very quietness you speak of, and that the repose of his own family-circle
is all he wants. And it does not appear to me that we are more serious than we
used to be; I mean before my uncle went abroad. As well as I can recollect, it
was always much the same. There was never much laughing in his presence; or, if
there is any difference, it is not more I think than such an absence has a
tendency to produce at first. There must be a sort of shyness. But I cannot
recollect that our evenings formerly were ever merry, except when my uncle was
in town. No young people's are, I suppose, when those they look up to are at
home." "I believe you are rightFanny," was his reply, after a
short consideration. "I believe our evenings are rather returned to what
they were, than assuming a new character. The novelty was in their being
lively. -- Yet, how strong the impression that only a few weeks will give! I
have been feeling as if we had never lived so before." "I suppose I
am graver than other people," said Fanny. "The evenings do not appear
long to me. I love to hear my uncle talk of the West Indies. I could listen to
him for an hour together. It entertains me more than many other things have
done -- but then I am unlike other people I dare say." "Why should
you dare say that? (smiling) -- Do you want to be told that you are only unlike
other people in being more wise and discreet? But when did you or any body ever
get a compliment from me, Fanny? Go to my father if you want to be
complimented. He will satisfy you. Ask your uncle what he thinks, and you will
hear compliments enough; and though they may be chiefly on your person, you
must put up with it, and trust to his seeing as much beauty of mind in time."
Such language was so new to Fanny that it quite embarrassed her. "Your
uncle thinks you very pretty, dearFanny -- and that is the long and the short
of the matter. Anybody but myself would have made something more of it, and any
body but you would resent that you had not been thought very pretty before; but
the truth is, that your uncle never did admire you till now -- and now he does.
Your complexion is so improved! -- and you have gained so much countenance! --
and your figure -- Nay, Fanny, do not turn away about it -- it is but an uncle.
If you cannot bear an uncle's admiration what is to become of you? You must
really begin to harden yourself to the idea of being worth looking at. -- You
must try not to mind growing up into a pretty woman." "Oh! don't talk
so, don't talk so," cried Fanny, distressed by more feelings than he was
aware of; but seeing that she was distressed, he had done with the subject, and
only added more seriously, "Your uncle is disposed to be pleased with you
in every respect; and I only wish you would talk to him more. -- You are one of
those who are too silent in the evening circle." "But I do talk to
him more than I used. I am sure I do. Did not you hear me ask him about the
slave trade last night?" "I did -- and was in hopes the question
would be followed up by others. It would have pleased your uncle to be inquired
of farther." "And I longed to do it -- but there was such a dead
silence! And while my cousins were sitting by without speaking a word, or
seeming at all interested in the subject, I did not like -- I thought it would
appear as if I wanted to set myself off at their expense, by shewing a
curiosity and pleasure in his information which he must wish his own daughters
to feel." "Miss Crawford was very right in what she said of you the
other day -- that you seemed almost as fearful of notice and praise as other
women were of neglect. We were talking of you at the Parsonage, and those were
her words. She has great discernment. I know nobody who distinguishes
characters better. -- For so young a woman it is remarkable! She certainly
understands you better than you are understood by the greater part of those who
have known you so long; and with regard to some others, I can perceive, from
occasional lively hints, the unguarded expressions of the moment, that she
could define many as accurately, did not delicacy forbid it. I wonder what she
thinks of my father! She must admire him as a fine looking man, with most
gentleman-like, dignified, consistent manners; but perhaps having seen him so
seldom, his reserve may be a little repulsive. Could they be much together I
feel sure of their liking each other. He would enjoy her liveliness -- and she
has talents to value his powers. I wish they met more frequently! -- I hope she
does not suppose there is any dislike on his side." "She must know
herself too secure of the regard of all the rest of you," said Fanny with
half a sigh, "to have any such apprehension. And Sir Thomas's wishing just
at first to be only with his family is so very natural, that she can argue
nothing from that. After a little while I dare say we shall be meeting again in
the same sort of way, allowing for the difference of the time of year."
"This is the first October that she has passed in the country since her infancy.
I do not call Tunbridge or Cheltenham the country; and November is a still more
serious month, and I can see that Mrs. Grant is very anxious for her not
finding Mansfield dull as winter comes on." Fanny could have said a great
deal, but it was safer to say nothing, and leave untouched all Miss Crawford's
resources, her accomplishments, her spirits, her importance, her friends, lest
it should betray her into any observations seemingly unhandsome. Miss
Crawford's kind opinion of herself deserved at least a grateful forbearance,
and she began to talk of something else. "To-morrow, I think, my uncle
dines at Sotherton, and you and Mr. Bertram too. We shall be quite a small
party at home. I hope my uncle may continue to like Mr. Rushworth "That is
impossible, Fanny. He must like him less after to-morrow's visit, for we shall
be five hours in his company. I should dread the stupidity of the day, if there
were not a much greater evil to follow -- the impression it must leave on Sir
Thomas. He cannot much longer deceive himself. I am sorry for them all, and
would give something that Rushworth and Maria had never met." In this
quarter, indeed, disappointment was impending over Sir Thomas. Not all his
good-will for Mr. Rushworth, not all Mr. Rushworth's deference for him, could
prevent him from soon discerning some part of the truth -- that Mr. Rushworth
was an inferior young man, as ignorant in business as in books, with opinions
in general unfixed, and without seeming much aware of it himself. He had
expected a very different son-in-law; and beginning to feel grave on Maria's
account, tried to understand her feelings. Little observation there was
necessary to tell him that indifference was the most favourable state they
could be in. Her behaviour to Mr. Rushworth was careless and cold. She could
not, did not like him. Sir Thomas resolved to speak seriously to her.
Advantageous as would be the alliance, and long standing and public as was the
engagement, her happiness must not be sacrificed to it. Mr. Rushworth had
perhaps been accepted on too short an acquaintance, and on knowing him better
she was repenting. With solemn kindness Sir Thomas addressed her; told her his
fears, inquired into her wishes, entreated her to be open and sincere, and
assured her that every inconvenience should be braved, and the connection
entirely given up, if she felt herself unhappy in the prospect of it. He would
act for her and release her. Maria had a moment's struggle as she listened, and
only a moment's: when her father ceased, she was able to give her answer
immediately, decidedly, and with no apparent agitation. She thanked him for his
great attention, his paternal kindness, but he was quite mistaken in supposing
she had the smallest desire of breaking through her engagement, or was sensible
of any change of opinion or inclination since her forming it. She had the
highest esteem for Mr. Rushworth's character and disposition, and could not
have a doubt of her happiness with him. Sir Thomas was satisfied; too glad to
be satisfied perhaps to urge the matter quite so far as his judgment might have
dictated to others. It was an alliance which he could not have relinquished
without pain; and thus he reasoned. Mr. Rushworth was young enough to improve;
-- Mr. Rushworth must and would improve in good society; and if Maria could now
speak so securely of her happiness with him, speaking certainly without the
prejudice, the blindness of love, she ought to be believed. Her feelings
probably were not acute; he had never supposed them to be so; but her comforts
might not be less on that account, and if she could dispense with seeing her
husband a leading, shining character, there would certainly be every thing else
in her favour. A well-disposed young woman, who did not marry for love, was in
general but the more attached to her own family, and the nearness of Sotherton
to Mansfield must naturally hold out the greatest temptation, and would, in all
probability, be a continual supply of the most amiable and innocent enjoyments.
Such and such-like were the reasonings of Sir Thomas -- happy to escape the
embarrassing evils of a rupture, the wonder, the reflections, the reproach that
must attend it, happy to secure a marriage which would bring him such an
addition of respectability and influence, and very happy to think any thing of
his daughter's disposition that was most favourable for the purpose. To her the
conference closed as satisfactorily as to him. She was in a state of mind to be
glad that she had secured her fate beyond recall -- that she had pledged herself
anew to Sotherton -- that she was safe from the possibility of giving Crawford
the triumph of governing her actions, and destroying her prospects; and retired
in proud resolve, determined only to behave more cautiously to Mr. Rushworth in
future, that her father might not be again suspecting her. Had Sir Thomas
applied to his daughter within the first three or four days after Henry
Crawford's leaving Mansfield, before her feelings were at all tranquillized,
before she had given up every hope of him, or absolutely resolved on enduring
his rival, her answer might have been different; but after another three or
four days, when there was no return, no letter, no message -- no symptom of a
softened heart -- no hope of advantage from separation -- her mind became cool
enough to seek all the comfort that pride and self-revenge could give. Henry
Crawford had destroyed her happiness, but he should not know that he had done
it; he should not destroy her credit, her appearance, her prosperity too. He
should not have to think of her as pining in the retirement of Mansfield for
him, rejecting Sotherton and London, independence and splendour for his sake.
Independence was more needful than ever; the want of it at Mansfield more
sensibly felt. She was less and less able to endure the restraint which her
father imposed. The liberty which his absence had given was now become
absolutely necessary. She must escape from him and Mansfield as soon as
possible, and find consolation in fortune and consequence, bustle and the
world, for a wounded spirit. Her mind was quite determined and varied not. To
such feelings, delay, even the delay of much preparation, would have been an
evil, and Mr. Rushworth could hardly be more impatient for the marriage than
herself. In all the important preparations of the mind she was complete; being
prepared for matrimony by an hatred of home, restraint, and tranquillity; by
the misery of disappointed affection, and contempt of the man she was to marry.
The rest might wait. The preparations of new carriages and furniture might wait
for London and spring, when her own taste could have fairer play. The
principals being all agreed in this respect, it soon appeared that a very few
weeks would be sufficient for such arrangements as must precede the wedding. Mrs.
Rushworth was quite ready to retire, and make way for the fortunate young woman
whom her dear son had selected; -- and very early in November removed herself,
her maid, her footman, and her chariot, with true dowager propriety, to Bath --
there to parade over the wonders of Sotherton in her evening-parties --
enjoying them as thoroughly perhaps in the animation of a card-table as she had
ever done on the spot -- and before the middle of the same month the ceremony
had taken place, which gave Sotherton another mistress. It was a very proper
wedding. The bride was elegantly dressed -- the two bridemaids were duly
inferior -- her father gave her away -- her mother stood with salts in her
hand, expecting to be agitated -- her aunt tried to cry -- and the service was
impressively read by Dr. Grant. Nothing could be objected to when it came under
the discussion of the neighbourhood, except that the carriage which conveyed
the bride and bridegroom and Julia from the church door to Sotherton, was the
same chaise whichMr. Rushworth had used for a twelvemonth before. In every
thing else the etiquette of the day might stand the strictest investigation. It
was done, and they were gone. Sir Thomas felt as an anxious father must feel,
and was indeed experiencing much of the agitation which his wife had been
apprehensive of for herself, but had fortunately escaped. Mrs. Norris, most
happy to assist in the duties of the day, by spending it at the Park to support
her sister's spirits, and drinking the health of Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth in a
supernumerary glass or two, was all joyous delight -- for she had made the
match -- she had done every thing -- and no one would have supposed, from her
confident triumph, that she had ever heard of conjugal infelicity in her life,
or could have the smallest insight into the disposition of the niece who had
been brought up under her eye. The plan of the young couple was to proceed
after a few days to Brighton, and take a house there for some weeks. Every
public place was new to Maria, and Brighton is almost as gay in winter as in
summer. When the novelty of amusement there were over, it would be time for the
wider range of London. Julia was to go with them to Brighton. Since rivalry
between the sisters had ceased, they had been gradually recovering much of
their former good understanding; and were at least sufficiently friends to make
each of them exceedingly glad to be with the other at such a time. Some other
companion than Mr. Rushworth was of the first consequence to his lady, and
Julia was quite as eager for novelty and pleasure as Maria, though she might
not have struggled through so much to obtain them, and could better bear a
subordinate situation. Their departure made another material change at
Mansfield, a chasm which required some time to fill up. The family circle
became greatly contracted, and though the Miss Bertrams had latterly added
little to its gaiety, they could not but be missed. Even their mother missed
them -- and how much more their tender-hearted 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 not to be more looked at, more thought of and attended to, than she had
ever been before; and "where is Fanny?" became no uncommon question,
even without her being wanted for any one's convenience. Not only at home did
her value increase, but at the Parsonage too. In that house which she had
hardly entered twice a year since Mr. Norris's death, she became a welcome, an
invited guest; and in the gloom and dirt of a November day, most acceptable to
Mary Crawford. Her visits there, beginning by chance, were continued by
solicitation. Mrs. Grant, really eager to get any change for her sister, could
by the easiest self-deceit persuade herself that she was doing the kindest
thing by Fanny, and giving her the most important opportunities of improvement
in pressing her frequent calls. Fanny, having been sent into the village on
some errand by her aunt Norris, was overtaken by a heavy shower close to the
Parsonage, and being descried from one of the windows endeavouring to find
shelter under the branches and lingering leaves of an oak just beyond their
premises, was forced, though not without some modest reluctance on her part, to
come in. A civil servant she had withstood; but when Dr. Grant himself went out
with an umbrella, there was nothing to be done but to be very much ashamed and
to get into the house as fast as possible; and to poor Miss Crawford, who had just
been contemplating the dismal rain in a very desponding state of mind, sighing
over the ruin of all her plan of exercise for that morning, and of every chance
of seeing a single creature beyond themselves for the next twenty-four hours;
the sound of a little bustle at the front door, and the sight of Miss Price
dripping with wet in the vestibule, was delightful. The value of an event on a
wet day in the country, was most forcibly brought before her. She was all alive
again directly, and among the most active in being useful to Fanny, in
detecting her to be wetter than she would at first allow, and providing her
with dry clothes; and Fanny, after being obliged to submit to all this
attention, and to being assisted and waited on by mistresses and maids, being
also obliged on returning down stairs, to be fixed in their drawing-room for an
hour while the rain continued, the blessing of something fresh to see and think
of was thus extended to Miss Crawford, and might carry on her spirits to the
period of dressing and dinner. The two sisters were so kind to her and so
pleasant, that Fanny might have enjoyed her visit could she have believed
herself not in the way, and could she have foreseen that the weather would
certainly clear at the end of the hour, and save her from the shame of having
Dr. Grant's carriage and horses out to take her home, with which she was
threatened. As to anxiety for any alarm that her absence in such weather might
occasion at home, she had nothing to suffer on that score; for as her being out
was known only to her two aunts, she was perfectly aware that none would be
felt, and that in whatever cottage aunt Norris might chuse to establish her
during the rain, her being in such cottage would be indubitable to aunt
Bertram. It was beginning to look brighter, when Fanny, observing a harp in the
room, asked some questions about it, which soon led to an acknowledgment of her
wishing very much to hear it, and a confession, which could hardly be believed,
of her having never yet heard it since its being in Mansfield. To Fanny herself
it appeared a very simple and natural circumstance. She had scarcely ever been
at the Parsonage since the instrument's arrival, there had been no reason that
she should; but Miss Crawford, calling to mind an early-expressed wish on the
subject, was concerned at her own neglect; -- and "shall I play to you
now?" -- and "what will you have?" were questions immediately
following with the readiest good humour. She played accordingly; happy to have
a new listener, and a listener who seemed so much obliged, so full of wonder at
the performance, and who shewed herself not wanting in taste. She played till
Fanny's eyes, straying to the window on the weather's being evidently fair,
spoke what she felt must be done. "Another quarter of an hour," said
Miss Crawford, "and we shall see how it will be. Do not run away the first
moment of its holding up. Those clouds look alarming." "But they are
passed over," said Fanny. -- "I have been watching them. -- This
weather is all from the south." "South or north, I know a black cloud
when I see it; and you must not set forward while it is so threatening. And
besides, I want to play something more to you -- a very pretty piece -- and
your cousin Edmund's prime favourite. You must stay and hear your cousin's
favourite." Fanny felt that she must; and though she had not waited for
that sentence to be thinking of Edmund, such a memento made her particularly
awake to his idea, and she fancied him sitting in that room again and again,
perhaps in the very spot where she sat now, listening with constant delight to
the favourite air, played, as it appeared to her, with superior tone and
expression; and though pleased with it herself, and glad to like whatever was
liked by him, she was more sincerely impatient to go away at the conclusion of
it than she had been before; and on this being evident, she was so kindly asked
to call again, to take them in her walk whenever she could, to come and hear
more of the harp, that she felt it necessary to be done, if no objection arose
at home. Such was the origin of the sort of intimacy which took place between
them within the first fortnight after the Miss Bertrams' going away, an
intimacy resulting principally from Miss Crawford's desire of something new,
and which had little reality in Fanny's feelings. Fanny went to her every two
or three days; it seemed a kind of fascination; she could not be easy without
going, and yet it was without loving her, without ever thinking like her,
without any sense of obligation for being sought after now when nobody else was
to be had; and deriving no higher pleasure from her conversation than
occasional amusement, and that often at the expense of her judgment, when it
was raised by pleasantry on people or subjects which she wished to be
respected. She went however, and they sauntered about together many an half
hour in Mrs. Grant's shrubbery, the weather being unusually mild for the time
of year; and venturing sometimes even to sit down on one of the benches now
comparatively unsheltered, remaining there perhaps till in the midst of some
tender ejaculation of Fanny's, on the sweets of so protracted an autumn, they
were forced by the sudden swell of a cold gust shaking down the last few yellow
leaves about them, to jump up and walk for warmth. "This is pretty -- very
pretty," said Fanny, looking around her as they were thus sitting together
one day: "Every time I come into this shrubbery I am more struck with its
growth and beauty. Three years ago, this was nothing but a rough hedgerow along
the upper side of the field, never thought of as any thing, or capable of
becoming any thing; and now it is converted into a walk, and it would be
difficult to say whether most valuable as a convenience or an ornament; and
perhaps in another three years we may be forgetting -- almost forgetting what
it was before. How wonderful, how very wonderful the operations of time, and
the changes of the human mind!" And following the latter train of thought,
she soon afterwards added: "If any one faculty of our nature may be called
more wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory. There seems something
more speakingly incomprehensible in the powers, the failures, the inequalities
of memory, than in any other of our intelligences. The memory is sometimes so retentive,
so serviceable, so obedient -- at others, so bewildered and so weak -- and at
others again, so tyrannic, so beyond controul! -- We are to be sure a miracle
every way -- but our powers of recollecting and of forgetting, do seem
peculiarly past finding out." Miss Crawford, untouched and inattentive,
had nothing to say; and Fanny, perceiving it, brought back her own mind to what
she thought must interest. "It may seem impertinent in me to praise, but I
must admire the taste Mrs. Grant has shewn in all this. There is such a quiet
simplicity in the plan of the walk! -- not too much attempted!"
"Yes," replied Miss Crawford carelessly, "it does very well for
a place of this sort. One does not think of extent here -- and between ourselves,
till I came to Mansfield, I had not imagined a country parson ever aspired to a
shrubbery or any thing of the kind." "I am so glad to see the
evergreens thrive!" said Fanny in reply. "My uncle's gardener always
says the soil here is better than his own, and so it appears from the growth of
the laurels and evergreens in general. -- The evergreen! -- How beautiful, how
welcome, how wonderful the evergreen! -- When one thinks of it, how astonishing
a variety of nature! -- In some countries we know the tree that sheds its leaf is
the variety, but that does not make it less amazing, that the same soil and the
same sun should nurture plants differing in the first rule and law of their
existence. You will think me rhapsodizing; but when I am out of doors,
especially when I am sitting out of doors, I am very apt to get into this sort
of wondering strain. One cannot fix one's eyes on the commonest natural
production without finding food for a rambling fancy." "To say the
truth," replied Miss Crawford, "I am something like the famous Doge
at the court of Lewis XIV; and may declare that I see no wonder in this
shrubbery equal to seeing myself in it. If any body had told me a year ago that
this place would be my home, that I should be spending month after month here,
as I have done, I certainly should not have believed them! -- I have now been
here nearly five months! and moreover the quietest five months I ever
passed." "Too quiet for you I believe." "I should have
thought so theoretically myself, but" -- and her eyes brightened as she spoke
-- "take it all and all, I never spent so happy a summer. -- But
then" -- with a more thoughtful air and lowered voice -- "there is no
saying what it may lead to." Fanny's heart beat quick, and she felt quite
unequal to surmising or soliciting any thing more. Miss Crawford however, with
renewed animation, soon went on: "I am conscious of being far better
reconciled to a country residence than I had ever expected to be. I can even
suppose it pleasant to spend half the year in the country, under certain circumstances
-- very pleasant. An elegant, moderate-sized house in the centre of family
connections -- continual engagements among them -- commanding the first society
in the neighbourhood -- looked-up to perhaps as leading it even more than those
of larger fortune, and turning from the cheerful round of such amusements to
nothing worse than a tête-á-tête with the person one feels most agreeable in
the world. There is nothing frightful in such a picture, is there, Miss Price?
One need not envy the new Mrs. Rushworth with such a home as that?"
"Envy Mrs. Rushworth!" was all that Fanny attempted to say.
"Come, come, it would be very unhandsome in us to be severe on Mrs.
Rushworth, for I look forward to our owing her a great many gay, brilliant,
happy hours. I expect we shall be all very much at Sotherton another year. Such
a match as Miss Bertram has made is a public blessing, for the first pleasures
of Mr. Rushworth's wife must be to fill her house, and give the best balls in
the country." Fanny was silent -- and Miss Crawford relapsed into
thoughtfulness, till suddenly looking up at the end of a few minutes, she
exclaimed, "Ah! here he is." It was not Mr. Rushworth, however, but
Edmund, who then appeared walking towards them with Mrs. Grant. "My sister
and Mr. Bertram -- I am so glad your eldest cousin is gone that he may be Mr.
Bertram again. There is something in the sound of Mr. Edmund Bertram so formal,
so pitiful, so younger-brother-like, that I detest it." "How
differently we feel!" cried Fanny. "To me, the sound of Mr. Bertram
is so cold and nothing-meaning -- so entirely without warmth or character! --
It just stands for a gentleman, and that's all. But there is nobleness in the
name of Edmund. It is a name of heroism and renown -- of kings, princes, and
knights; and seems to breathe the spirit of chivalry and warm affections."
"I grant you the name is good in itself, and Lord Edmund or Sir Edmund
sound delightfully; but sink it under the chill, the annihilation of a Mr. --
and Mr. Edmund is no more than Mr. John or Mr. Thomas. Well, shall we join and
disappoint them of half their lecture upon sitting down out of doors at this
time of year, by being up before they can begin?" Edmund met them with
particular pleasure. It was the first time of his seeing them together since
the beginning of that better acquaintance which he had been hearing of with
great satisfaction. A friendship between two so very dear to him was exactly
what he could have wished; and to the credit of the lover's understanding be it
stated, that he did not by any means consider Fanny as the only, or even as the
greater gainer by such a friendship. "Well," said Miss Crawford,
"and do not you scold us for our imprudence? What do you think we have
been sitting down for but to be talked to about it, and entreated and
supplicated never to do so again?" "Perhaps I might have
scolded," said Edmund, "if either of you had been sitting down alone;
but while you do wrong together I can overlook a great deal." "They
cannot have been sitting long," cried Mrs. Grant, "for when I went up
for my shawl I saw them from the staircase window, and then they were
walking." "And really," added Edmund, "the day is so mild,
that your sitting down for a few minutes can be hardly thought imprudent. Our
weather must not always be judged by the Calendar. We may sometimes take
greater liberties in November than in May." "Upon my word,"
cried Miss Crawford, "you are two of the most disappointing and unfeeling
kind friends I ever met with! There is no giving you a moment's uneasiness. You
do not know how much we have been suffering, nor what chills we have felt! But
I have long thought Mr. Bertram one of the worst subjects to work on, in any
little mano euvre against common sense, that a woman could be plagued with. I
had very little hope of him from the first; but you, Mrs. Grant, my sister, my
own sister, I think I had a right to alarm you a little." "Do not
flatter yourself, my dearest Mary. You have not the smallest chance of moving
me. I have my alarms, but they are quite in a different quarter: and if I could
have altered the weather, you would have had a good sharp east wind blowing on
you the whole time -- for here are some of my plants whichRobert 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
every body (at least Robert) by surprize, and I shall lose every one; and what
is worse, cook has just been telling me that the turkey, which I particularly wished
not to be dressed till Sunday, because I know how much more Dr. Grant would
enjoy it on Sunday after the fatigues of the day, will not keep beyond
to-morrow. These are something like grievances, and make me think the weather
most unseasonably close." "The sweets of housekeeping in a country
village!" said Miss Crawford archly. "Commend me to the nurseryman
and the poulterer." "My dear child, commend Dr. Grant to the deanery
of Westminster or St. Paul's, and I should be as glad of your nurseryman and poulterer
as you could be. But we have no such people in Mansfield. What would you have
me do?" "Oh! you can do nothing but what you do already; be plagued
very often and never lose your temper." "Thank you -- but there is no
escaping these little vexations, Mary, live where we may; and when you are
settled in town and I come to see you, I dare say I shall find you with yours,
in spite of the nurseryman and the poulterer -- or perhaps on their very
account. Their remoteness and unpunctuality, or their exorbitant charges and
frauds will be drawing forth bitter lamentations." "I mean to be too
rich to lament or to feel any thing of the sort. A large income is the best
recipe=for happiness I ever heard of. It certainly may secure all the myrtle
and turkey part of it." "You intend to be very rich," said
Edmund, with a look which, to Fanny's eye, had a great deal of serious meaning.
"To be sure. Do not you? -- Do not we all?" "I cannot intend any
thing which it must be so completely beyond my power to command. Miss Crawford
may chuse her degree of wealth. She has only to fix on her number of thousands
a year, and there can be no doubt of their coming. My intentions are only not
to be poor." "By moderation and economy, and bringing down your wants
to your income, and all that. I understand you -- and a very proper plan it is
for a person at your time of life, with such limited means and indifferent
connections. -- What can you want but a decent maintenance? You have not much
time before you; and your relations are in no situation to do any thing for
you, or to mortify you by the contrast of their own wealth and consequence. Be
honest and poor, by all means -- but I shall not envy you; I do not much think
I shall even respect you. I have a much greater respect for those that are
honest and rich." "Your degree of respect for honesty, rich or poor,
is precisely what I have no manner of concern with. I do not mean to be poor.
Poverty is exactly what I have determined against. Honesty, in the something
between, in the middle state of worldly circumstances, is all that I am anxious
for your not looking down on." "But I do look down upon it, if it
might have been higher. I must look down upon any thing contented with
obscurity when it might rise to distinction." "But how may it rise?
-- How may my honesty at least rise to any distinction?" This was not so
very easy a question to answer, and occasioned an "Oh!" of some
length from the fair lady before she could add "You ought to be in
parliament, or you should have gone into the army ten years ago."
"That is not much to the purpose now; and as to my being in parliament, I
believe I must wait till there is an especial assembly for the representation
of younger sons who have little to live on. No, Miss Crawford," he added,
in a more serious tone, "there are distinctions which I should be
miserable if I thought myself without any chance -- absolutely without chance
or possibility of obtaining -- but they are of a different character." A
look of consciousness as he spoke, and what seemed a consciousness of manner on
Miss Crawford's side as she made some laughing answer, was sorrowful food for
Fanny's observation; and finding herself quite unable to attend as she ought to
Mrs. Grant, by whose side she was now following the others, she had nearly
resolved on going home immediately, and only waited for courage to say so, when
the sound of the great clock at Mansfield Park, striking three, made her feel
that she had really been much longer absent than usual, and brought the
previous self-inquiry of whether she should take leave or not just then, and
how, to a very speedy issue. With undoubting decision she directly began her
adieus; and Edmund began at the same time to recollect, that his mother had
been inquiring for her, and that he had walked down to the Parsonage on purpose
to bring her back. Fanny's hurry increased; and without in the least expecting
Edmund's attendance, she would have hastened away alone; but the general pace
was quickened, and they all accompanied her into the house, through which it
was necessary to pass. Dr. Grant was in the vestibule, and as they stopt to
speak to him, she found from Edmund's manner that he did mean to go with her.
-- He too was taking leave. -- She could not but be thankful. -- In the moment
of parting, Edmund was invited by Dr. Grant to eat his mutton with him the next
day; and Fanny had barely time for an unpleasant feeling on the occasion, when
Mrs. Grant, with sudden recollection, turned to her and asked for the pleasure
of her company too. This was so new an attention, so perfectly new a
circumstance in the events of Fanny's life, that she was all surprize and
embarrassment; and while stammering out her great obligation, and her --
"but she did not suppose it would be in her power," was looking at
Edmund for his opinion and help. -- But Edmund, delighted with her having such
an happiness offered, and ascertaining with half a look, and half a sentence,
that she had no objection but on her aunt's account, could not imagine that his
mother would make any difficulty of sparing her, and therefore gave his decided
open advice that the invitation should be accepted; and though Fanny would not
venture, even on his encouragement, to such a flight of audacious independence,
it was soon settled that if nothing were heard to the contrary, Mrs. Grant
might expect her. "And you know what your dinner will be," said Mrs.
Grant, smiling -- "the turkey -- and I assure you a very fine one; for, my
dear" -- turning to her husband -- "cook insists upon the turkey's
being dressed to-morrow." "Very well, very well," cried Dr.
Grant, "all the better. I am glad to hear you have any thing so good in
the house. But Miss Price and Mr. Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their
chance. We none of us want to hear the bill of fare. A friendly meeting, and
not a fine dinner, is all we have in view. A turkey or a goose, or a leg of
mutton, or whatever you and your cook chuse to give us." The two cousins
walked home together; and except in the immediate discussion of this engagement,
which Edmund spoke of with the warmest satisfaction, as so particularly
desirable for her in the intimacy which he saw with so much pleasure
established, it was a silent walk -- for having finished that subject, he grew
thoughtful and indisposed for any other.
"But why should
Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?" said Lady Bertram. "How came she to think of
asking Fanny? -- Fanny never dines there, you know, in this sort of way. I
cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not want to go. -- Fanny, you do not
want to go, do you?" "If you put such a question to her," cried
Edmund, preventing his cousin's speaking, "Fanny will immediately say, no;
but I am sure, my dear mother, she would like to go; and I can see no reason
why she should not." "I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of
asking her. -- She never did before. -- She used to ask your sisters now and
then, but she never asked Fanny." "If you cannot do without me,
ma'am," said Fanny, in a self-denying tone -- "But my mother will
have my father with her all the evening." "To be sure, so I
shall." "Suppose you take my father's opinion, ma'am."
"That's well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas, as soon
as he comes in, whether I can do without her." "As you please, ma'am,
on that head; but I meant my father's opinion as to the propriety of the
invitation's being accepted or not; and I think he will consider it a right
thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by Fanny, that being the first invitation it
should be accepted." "I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be
very much surprized that Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all." There was
nothing more to be said, or that could be said to any purpose, till Sir Thomas
were present; but the subject involving, as it did, her own evening's comfort for
the morrow, was so much uppermost in Lady Bertram's mind, that half an hour
afterwards, on his looking in for a minute in his way from his plantation to
his dressing-room, she called him back again, when he had almost closed the
door, with "Sir Thomas, stop a moment -- I have something to say to
you." Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising
her voice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came back. Her
story began; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear herself
the subject of any discussion with her uncle, was more than her nerves could
bear. She was anxious, she knew -- more anxious perhaps than she ought to be --
for what was it after all whether she went or staid? -- but if her uncle were to
be a great while considering and deciding, and with very grave looks, and those
grave looks directed to her, and at last decide against her, she might not be
able to appear properly submissive and indifferent. Her cause meanwhile went on
well. It began on Lady Bertram's part, with, "I have something to tell you
that will surprize you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner!"
"Well," said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the
surprize. "Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?"
"She will be late," said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch, "but
what is your difficulty?" Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill
up the blanks in his mother's story. He told the whole, and she had only to
add, "So strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her." "But is
not it very natural," observed Edmund, "that Mrs. Grant should wish
to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?" "Nothing can be
more natural," said Sir Thomas, after a short deliberation; "nor,
were there no sister in the case, could any thing in my opinion be more
natural. Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss Price, to Lady Bertram's niece,
could never want explanation. The only surprize I can feel is that this should
be the first time of its being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a
conditional answer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that
she must wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see no
reason why she should be denied the indulgence." "But can I do
without her, Sir Thomas?" "Indeed I think you may." "She
always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here." "Your sister
perhaps may be prevailed on to spend the day with us, and I shall certainly be
at home." "Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund." The good news
soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way to his own.
"Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest
hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go."
"Thank you, I am so glad," was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when
she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,
"And yet, why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing
something there to pain me?" In spite of this conviction, however, she was
glad. Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty
and importance in her's, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely
ever dined out before; and though now going only half a mile and only to three
people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of preparation
were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor assistance from
those who ought to have entered into her feelings and directed her taste; for
Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to any body, and Mrs. Norris, when
she came on the morrow, in consequence of an early call and invitation from Sir
Thomas, was in a very ill humour, and seemed intent only on lessening her
niece's pleasure, both present and future, as much as possible. "Upon my
word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention and indulgence!
You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for thinking of you, and to
your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to look upon it as something
extraordinary: for I hope you are aware that there is no real occasion for your
going into company in this sort of way, or ever dining out at all; and it is
what you must not depend upon ever being repeated. Nor must you be fancying,
that the invitation is meant as any particular compliment to you; the compliment
is intended to your uncle and aunt, and me. Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due
to us to take a little notice of you, or else it would never have come into her
head, and you may be very certain, that if your cousin Julia had been at home,
you would not have been asked at all." Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously
done away all Mrs. Grant's part of the favour, that Fanny, who found herself
expected to speak, could only say that she was very much obliged to her aunt
Bertram for sparing her, and that she was endeavouring to put her aunt's
evening work in such a state as to prevent her being missed. "Oh! depend
upon it, your aunt can do very well without you, or you would not be allowed to
go. I shall be here, so you may be quite easy about your aunt. And I hope you
will have a very agreeable day and find it all mighty delightful. But I must
observe, that five is the very awkwardest of all possible numbers to sit down
to table; and I cannot but be surprized that such an elegant lady as Mrs. Grant
should not contrive better! And round their enormous great wide table too,
which fills up the room so dreadfully! Had the Doctor been contented to take my
dining table when I came away, as any body in their senses would have done,
instead of having that absurd new one of his own, which is wider, literally
wider than the dinner table here -- how infinitely better it would have been!
and how much more he would have been respected! for people are never respected
when they step out of their proper sphere. Remember that, Fanny. Five, only
five to be sitting round that table! However, you will have dinner enough on it
for ten I dare say." Mrs. Norris fetched breath and went on again.
"The nonsense and folly of people's stepping out of their rank and trying
to appear above themselves, makes me think it right to give you a hint, Fanny,
now that you are going into company without any of us; and I do beseech and
intreat you not to be putting yourself forward, and talking and giving your
opinion as if you were one of your cousins -- as if you were dearMrs. 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 any thing else."
"And if it should rain, which I think exceedingly likely, for I never saw
it more threatening for a wet evening in my life -- you must manage as well as
you can, and not be expecting the carriage to be sent for you. I certainly do
not go home to night, and, therefore, the carriage will not be out on my
account; so you must make up your mind to what may happen, and take your things
accordingly." Her niece thought it perfectly reasonable. She rated her own
claims to comfort as low even as Mrs. Norris could; and when Sir Thomas, soon
afterwards, just opening the door, said, "Fanny, at what time would you have
the carriage come round?" she felt a degree of astonishment which made it
impossible for her to speak. "My dearSir Thomas!" cried Mrs. Norris,
red with anger, "Fanny can walk." "Walk!" repeated Sir
Thomas, in a tone of most unanswerable dignity, and coming farther into the
room. -- "My niece walk to a dinner engagement at this time of the year!
Will twenty minutes after four suit you?" "Yes, sir," was
Fanny's humble answer, given with the feelings almost of a criminal towards
Mrs. Norris; and not bearing to remain with her in what might seem a state of
triumph, she followed her uncle out of the room, having staid behind him only
long enough to hear these words spoken in angry agitation: "Quite
unnecessary! -- a great deal too kind! But Edmund goes; -- true -- it is upon
Edmund's account. I observed he was hoarse on Thursday night." But this
could not impose on Fanny. She felt that the carriage was for herself and
herself alone; and her uncle's consideration of her, coming immediately after
such representations from her aunt, cost her some tears of gratitude when she
was alone. The coachman drove round to a minute; another minute brought down
the gentleman, and as the lady had, with a most scrupulous fear of being late,
been many minutes seated in the drawing room, Sir Thomas saw them off in as
good time as his own correctly punctual habits required. "Now I must look
at you, Fanny," said Edmund, with the kind smile of an affectionate
brother, "and tell you how I like you; and as well as I can judge by this
light, you look very nicely indeed. What have you got on?" "The new
dress that my uncle was so good as to give me on my cousin's marriage. I hope
it is not too fine; but I thought I ought to wear it as soon as I could, and
that I might not have such another opportunity all the winter. I hope you do
not think me too fine." "A woman can never be too fine while she is
all in white. No, I see no finery about you; nothing but what is perfectly
proper. Your gown seems very pretty. I like these glossy spots. Has not Miss
Crawford a gown something the same?" In approaching the Parsonage they
passed close by the stable-yard and coach-house. -- "Hey day!" said
Edmund "here's company, here's a carriage! who have they got to meet
us?" And letting down the side-glass to distinguish, "'Tis
Crawford's, Crawford's barouche, I protest! There are his own two men pushing
it back into its old quarters. He is here of course. This is quite a surprize,
Fanny. I shall be very glad to see him." There was no occasion, there was
no time for Fanny to say how very differently she felt; but the idea of having
such another to observe her, was a great increase of the trepidation with which
she performed the very aweful ceremony of walking into the drawing-room. In the
drawing-room Mr. Crawford certainly was; having been just long enough arrived
to be ready for dinner; and the smiles and pleased looks of the three others
standing round him, shewed how welcome was his sudden resolution of coming to
them for a few days on leaving Bath. A very cordial meeting passed between him
and Edmund; and with the exception of Fanny, the pleasure was general; and even
to her, there might be some advantage in his presence, since every addition to
the party must rather forward her favourite indulgence of being suffered to sit
silent and unattended to. She was soon aware of this herself; for though she
must submit, as her own propriety of mind directed, in spite of her aunt
Norris's opinion, to being the principal lady in company, and to all the little
distinctions consequent thereon, she found, while they were at table, such a
happy flow of conversation prevailing in which she was not required to take any
part -- there was so much to be said between the brother and sister about Bath,
so much between the two young men about hunting, so much of politics between
Mr. Crawford and Dr. Grant, and of every thing, and all together between Mr.
Crawford and Mrs. Grant, as to leave her the fairest prospect of having only to
listen in quiet, and of passing a very agreeable day. She could not compliment
the newly-arrived gentleman however with any appearance of interest in a scheme
for extending his stay at Mansfield, and sending for his hunters from Norfolk,
which, suggested by Dr. Grant, advised by Edmund, and warmly urged by the two
sisters, was soon in possession of his mind, and which he seemed to want to be
encouraged even by her to resolve on. Her opinion was sought as to the probable
continuance of the open weather, but her answers were as short and indifferent
as civility allowed. She could not wish him to stay, and would much rather not
have him speak to her. Her two absent cousins, especially Maria, were much in
her thoughts on seeing him; but no embarrassing remembrance affected his
spirits. Here he was again on the same ground where all had passed before, and
apparently as willing to stay and be happy without the Miss Bertrams, as if he
had never known Mansfield in any other state. She heard them spoken of by him
only in a general way, till they were all re-assembled in the drawing-room,
when Edmund, being engaged apart in some matter of business with Dr. Grant,
which seemed entirely to engross them, and Mrs. Grant occupied at the
tea-table, he began talking of them with more particularity to his other
sister. With a significant smile, which made Fanny quite hate him, he said,
"SoRushworth and his fair bride are at Brighton, I understand -- Happy
man!" "Yes, they have been there -- about a fortnight, Miss Price,
have they not? -- And Julia is with them." "And Mr. Yates, I presume,
is not far off." "Mr. Yates! -- Oh! we hear nothing of Mr. Yates. I
do not imagine he figures much in the letters to Mansfield Park; do you, Miss
Price? -- I think my friend Julia knows better than to entertain her father
with Mr. Yates." "Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty
speeches!" continued Crawford. "Nobody can ever forget them. Poor
fellow! -- I see him now; -- his toil and his despair. Well, I am much mistaken
if his lovely Maria will ever want him to make two-and-forty speeches to her"
-- adding, with a momentary seriousness, "She is too good for him -- much
too good." And then changing his tone again to one of gentle gallantry,
and addressing Fanny, he said, "You were Mr. Rushworth's best friend. Your
kindness and patience can never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience in
trying to make it possible for him to learn his part -- in trying to give him a
brain which nature had denied -- to mix up an understanding for him out of the
superfluity of your own! He might not have sense enough himself to estimate
your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had honour from all the rest of
the party." Fanny coloured, and said nothing. "It is as a dream, a
pleasant dream!" he exclaimed, breaking forth again after 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! Every body felt it. We were all alive. There was employment, hope,
solicitude, bustle, for every hour of the day. Always some little objection,
some little doubt, some little anxiety to be got over. I never was
happier." With silent indignation, Fanny repeated to herself, "Never
happier! -- never happier than when doing what you must know was not
justifiable! -- never happier than when behaving so dishonourably and
unfeelingly! -- Oh! what a corrupted mind!" "We were unlucky, Miss
Price," he continued in a lower tone, to avoid the possibility of being
heard by Edmund, and not at all aware of her feelings, "we certainly were
very unlucky. Another week, only one other week, would have been enough for us.
I think if we had had the disposal of events -- if Mansfield Park had had the
government of the winds just for a week or two about the equinox, there would
have been a difference. Not that we would have endangered his safety by any
tremendous weather -- but only by a steady contrary wind, or a calm. I think,
Miss Price, we would have indulged ourselves with a week's calm in the Atlantic
at that season." He seemed determined to be answered; and Fanny, averting
her face, said with a firmer tone than usual, "As far as I am concerned,
sir, I would not have delayed his return for a day. My uncle disapproved it all
so entirely when he did arrive, that in my opinion, every thing 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 surprized; but after a few
moments silent consideration of her, replied in a calmer, graver tone, and as
if the candid result of conviction, "I believe you are right. It was more
pleasant than prudent. We were getting too noisy." And then turning the
conversation, he would have engaged her on some other subject, but her answers
were so shy and reluctant that he could not advance in any. Miss Crawford, who
had been repeatedly eyeing Dr. Grant and Edmund, now observed, "Those
gentlemen must have some very interesting point to discuss." "The
most interesting in the world," replied her brother -- "how to make
money -- how to turn a good income into a better. Dr. Grant is giving Bertram
instructions about the living he is to step into so soon. I find he takes
orders in a few weeks. They were at it in the dining-parlour. I am glad to hear
Bertram will be so well off. He will have a very pretty income to make ducks
and drakes with, and earned without much trouble. I apprehend he will not have
less than seven hundred a year. Seven hundred a year is a fine thing for a
younger brother; and as of course he will still live at home, it will be all
for his menus plaisirs; and a sermon at Christmas and Easter, I suppose, will
be the sum total of sacrifice." His sister tried to laugh off her feelings
by saying, "Nothing amuses me more than the easy manner with which every
body settles the abundance of those who have a great deal less than themselves.
You would look rather blank, Henry, if your menus plaisirs were to be limited
to seven hundred a year." "Perhaps I might; but all that you know is
entirely comparative. Birthright and habit must settle the business. Bertram is
certainly well off for a cadet of even a Baronet's family. By the time he is
four or five-and-twenty he will have seven hundred a year, and nothing to do
for it." Miss Crawford could have said that there would be a something to
do and to suffer for it, which she could not think lightly of; but she checked
herself and let it pass; and tried to look calm and unconcerned when the two
gentlemen shortly afterwards joined them. "Bertram," said Henry
Crawford, "I shall make a point of coming to Mansfield to hear you preach
your first sermon. I shall come on purpose to encourage a young beginner. When
is it to be? Miss Price, will not you join me in encouraging your cousin? will
not you engage to attend with your eyes steadily fixed on him the whole time --
as I shall do -- not to lose a word; or only looking off just to note down any
sentence pre-eminently beautiful? We will provide ourselves with tablets and a
pencil. When will it be? You must preach at Mansfield, you know, that Sir
Thomas and Lady Bertram may hear you." "I shall keep clear of you,
Crawford, as long as I can," said Edmund, "for you would be more
likely to disconcert me, and I should be more sorry to see you trying at it,
than almost any other man." "Will he not feel this?" thought
Fanny. "No, he can feel nothing as he ought." The party being now all
united, and the chief talkers attracting each other, she remained in
tranquillity; and as a whist table was formed after tea -- formed really for
the amusement of Dr. Grant, by his attentive wife, though it was not to be
supposed so -- and Miss Crawford took her harp, she had nothing to do but to
listen, and her tranquillity remained undisturbed the rest of the evening,
except when Mr. Crawford now and then addressed to her a question or
observation, which she could not avoid answering. Miss Crawford was too much
vexed by what had passed to be in a humour for any thing but music. With that,
she soothed herself and amused her friend. The assurance of Edmund's being so
soon to take orders, coming upon her like a blow that had been suspended, and
still hoped uncertain and at a distance, was felt with resentment and
mortification. She was very angry with him. She had thought her influence more.
She had begun to think of him -- she felt that she had -- with great regard,
with almost decided intentions; but she would now meet him with his own cool
feelings. It was plain that he could have no serious views, no true attachment,
by fixing himself in a situation which he must know she would never stoop to.
She would learn to match him in his indifference. She would henceforth admit
his attentions without any idea beyond immediate amusement. If he could so
command his affections, her's should do her no harm.
Henry Crawford had
quite made up his mind by the next morning to give another fortnight to
Mansfield, and having sent for his hunters and written a few lines of
explanation to the Admiral, he looked round at his sister as he sealed and
threw the letter from him, and seeing the coast clear of the rest of the
family, said, with a smile, "And how do you think I mean to amuse myself,
Mary, on the days that I do not hunt? I am grown too old to go out more than
three times a week; but I have a plan for the intermediate days, and what do
you think it is?" "To walk and ride with me, to be sure."
"Not exactly, though I shall be happy to do both, but that would be
exercise only to my body, and I must take care of my mind. Besides that would be
all recreation and indulgence, without the wholesome alloy of labour, and I do
not like to eat the bread of idleness. No, my plan is to make Fanny Price in
love with me." "Fanny Price! Nonsense! No, no. You ought to be
satisfied with her two cousins." "But I cannot be satisfied without
Fanny Price, without making a small hole in Fanny Price's heart. You do not
seem properly aware of her claims to notice. When we talked of her last night,
you none of you seemed sensible of the wonderful improvement that has taken
place in her looks within the last six weeks. You see her every day, and
therefore do not notice it, but I assure you, she is quite a different creature
from what she was in the autumn. She was then merely a quiet, modest, not plain
looking girl, but she is now absolutely pretty. I used to think she had neither
complexion nor countenance; but in that soft skin of her's, so frequently
tinged with a blush as it was yesterday, there is decided beauty; and from what
I observed of her eyes and mouth, I do not despair of their being capable of
expression enough when she has any thing to express. And then -- her air, her
manner, her tout ensemble is so indescribably improved! She must be grown two
inches, at least, since October." "Phoo! phoo! This is only because
there were no tall women to compare her with, and because she has got a new
gown, and you never saw her so well dressed before. She is just what she was in
October, believe me. The truth is, that she was the only girl in company for
you to notice, and you must have a somebody. I have always thought her pretty
-- not strikingly pretty -- but ""pretty enough"" as people
say; a sort of beauty that grows on one. Her eyes should be darker, but she has
a sweet smile; but as for this wonderful degree of improvement, I am sure it
may all be resolved into a better style of dress and your having nobody else to
look at; and therefore, if you do set about a flirtation with her, you never
will persuade me that it is in compliment to her beauty, or that it proceeds
from any thing but your own idleness and folly." Her brother gave only a
smile to this accusation, and soon afterwards said, "I do not quite know
what to make of Miss Fanny. I do not understand her. I could not tell what she
would be at yesterday. What is her character? -- Is she solemn? -- Is she
queer? -- Is she prudish? Why did she draw back and look so grave at me? I
could hardly get her to speak. I never was so long in company with a girl in my
life -- trying to entertain her -- and succeed so ill! Never met with a girl
who looked so grave on me! I must try to get the better of this. Her looks say,
""I will not like you, I am determined not to like you,""
and I say, she shall." "Foolish fellow! And so this is her attraction
after all! This it is -- her not caring about you -- which gives her such a
soft skin and makes her so much taller, and produces all these charms and
graces! I do desire that you will not be making her really unhappy; a little
love perhaps may animate and do her good, but I will not have you plunge her
deep, for she is as good a little creature as ever lived, and has a great deal
of feeling." "It can be but for a fortnight," said Henry,
"and if a fortnight can kill her, she must have a constitution which
nothing could save. No, I will not do her any harm, dear little soul! I only
want her to look kindly on me, to give me smiles as well as blushes, to keep a
chair for me by herself wherever we are, and be all animation when I take it
and talk to her; to think as I think, be interested in all my possessions and
pleasures, try to keep me longer at Mansfield, and feel when I go away that she
shall be never happy again. I want nothing more." "Moderation
itself!" said Mary. "I can have no scruples now. Well, you will have
opportunities enough of endeavouring to recommend yourself, for we are a great
deal together." And without attempting any further remonstrance, she left
Fanny to her fate -- a fate which, had not Fanny's heart been guarded in a way
unsuspected by Miss Crawford, might have been a little harder than she
deserved; for although there doubtless are such unconquerable young ladies of
eighteen (or one should not read about them) as are never to be persuaded into
love against their judgment by all that talent, manner, attention, and flattery
can do, I have no inclination to believe Fanny one of them, or to think that
with so much tenderness of disposition, and so much taste as belonged to her,
she could have escaped heart-whole from the courtship (though the courtship
only of a fortnight) of such a man as Crawford, in spite of there being some
previous ill-opinion of him to be overcome, had not her affection been engaged
elsewhere. With all the security which love of another and disesteem of him
could give to the peace of mind he was attacking, his continued attentions --
continued, but not obtrusive, and adapting themselves more and more to the
gentleness and delicacy of her character, -- obliged her very soon to dislike
him less than formerly. She had by no means forgotten the past, and she thought
as ill of him as ever; but she felt his powers; he was entertaining, and his
manners were so improved, so polite, so seriously and blamelessly polite, that
it was impossible not to be civil to him in return. A very few days were enough
to effect this; and at the end of those few days, circumstances arose which had
a tendency rather to forward his views of pleasing her, inasmuch as they gave
her a degree of happiness which must dispose her to be pleased with every body.
William, her brother, the so long absent and dearly loved brother, was in
England again. She had a letter from him herself, a few hurried happy lines,
written as the ship came up Channel, and sent into Portsmouth, with the first
boat that left the Antwerp, at anchor, in Spithead; and when Crawford walked up
with the newspaper in his hand, which he had hoped would bring the first
tidings, he found her trembling with joy over this letter, and listening with a
glowing, grateful countenance to the kind invitation which her uncle was most
collectedly dictating in reply. It was but the day before, that Crawford had
made himself thoroughly master of the subject, or had in fact become at all
aware of her having such a brother, or his being in such a ship, but the
interest then excited had been very properly lively, determining him on his
return to town to apply for information as to the probable period of the
Antwerp's return from the Mediterranean, &c.; 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
excitor, were already given. But his intention, the kindness of his intention,
was thankfully acknowledged -- quite thankfully and warmly, for she was
elevated beyond the common timidity of her mind by the flow of her love for
William. This dear William would soon be amongst them. There could be no doubt
of his obtaining leave of absence immediately, for he was still only a
midshipman; and as his parents, from living on the spot, must already have seen
him and be seeing him perhaps daily, his direct holidays might with justice be
instantly given to the sister, who had been his best correspondent through a
period of seven years, and the uncle who had done most for his support and
advancement; and accordingly the reply to her reply, fixing a very early day
for his arrival, came as soon as possible; and scarcely ten days had passed
since Fanny had been in the agitation of her first dinner visit, when she found
herself in an agitation of a higher nature -- watching in the hall, in the
lobby, on the stairs, for the first sound of the carriage which was to bring
her a brother. It came happily while she was thus waiting; and there being
neither ceremony nor fearfulness to delay the moment of meeting, she was with
him as he entered the house, and the first minutes of exquisite feeling had no
interruption and no witnesses, unless the servants chiefly intent upon opening
the proper doors could be called such. This was exactly whatSir Thomas and Edmund
had been separately conniving at, as each proved to the other by the
sympathetic alacrity with which they both advised Mrs. Norris's continuing
where she was, instead of rushing out into the hall as soon as the noises of
the arrival reached them. William and Fanny soon shewed themselves; and Sir
Thomas had the pleasure of receiving in his protegée, certainly a very
different person from the one he had equipped seven years ago, but a young man
of an open, pleasant countenance, and frank, unstudied, but feeling and
respectful manners, and such as confirmed him his friend. It was long before
Fanny could recover from the agitating happiness of such an hour as was formed
by the last thirty minutes of expectation and the first of fruition; it was
some time even before her happiness could be said to make her happy, before the
disappointment inseparable from the alteration of person had vanished, and she
could see in him the same William as before, and talk to him, as her heart had
been yearning to do, through many a past year. That time, however, did
gradually come, forwarded by an affection on his side as warm as her own, and
much less incumbered by refinement or self-distrust. She was the first object
of his love, but it was a love which his stronger spirits, and bolder temper,
made it as natural for him to express as to feel. On the morrow they were
walking about together with true enjoyment, and every succeeding morrow renewed
a tête-á-tête, which Sir Thomas could not but observe with complacency, even
before Edmund had pointed it out to him. Excepting the moments of peculiar
delight, which any marked or unlooked-for instance of Edmund's consideration of
her in the last few months had excited, Fanny had never known so much felicity
in her life, as in this unchecked, equal, fearless intercourse with the brother
and friend, who was opening all his heart to her, telling her all his hopes and
fears, plans, and solicitudes respecting that long thought of, dearly earned,
and justly valued blessing of promotion -- who could give her direct and minute
information of the father and mother, brothers and sisters, of whom she very
seldom heard -- who was interested in all the comforts and all the little
hardships of her home, at Mansfield -- ready to think of every member of that
home as she directed, or differing only by a less scrupulous opinion, and more
noisy abuse of their aunt Norris -- and with whom (perhaps the dearest
indulgence of the whole) all the evil and good of their earliest years could be
gone over again, and every former united pain and pleasure retraced with the
fondest recollection. An advantage this, a strengthener of love, in which even
the conjugal tie is beneath the fraternal. Children of the same family, the
same blood, with the same first associations and habits, have some means of
enjoyment in their power, which no subsequent connections can supply; and it
must be by a long and unnatural estrangement, by a divorce which no subsequent
connection can justify, if such precious remains of the earliest attachments
are ever entirely outlived. Too often, alas! it is so. -- Fraternal love,
sometimes almost every thing, is at others worse than nothing. But with William
and Fanny Price, it was still a sentiment in all its prime and freshness,
wounded by no opposition of interest, cooled by no separate attachment, and
feeling the influence of time and absence only in its increase. An affection so
amiable was advancing each in the opinion of all who had hearts to value any
thing 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 hand stretched towards Fanny's head, "Do you know, I begin to like
that queer fashion already, though when I first heard of such things being done
in England I could not believe it, and when Mrs. Brown, and the other women, at
the Commissioner's, at Gibraltar, appeared in the same trim, I thought they
were mad; but Fanny can reconcile me to any thing" -- and saw, with lively
admiration, the glow of Fanny's cheek, the brightness of her eye, the deep
interest, the absorbed attention, while her brother was describing any of the
imminent hazards, or terrific scenes, which such a period, at sea, must supply.
It was a picture whichHenry Crawford had moral taste enough to value. Fanny's
attractions increased -- increased two-fold -- for the sensibility which
beautified her complexion and illumined her countenance, was an attraction in
itself. He was no longer in doubt of the capabilities of her heart. She had
feeling, genuine feeling. It would be something to be loved by such a girl, to
excite the first ardours of her young, unsophisticated mind! She interested him
more than he had foreseen. A fortnight was not enough. His stay became
indefinite. William was often called on by his uncle to be the talker. His
recitals were amusing in themselves to Sir Thomas, but the chief object in
seeking them, was to understand the recitor, 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 -- every thing that could deserve
or promise well. Young as he was, William had already seen a great deal. He had
been in the Mediterranean -- in the West Indies -- in the Mediterranean again
-- had been often taken on shore by the favour of his Captain, and in the
course of seven years had known every variety of danger, which sea and war
together could offer. With such means in his power he had a right to be
listened to; and though Mrs. Norris could fidget about the room, and disturb
every body in quest of two needlefulls of thread or a second hand shirt button
in the midst of her nephew's account of a shipwreck or an engagement, every
body else was attentive; and even Lady Bertram could not hear of such horrors
unmoved, or without sometimes lifting her eyes from her work to say, "Dear
me! how disagreeable. -- I wonder any body can ever go to sea." To Henry
Crawford they gave a different feeling. He longed to have been at sea, and seen
and done and suffered as much. His heart was warmed, his fancy fired, and he
felt the highest respect for a lad who, before he was twenty, had gone through
such bodily hardships, and given such proofs of mind. The glory of heroism, of
usefulness, of exertion, of endurance, made his own habits of selfish
indulgence appear in shameful contrast; and he wished he had been a William
Price, distinguishing himself and working his way to fortune and consequence
with so much self-respect and happy ardour, instead of what he was! The wish
was rather eager than lasting. He was roused from the reverie of retrospection
and regret produced by it, by some inquiry from Edmund as to his plans for the
next day's hunting; and he found it was as well to be a man of fortune at once
with horses and grooms at his command. In one respect it was better, as it gave
him the means of conferring a kindness where he wished to oblige. With spirits,
courage, and curiosity up to any thing, William expressed an inclination to
hunt; and Crawford could mount him without the slightest inconvenience to
himself, and with only some scruples to obviate in Sir Thomas, who knew better
than his nephew the value of such a loan, and some alarms to reason away in
Fanny. She feared for William; by no means convinced by all that he could
relate of his own horsemanship in various countries, of the scrambling parties
in which he had been engaged, the rough horses and mules he had ridden, or his
many narrow escapes from dreadful falls, that he was at all equal to the
management of a high-fed hunter in an English fox-chase; nor till he returned
safe and well, without accident or discredit, could she be reconciled to the
risk, or feel any of that obligation to Mr. Crawford for lending the horse
which he had fully intended it should produce. When it was proved however to
have done William no harm, she could allow it to be a kindness, and even reward
the owner with a smile when the animal was one minute tendered to his use
again; and the next, with the greatest cordiality, and in a manner not to be
resisted, made over to his use entirely so long as he remained in
Northamptonshire.
The intercourse of the
two families was at this period more nearly restored to what it had been in the
autumn, than any member of the old intimacy had thought ever likely to be
again. The return of Henry Crawford, and the arrival of William Price, had much
to do with it, but much was still owing to Sir Thomas's more than toleration of
the neighbourly attempts at the Parsonage. His mind, now disengaged from the
cares which had pressed on him at first, was at leisure to find the Grants and
their young inmates really worth visiting; and though infinitely above scheming
or contriving for any the most advantageous matrimonial establishment that
could be among the apparent possibilities of any one most dear to him, and
disdaining even as a littleness the being quick-sighted on such points, he
could not avoid perceiving in a grand and careless way that Mr. Crawford was
somewhat distinguishing his niece -- nor perhaps refrain (though unconsciously)
from giving a more willing assent to invitations on that account. His
readiness, however, in agreeing to dine at the Parsonage, when the general
invitation was at last hazarded, after many debates and many doubts as to
whether it were worth while, "because Sir Thomas seemed so ill inclined!
and Lady Bertram was so indolent!" -- proceeded from good breeding and good-will
alone, and had nothing to do with Mr. Crawford, but as being one in an
agreeable group; for it was in the course of that very visit, that he first
began to think, that any one in the habit of such idle observations
wouldhavethought that Mr. Crawford was the admirer of Fanny Price. The meeting
was generally felt to be a pleasant one, being composed in a good proportion of
those who would talk and those who would listen; and the dinner itself was
elegant and plentiful, according to the usual style of the Grants, and too much
according to the usual habits of all to raise any emotion except in Mrs.
Norris, who could never behold either the wide table or the number of dishes on
it with patience, and who did always contrive to experience some evil from the
passing of the servants behind her chair, and to bring away some fresh
conviction of its being impossible among so many dishes but that some must be
cold. In the evening it was found, according to the predetermination of Mrs.
Grant and her sister, that after making up the Whist table there would remain
sufficient for a round game, and every body being as perfectly complying, and
without a choice as on such occasions they always are, Speculation was decided
on almost as soon as Whist; and Lady Bertram soon found herself in the critical
situation of being applied to for her own choice between the games, and being
required either to draw a card for Whist or not. She hesitated. Luckily Sir
Thomas was at hand. "What shall I do, Sir Thomas? -- Whist and
Speculation; which will amuse me most?" Sir Thomas, after a moment's
thought, recommended Speculation. He was a Whist player himself, and perhaps
might feel that it would not much amuse him to have her for a partner.
"Very well," was her ladyship's contented answer -- "then Speculation
if you please, Mrs. Grant. I know nothing about it, but Fanny must teach
me." Here Fanny interposed however with anxious protestations of her own
equal ignorance; she had never played the game nor seen it played in her life;
and Lady Bertram felt a moment's indecision again -- but upon every body's
assuring her that nothing could be so easy, that it was the easiest game on the
cards, and Henry Crawford's stepping forward with a most earnest request to be
allowed to sit between her ladyship and Miss Price, and teach them both, it was
so settled; and Sir Thomas, Mrs. Norris, and Dr. and Mrs. Grant, being seated
at the table of prime intellectual state and dignity, the remaining six, under
Miss Crawford's direction, were arranged round the other. It was a fine
arrangement for Henry Crawford, who was close to Fanny, and with his hands full
of business, having two persons' cards to manage as well as his own -- for
though it was impossible for Fanny not to feel herself mistress of the rules of
the game in three minutes, he had yet to inspirit her play, sharpen her
avarice, and harden her heart, which, especially in any competition with
William, was a work of some difficulty; and as for Lady Bertram, he must
continue in charge of all her fame and fortune through the whole evening; and
if quick enough to keep her from looking at her cards when the deal began, must
direct her in whatever was to be done with them to the end of it. He was in
high spirits, doing every thing with happy ease, and pre-eminent in all the
lively turns, quick resources, and playful impudence that could do honour to
the game; and the round table was altogether a very comfortable contrast to the
steady sobriety and orderly silence of the other. Twice had Sir Thomas inquired
into the enjoyment and success of his lady, but in vain; no pause was long
enough for the time his measured manner needed; and very little of her state
could be known till Mrs. Grant was able, at the end of the first rubber, to go
to her and pay her compliments. "I hope your ladyship is pleased with the
game." "Oh! dear, yes. -- Very entertaining indeed. A very odd game.
I do not know what it is all about. I am never to see my cards; and Mr.
Crawford does all the rest." "Bertram," said Crawford some time
afterwards, taking the opportunity of a little languor in the game, "I
have never told you what happened to me yesterday in my ride home." They
had been hunting together, and were in the midst of a good run, and at some
distance from Mansfield, when his horse being found to have flung a shoe, Henry
Crawford had been obliged to give up, and make the best of his way back.
"I told you I lost my way after passing that old farm house, with the yew
trees, because I can never bear to ask; but I have not told you that with my
usual luck -- for I never do wrong without gaining by it -- I found myself in
due time in the very place which I had a curiosity to see. I was suddenly, upon
turning the corner of a steepish downy field, in the midst of a retired little
village between gently rising hills; a small stream before me to be forded, a
church standing on a sort of knoll to my right -- which church was strikingly
large and handsome for the place, and not a gentleman or half a gentleman's
house to be seen excepting one -- to be presumed the Parsonage, within a
stone's throw of the said knoll and church. I found myself in short in Thornton
Lacey." "It sounds like it," said Edmund; "but which way
did you turn after passing Sewell's farm?" "I answer no such irrelevant
and insidious questions; though were I to answer all that you could put in the
course of an hour, you would never be able to prove that it was not Thornton
Lacey -- for such it certainly was." "You inquired then?"
"No, I never inquire. But I told a man mending a hedge that it was
Thornton Lacey, and he agreed to it." "You have a good memory. I had
forgotten having ever told you half so much of the place." Thornton Lacey
was the name of his impending living, as Miss Crawford well knew; and her
interest in a negociation 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 live-able." "No, no, not so bad as that.
The farm-yard must be moved, I grant you; but I am not aware of any thing else.
The house is by no means bad, and when the yard is removed, there may be a very
tolerable approach to it." "The farm-yard must be cleared away
entirely, and planted up to shut out the blacksmith's shop. The house must be
turned to front the east instead of the north -- the entrance and principal
rooms, I mean, must be on that side, where the view is really very pretty; I am
sure it may be done. And there must be your approach -- through what is at
present the garden. You must make you a new garden at what is now the back of
the house; which will be giving it the best aspect in the world -- sloping to
the south-east. The ground seems precisely formed for it. I rode fifty yards up
the lane between the church and the house in order to look about me; and saw
how it might all be. Nothing can be easier. The meadows beyond what willbe the
garden, as well as what now is, sweeping round from the lane I stood in to the
north-east, that is, to the principal road through the village, must be all
laid together of course; very pretty meadows they are, finely sprinkled with
timber. They belong to the living, I suppose. If not, you must purchase them.
Then the stream -- something must be done with the stream; but I could not
quite determine what. I had two or three ideas." "And I have two or
three ideas also," said Edmund, "and one of them is that very little
of your plan for Thornton Lacey will ever be put in practice. I must be
satisfied with rather less ornament and beauty. I think the house and premises
may be made comfortable, and given the air of a gentleman's residence without
any very heavy expense, and that must suffice me; and I hope may suffice all
who care about me." Miss Crawford, a little suspicious and resentful of a
certain tone of voice and a certain half-look attending the last expression of
his hope, made a hasty finish of her dealings with William Price, and securing
his knave at an exorbitant rate, exclaimed, "There, I will stake my last
like a woman of spirit. No cold prudence for me. I am not born to sit still and
do nothing. If I lose the game, it shall not be from not striving for it."
The game was her's, and only did not pay her for what she had given to secure
it. Another deal proceeded, and Crawford began again about Thornton Lacey.
"My plan may not be the best possible; I had not many minutes to form it
in: but you must do a good deal. The place deserves it, and you will find
yourself not satisfied with much less than it is capable of. -- (Excuse me,
your ladyship must not see your cards. There, let them lie just before you.)
The place deserves it, Bertram. You talk of giving it the air of a gentleman's
residence. That will be done, by the removal of the farm-yard, for independent
of that terrible nuisance, I never saw a house of the kind which had in itself
so much the air of a gentleman's residence, so much the look of a something
above a mere Parsonage House, above the expenditure of a few hundreds a year.
It is not a scrambling collection of low single rooms, with as many roofs as
windows -- it is not cramped into the vulgar compactness of a square farm-house
-- it is a solid walled, 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 any thing. But it is capable of much more. (Let me see, Mary;
Lady Bertram bids a dozen for that queen; no, no, a dozen is more than it is
worth. Lady Bertram does not bid a dozen. She will have nothing to say to it.
Go on, go on.) By some such improvements as I have suggested, (I do not really
require you to proceed upon my plan, though by the bye I doubt any body's
striking out a better) -- you may give it a higher character. You may raise it
into a place. From being the mere gentleman's residence, it becomes, by
judicious improvement, the residence of a man of education, taste, modern
manners, good connections. All this may be stamped on it; and that house
receive such an air as to make its owner be set down as the great land-holder
of the parish, by every creature travelling the road; especially as there is no
real squire's house to dispute the point; a circumstance between ourselves to
enhance the value of such a situation in point of privilege and independence
beyond all calculation. You think with me, I hope -- (turning with a softened
voice to Fanny). -- Have you ever seen the place?" Fanny gave a quick
negative, and tried to hide her interest in the subject by an eager attention
to her brother, who was driving as hard a bargain and imposing on her as much
as he could; but Crawford pursued with "No, no, you must not part with the
queen. You have bought her too dearly, and your brother does not offer half her
value. No, no, sir, hands off -- hands off. Your sister does not part with the
queen. She is quite determined. The game will be yours, (turning to her again)
-- it will certainly be yours." "And Fanny had much rather it were
William's," said Edmund, smiling at her. "Poor Fanny! not allowed to
cheat herself as she wishes!" "Mr. Bertram," said Miss Crawford,
a few minutes afterwards, "you know Henry to be such a capital improver,
that you cannot possibly engage in any thing of the sort at Thornton Lacey,
without accepting his help. Only think how useful he was at Sotherton! Only
think what grand things were produced there by our all going with him one hot
day in August to drive about the grounds, and see his genius take fire. There
we went, and there we came home again; and what was done there is not to be
told!" Fanny's eyes were turned on Crawford for a moment with an
expression more than grave, even reproachful; but on catching his were
instantly withdrawn. With something of consciousness he shook his head at his
sister, and laughingly replied, "I cannot say there was much done at
Sotherton; but it was a hot day, and we were all walking after each other and
bewildered." As soon as a general buz gave him shelter, he added, in a low
voice directed solely at Fanny, "I should be sorry to have my powers of
planning judged of by the day at Sotherton. I see things very differently now.
Do not think of me as I appeared then." Sotherton was a word to catch Mrs.
Norris, and being just then in the happy leisure which followed securing the
odd trick by Sir Thomas's capital play and her own, against Dr. and Mrs. Grant's
great hands, she called out in high good-humour, "Sotherton! Yes, that is
a place indeed, and we had a charming day there. William, you are quite out of
luck; but the next time you come I hope dearMr. and Mrs. Rushworth will be at
home, and I am sure I can answer for your being kindly received by both. Your
cousins are not of a sort to forget their relations, and Mr. Rushworth is a
most amiable man. They are at Brighton now, you know -- in one of the best
houses there, as Mr. Rushworth's fine fortune gives them a right to be. I do
not exactly know the distance, but when you get back to Portsmouth, if it is
not very far off, you ought to go over and pay your respects to them; and I
could send a little parcel by you that I want to get conveyed to your cousins."
"I should be very happy, aunt -- but Brighton is almost by Beachey Head;
and if I could get so far, I could not expect to be welcome in such a smart
place as that -- poor scrubby midshipman as I am." Mrs. Norris was
beginning an eager assurance of the affability he might depend on, when she was
stopped by Sir Thomas's saying with authority, "I do not advise your going
to Brighton, William, as I trust you may soon have more convenient
opportunities of meeting, but my daughters would be happy to see their cousins
any where; and you will find Mr. Rushworth most sincerely disposed to regard
all the connections of our family as his own." "I would rather find
him private secretary to the first Lord than any thing else," was
William's only answer, in an under voice, not meant to reach far, and the
subject dropped. As yet Sir Thomas had seen nothing to remark in Mr. Crawford's
behaviour; but when the Whist table broke up at the end of the second rubber,
and leaving Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris to dispute over their last play, he
became a looker-on at the other, he found his niece the object of attentions,
or rather of professions of a somewhat pointed character. Henry Crawford was in
the first glow of another scheme about Thornton Lacey, and not being able to
catch Edmund's ear, was detailing it to his fair neighbour with a look of
considerable earnestness. His scheme was to rent the house himself the
following winter, that he might have a home of his own in that neighbourhood;
and it was not merely for the use of it in the hunting season, (as he was then
telling her,) though that consideration had certainly some weight, feeling as
he did, that in spite of all Dr. Grant's very great kindness, it was impossible
for him and his horses to be accommodated where they now were without material
inconvenience; but his attachment to that neighbourhood did not depend upon one
amusement or one season of the year: he had set his heart upon having a
something there that he could come to at any time, a little home-stall at his
command where all the holidays of his year might be spent, and he might find
himself continuing, improving, and perfecting that friendship and intimacy with
the Mansfield Park family which was increasing in value to him every day. Sir
Thomas heard and was not offended. There was no want of respect in the young
man's address; and Fanny's reception of it was so proper and modest, so calm
and uninviting, that he had nothing to censure in her. She said little,
assented only here and there, and betrayed no inclination either of
appropriating any part of the compliment to herself or of strengthening his
views in favour of Northamptonshire. Finding by whom he was observed, Henry
Crawford addressed himself on the same subject to Sir Thomas, in a more every
day tone, but still with feeling. "I want to be your neighbour, Sir
Thomas, as you have perhaps heard me telling Miss Price. May I hope for your
acquiescence and for your not influencing your son against such a tenant?"
Sir Thomas, politely bowing, replied -- "It is the only way, sir, in which
I could not wish you established as a permanent neighbour; but I hope, and
believe, that Edmund will occupy his own house at Thornton Lacey. Edmund, am I
saying too much?" Edmund, on this appeal, had first to hear what was going
on, but on understanding the question, was at no loss for an answer.
"Certainly, sir, I have no idea but of residence. But Crawford, though I
refuse you as a tenant, come to me as a friend. Consider the house as half your
own every winter, and we will add to the stables on your own improved plan, and
with all the improvements of your improved plan that may occur to you this
spring." "We shall be the losers," continued Sir Thomas.
"His going, though only eight miles, will be an unwelcome contraction of
our family circle; but I should have been deeply mortified, if any son of mine
could reconcile himself to doing less. It is perfectly natural that you should
not have thought much on the subject, Mr. Crawford. But a parish has wants and
claims which can be known only by a clergyman constantly resident, and which no
proxy can be capable of satisfying to the same extent. Edmund might, in the
common phrase, do the duty of Thornton, that is, he might read prayers and
preach, without giving up Mansfield Park; he might ride over, every Sunday, to
a house nominally inhabited, and go through divine service; he might be the
clergyman of Thornton Lacey every seventh day, for three or four hours, if that
would content him. But it will not. He knows that human nature needs more
lessons than a weekly sermon can convey, and that if he does not live among his
parishioners and prove himself by constant attention their well-wisher and
friend, he does very little either for their good or his own." Mr.
Crawford bowed his acquiescence. "I repeat again," added Sir Thomas,
"that Thornton Lacey is the only house in the neighbourhood in which I
should not be happy to wait on Mr. Crawford as occupier." Mr. Crawford
bowed his thanks. "Sir Thomas," said Edmund, "undoubtedly
understands the duty of a parish priest. -- We must hope his son may prove that
he knows it too." Whatever effect Sir Thomas's little harangue might
really produce on Mr. Crawford, it raised some awkward sensations in two of the
others, two of his most attentive listeners, Miss Crawford and Fanny. -- one of
whom, having never before understood that Thornton was so soon and so
completely to be his home, was pondering with downcast eyes on what it would
be, not to see Edmund every day; and the other, startled from the agreeable
fancies she had been previously indulging on the strength of her brother's
description, no longer able, in the picture she had been forming of a future
Thornton, to shut out the church, sink the clergyman, and see only the
respectable, elegant, modernized, and occasional residence of a man of
independent fortune -- was considering Sir Thomas, with decided ill-will, as
the destroyer of all this, and suffering the more from that involuntary
forbearance which his character and manner commanded, and from not daring to
relieve herself by a single attempt at throwing ridicule on his cause. All the
agreeable of her speculation was over for that hour. It was time to have done
with cards if sermons prevailed, and she was glad to find it necessary to come
to a conclusion and be able to refresh her spirits by a change of place and
neighbour. The chief of the party were now collected irregularly round the
fire, and waiting the final break up. William and Fanny were the most detached.
They remained together at the otherwise deserted card-table, talking very
comfortably and not thinking of the rest, till some of the rest began to think
of them. Henry Crawford's chair was the first to be given a direction towards
them, and he sat silently observing them for a few minutes; himself in the
meanwhile observed by Sir Thomas, who was standing in chat with Dr. Grant.
"This is the Assembly night," said William. "If I were at
Portsmouth, I should be at it perhaps." "But you do not wish yourself
at Portsmouth, William?" "No, Fanny, that I do not. I shall have
enough of Portsmouth, and of dancing too, when I cannot have you. And I do not
know that there would be any good in going to the Assembly, for I might not get
a partner. The Portsmouth girls turn up their noses at any body who has not a
commission. One might as well be nothing as a midshipman. One is nothing
indeed. You remember the Gregorys; they are grown up amazing fine girls, but
they will hardly speak to me, because Lucy is courted by a lieutenant."
"Oh! shame, shame! -- But never mind it, William. (Her own cheeks in a
glow of indignation as she spoke.) It is not worth minding. It is no reflection
on you; it is no more than what the greatest admirals have all experienced,
more or less, in their time. You must think of that; you must try to make up
your mind to it as one of the hardships which fall to every sailor's share --
like bad weather and hard living -- only with this advantage, that there will
be an end to it, that there will come a time when you will have nothing of that
sort to endure. When you are a lieutenant! -- only think, William, when you are
a lieutenant, how little you will care for any nonsense of this kind."
"I begin to think I shall never be a lieutenant, Fanny. Every body gets
made but me." "Oh! my dearWilliam, do not talk so, do not be so
desponding. My uncle says nothing, but I am sure he will do every thing in his
power to get you made. He knows, as well as you do, of what consequence it
is." She was checked by the sight of her uncle much nearer to them than
she had any suspicion of, and each found it necessary to talk of something
else. "Are you fond of dancing, Fanny?" "Yes, very; -- only I am
soon tired." "I should like to go to a ball with you and see you
dance. Have you never any balls at Northampton? -- I should like to see you
dance, and I'd dance with you if you would, for nobody would know who I was
here, and I should like to be your partner once more. We used to jump about
together many a time, did not we? when the hand-organ was in the street? I am a
pretty good dancer in my way, but I dare say you are a better." -- And
turning to his uncle, who was now close to them -- "Is not Fanny a very
good dancer, sir?" Fanny, in dismay at such an unprecedented question, did
not know which way to look, or how to be prepared for the answer. Some very
grave reproof, or at least the coldest expression of indifference must be
coming to distress her brother, and sink her to the ground. But, on the
contrary, it was no worse than, "I am sorry to say that I am unable to
answer your question. I have never seen Fanny dance since she was a little
girl; but I trust we shall both think she acquits herself like a gentlewoman
when we do see her, which perhaps we may have an opportunity of doing ere
long." "I have had the pleasure of seeing your sister dance, Mr.
Price," said Henry Crawford, leaning forward, "and will engage to
answer every inquiry which you can make on the subject, to your entire
satisfaction. But I believe (seeing Fanny look 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 any thing about her. He passed, however, for an
admirer of her dancing; and Sir Thomas, by no means displeased, prolonged the
conversation on dancing in general, and was so well engaged in describing the
balls of Antigua, and listening to what his nephew could relate of the
different modes of dancing which had fallen within his observation, that he had
not heard his carriage announced, and was first called to the knowledge of it
by the bustle of Mrs. Norris. "Come, Fanny, Fanny, what are you about? We
are going. Do not you see your aunt is going? Quick, quick. I cannot bear to
keep good old Wilcox waiting. You should always remember the coachman and
horses. My dearSir Thomas, we have settled it that the carriage should come
back for you, and Edmund, and William." Sir Thomas could not dissent, as
it had been his own arrangement, previously communicated to his wife and
sister; but that seemed forgotten by Mrs. Norris, who must fancy that she
settled it all herself. Fanny's last feeling in the visit was disappointment --
for the shawl whichEdmund was quietly taking from the servant to bring and put
round her shoulders, was seized by Mr. Crawford's quicker hand, and she was
obliged to be indebted to his more prominent attention.
William's desire of
seeing Fanny dance, made more than a momentary impression on his uncle. The
hope of an opportunity, whichSir 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 any body else who might wish to see Fanny dance, and to
give pleasure to the young people in general; and having thought the matter
over and taken his resolution in quiet independence, the result of it appeared
the next morning at breakfast, when, after recalling and commending what his
nephew had said, he added, "I do not like, William, that you should leave
Northamptonshire without this indulgence. It would give me pleasure to see you
both dance. You spoke of the balls at Northampton. Your cousins have
occasionally attended them; but they would not altogether suit us now. The
fatigue would be too much for your aunt. I believe, we must not think of a
Northampton ball. A dance at home would be more eligible, and if" --
"Ah! my dearSir Thomas," interrupted Mrs. Norris, "I knew what
was coming. I knew what you were going to say. If dearJulia were at home, or
dearest Mrs. Rushworth at Sotherton, to afford a reason, an occasion for such a
thing, you would be tempted to give the young people a dance at Mansfield. I
know you would. If they were at home to grace the ball, a ball you would have
this very Christmas. Thank your uncle, William, thank your uncle."
"My daughters," replied Sir Thomas, gravely interposing, "have
their pleasures at Brighton, and I hope are very happy; but the dance which I
think of giving at Mansfield, will be for their cousins. Could we be all assembled,
our satisfaction would undoubtedly be more complete, but the absence of some is
not to debar the others of amusement." Mrs. Norris had not another word to
say. She saw decision in his looks, and her surprize 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 every thing; Lady Bertram would of course be
spared all thought and exertion, and it would all fall upon her. She should
have to do the honours of the evening, and this reflection quickly restored so
much of her good humour as enabled her to join in with the others, before their
happiness and thanks were all expressed. Edmund, William, and Fanny, did, in
their different ways, look and speak as much grateful pleasure in the promised
ball, as Sir Thomas could desire. Edmund's feelings were for the other two. His
father had never conferred a favour or shewn a kindness more to his satisfaction.
Lady Bertram was perfectly quiescent and contented, and had no objections to
make. Sir Thomas engaged for its giving her very little trouble, and she
assured him, "that she was not at all afraid of the trouble, indeed she
could not imagine there would be any." Mrs. Norris was ready with her
suggestions as to the rooms he would think fittest to be used, but found it all
prearranged; and when she would have conjectured and hinted about the day, it
appeared that the day was settled tooSir Thomas had been amusing himself with
shaping a very complete outline of the business; and as soon as she would
listen quietly, could read his list of the families to be invited, from whom he
calculated, with all necessary allowance for the shortness of the notice, to
collect young people enough to form twelve or fourteen couple; and could detail
the considerations which had induced him to fix on the 22d, as the most
eligible day. William was required to be at Portsmouth on the 24th; the 22d
would therefore be the last day of his visit; but where the days were so few it
would be unwise to fix on any earlier. Mrs. Norris was obliged to be satisfied
with thinking just the same, and with having been on the point of proposing the
22d herself, as by far the best day for the purpose. The ball was now a settled
thing, and before the evening a proclaimed thing to all whom it concerned.
Invitations were sent with dispatch, and many a young lady went to bed that
night with her head full of happy cares as well as Fanny. -- To her, the cares
were sometimes almost beyond the happiness; for young and inexperienced, with
small means of choice and no confidence in her own taste -- the "how she
should be dressed" was a point of painful solicitude; and the almost
solitary ornament in her possession, a very pretty amber cross whichWilliam had
brought her from Sicily, was the greatest distress of all, for she had nothing
but a bit of ribbon to fasten it to; and though she had worn it in that manner
once, would it be allowable at such a time, in the midst of all the rich
ornaments which she supposed all the other young ladies would appear in? And
yet not to wear it! William had wanted to buy her a gold chain too, but the
purchase had been beyond his means, and therefore not to wear the cross might
be mortifying him. These were anxious considerations; enough to sober her
spirits even under the prospect of a ball given principally for her
gratification. The preparations meanwhile went on, and Lady Bertram continued
to sit on her sofa without any inconvenience from them. She had some extra
visits from the housekeeper, and her maid was rather hurried in making up a new
dress for her; Sir Thomas gave orders and Mrs. Norris ran about, but all this
gave her no trouble, and as she had foreseen, "there was in fact no
trouble in the business." Edmund was at this time particularly full of
cares; his mind being deeply occupied in the consideration of two important
events now at hand, which were to fix his fate in life -- ordination and
matrimony -- events of such a serious character as to make the ball, which
would be very quickly followed by one of them, appear of less moment in his
eyes than in those of any other person in the house. On the 23d he was going to
a friend near Peterborough in the same situation as himself, and they were to
receive ordination in the course of the Christmas week. Half his destiny would
then be determined -- but the other half might not be so very smoothly wooed.
His duties would be established, but the wife who was to share, and animate, and
reward those duties might yet be unattainable. He knew his own mind, but he was
not always perfectly assured of knowing Miss Crawford's. There were points on
which they did not quite agree, there were moments in which she did not seem
propitious, and though trusting altogether to her affection, so far as to be
resolved (almost resolved) on bringing it to a decision within a very short
time, as soon as the variety of business before him were arranged, and he knew
what he had to offer her -- he had many anxious feelings, many doubting hours
as to the result. His conviction of her regard for him was sometimes very
strong; he could look back on a long course of encouragement, and she was as
perfect in disinterested attachment as in every thing else. But at other times
doubt and alarm intermingled with his hopes, and when he thought of her
acknowledged disinclination for privacy and retirement, her decided preference
of a London life -- what could he expect but a determined rejection? unless it
were an acceptance even more to be deprecated, demanding such sacrifices of
situation and employment on his side as conscience must forbid. The issue of
all depended on one question. Did she love him well enough to forego what had
used to be essential points -- did she love him well enough to make them no
longer essential? And this question, which he was continually repeating to
himself, though oftenest answered with a "Yes," had sometimes its
"No." Miss Crawford was soon to leave Mansfield, and on this
circumstance the "no" and the "yes" had been very recently
in alternation. He had seen her eyes sparkle as she spoke of the dear friend's
letter, which claimed a long visit from her in London, and of the kindness of
Henry, in engaging to remain where he was till January, that he might convey
her thither; he had heard her speak of the pleasure of such a journey with an
animation which had "no" in every tone. But this had occurred on the
first day of its being settled, within the first hour of the burst of such enjoyment,
when nothing but the friends she was to visit, was before her. He had since
heard her express herself differently -- with other feelings -- more chequered
feelings; he had heard her tell Mrs. Grant that she should leave her with
regret; that she began to believe neither the friends nor the pleasures she was
going to were worth those she left behind; and that though she felt she must
go, and knew she should enjoy herself when once away, she was already looking
forward to being at Mansfield again. Was there not a "yes" in all
this? With such matters to ponder over, and arrange, and re-arrange, Edmund
could not, on his own account, think very much of the evening, which the rest
of the family were looking forward to with a more equal degree of strong interest.
Independent of his two cousins' enjoyment in it, the evening was to him of no
higher value than any other appointed meeting of the two families might be. In
every meeting there was a hope of receiving farther confirmation of Miss
Crawford's attachment; but the whirl of a ball-room perhaps was not
particularly favourable to the excitement or expression of serious feelings. To
engage her early for the two first dances, was all the command of individual
happiness which he felt in his power, and the only preparation for the ball
which he could enter into, in spite of all that was passing around him on the
subject, from morning till night. Thursday was the day of the ball: and on
Wednesday morning, Fanny, still unable to satisfy herself, as to what she ought
to wear, determined to seek the counsel of the more enlightened, and apply to
Mrs. Grant and her sister, whose acknowledged taste would certainly bear her
blameless; and as Edmund and William were gone to Northampton, and she had
reason to think Mr. Crawford likewise out, she walked down to the Parsonage
without much fear of wanting an opportunity for private discussion; and the
privacy of such a discussion was a most important part of it to Fanny, being
more than half ashamed of her own solicitude. She met Miss Crawford within a
few yards of the Parsonage, just setting out to call on her, and as it seemed
to her, that her friend, though obliged to insist on turning back, was
unwilling to lose her walk, she explained her business at once and observed
that if she would be so kind as to give her opinion, it might be all talked
over as well without doors as within. Miss Crawford appeared gratified by the
application, and after a moment's thought, urged Fanny's returning with her in
a much more cordial manner than before, and proposed their going up into her
room, where they might have a comfortable coze, without disturbing Dr. and Mrs.
Grant, who were together in the drawing-room. It was just the plan to suit
Fanny; and with a great deal of gratitude on her side for such ready and kind
attention, they proceeded in doors and upstairs, and were soon deep in the
interesting subject. Miss Crawford, pleased with the appeal, gave her all her
best judgment and taste, made every thing easy by her suggestions, and tried to
make every thing agreeable by her encouragement. The dress being settled in all
its grander parts, -- "But what shall you have by way of necklace?"
said Miss Crawford. "Shall not you wear your brother's cross?" And as
she spoke she was undoing a small parcel, whichFanny had observed in her hand
when they met. Fanny acknowledged her wishes and doubts on this point; she did
not know how either to wear the cross, or to refrain from wearing it. She was
answered by having a small trinket-box placed before her, and being requested
to chuse from among several gold chains and necklaces. Such had been the parcel
with whichMiss Crawford was provided, and such the object of her intended
visit; and in the kindest manner she now urged Fanny's taking one for the cross
and to keep for her sake, saying every thing she could think of to obviate the
scruples which were making Fanny start back at first with a look of horror at
the proposal. "You see what a collection I have," said she,
"more by half than I ever use or think of. I do not offer them as new. I
offer nothing but an old necklace. You must forgive the liberty and oblige
me." Fanny still resisted, and from her heart. The gift was too valuable.
But, Miss Crawford persevered, and argued the case with so much affectionate earnestness
through all the heads of William and the cross, and the ball, and herself, as
to be finally successful. Fanny found herself obliged to yield that she might
not be accused of pride or indifference, or some other littleness; and having
with modest reluctance given her consent, proceeded to make the selection. She
looked and looked, longing to know which might be least valuable; and was
determined in her choice at last, by fancying there was one necklace more
frequently placed before her eyes than the rest. It was of gold prettily
worked; and though Fanny would have preferred a longer and a plainer chain as
more adapted for her purpose, she hoped in fixing on this, to be chusing
whatMiss Crawford least wished to keep. Miss Crawford smiled her perfect approbation;
and hastened to complete the gift by putting the necklace round her and making
her see how well it looked. Fanny had not a word to say against its
becomingness, and excepting what remained of her scruples, was exceedingly
pleased with an acquisition so very apropos. She would rather perhaps have been
obliged to some other person. But this was an unworthy feeling. Miss Crawford
had anticipated her wants with a kindness which proved her a real friend.
"When I wear this necklace I shall always think of you," said she,
"and feel how very kind you were." "You must think of somebody
else too when you wear that necklace," replied Miss Crawford. "You
must think of Henry, for it was his choice in the first place. He gave it to me,
and with the necklace I make over to you all the duty of remembering the
original giver. It is to be a family remembrancer. The sister is not to be in
your mind without bringing the brother too." Fanny, in great astonishment
and confusion, would have returned the present instantly. To take what had been
the gift of another person -- of a brother too -- impossible! -- it must not
be! -- and with an eagerness and embarrassment quite diverting to her
companion, she laid down the necklace again on its cotton, and seemed resolved
either to take another or none at all. Miss Crawford thought she had never seen
a prettier consciousness. "My dear child," said she laughing,
"what are you afraid of? Do you think Henry will claim the necklace as
mine, and fancy you did not come honestly by it? -- or are you imagining he
would be too much flattered by seeing round your lovely throat an ornament
which his money purchased three years ago, before he knew there was such a
throat in the world? -- or perhaps -- looking archly -- you suspect a
confederacy between us, and that what I am now doing is with his knowledge and
at his desire?" With the deepest blushes Fanny protested against such a
thought. "Well then," replied Miss Crawford more seriously but
without at all believing her, "to convince me that you suspect no trick,
and are as unsuspicious of compliment as I have always found you, take the
necklace, and say no more about it. Its being a gift of my brother's need not
make the smallest difference in your accepting it, as I assure you it makes
none in my willingness to part with it. He is always giving me something or
other. I have such innumerable presents from him that it is quite impossible
for me to value, or for him to remember half. And as for this necklace, I do
not suppose I have worn it six times; it is very pretty -- but I never think of
it; and though you would be most heartily welcome to any other in my
trinket-box, you have happened to fix on the very one which, if I have a
choice, I would rather part with and see in your possession than any other. Say
no more against it, I entreat you. Such a trifle is not worth half so many
words." Fanny dared not make any further opposition; and with renewed but
less happy thanks accepted the necklace again, for there was an expression in
Miss Crawford's eyes which she could not be satisfied with. It was impossible
for her to be insensible of Mr. Crawford's change of manners. She had long seen
it. He evidently tried to please her -- he was gallant -- he was attentive --
he was something like what he had been to her cousins: he wanted, she supposed,
to cheat her of her tranquillity as he had cheated them; and whether he might
not have some concern in this necklace! -- She could not be convinced that he
had not, for Miss Crawford, complaisant as a sister, was careless as a woman
and a friend. Reflecting and doubting, and feeling that the possession of what
she had so much wished for, did not bring much satisfaction, she now walked
home again -- with a change rather than a diminution of cares since her
treading that path before.
On reaching home, Fanny
went immediately up stairs 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 surprize to
find her cousin Edmund there writing at the table! Such a sight having never
occurred before, was almost as wonderful as it was welcome. "Fanny,"
said he directly, leaving his seat and his pen, and meeting her with something
in his hand. "I beg your pardon for being here. I came to look for you,
and after waiting a little while in hope of your coming in, was making use of
your inkstand to explain my errand. You will find the beginning of a note to
yourself; but I can now speak my business, which is merely to beg your
acceptance of this little trifle -- a chain for William's cross. You ought to
have had it a week ago, but there has been a delay from my brother's not being
in town by several days so soon as I expected; and I have only just now
received it at Northampton. I hope you will like the chain itself, Fanny. I
endeavoured to consult the simplicity of your taste, but at any rate I know you
will be kind to my intentions, and consider it, as it really is, a token of the
love of one of your oldest friends." And so saying, he was hurrying away,
before Fanny, overpowered by a thousand feelings of pain and pleasure, could
attempt to speak; but quickened by one sovereign wish she then called out,
"Oh! cousin, stop a moment, pray stop." He turned back. "I
cannot attempt to thank you," she continued in a very agitated manner,
"thanks are out of the question. I feel much more than I can possibly
express. Your goodness in thinking of me in such a way is beyond" --
"If this is all you have to say, Fanny," smiling and turning away
again -- "No, no, it is not. I want to consult you." Almost
unconsciously she had now undone the parcel he had just put into her hand, and
seeing before her, in all the niceness of jeweller's packing, a plain gold chain
perfectly simple and neat, she could not help bursting forth again. "Oh!
this is beautiful indeed! this is the very thing, precisely what I wished for!
this is the only ornament I have ever had a desire to possess. It will exactly
suit my cross. They must and shall be worn together. It comes too in such an
acceptable moment. Oh! cousin, you do not know how acceptable it is."
"My dearFanny, you feel these things a great deal too much. I am most
happy that you like the chain, and that it should be here in time for
to-morrow: but your thanks are far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I have no
pleasure in the world superior to that of contributing to yours. No, I can
safely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so unalloyed. It is without a
drawback." Upon such expressions of affection, Fanny could have lived an
hour without saying another word; but Edmund, after waiting a moment, obliged
her to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying, "But what
is it that you want to consult me about?" It was about the necklace, which
she was now most earnestly longing to return, and hoped to obtain his
approbation of her doing. She gave the history of her recent visit, and now her
raptures might well be over, for Edmund was so struck with the circumstance, so
delighted with whatMiss Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidence
of conduct between them, that Fanny could not but admit the superior power of
one pleasure over his own mind, though it might have its drawback. It was some
time before she could get his attention to her plan, or any answer to her
demand of his opinion; he was in a reverie of fond reflection, uttering only
now and then a few half sentences of praise; but when he did awake and
understand, he was very decided in opposing what she wished. "Return the
necklace! No, my dearFanny, upon no account. It would be mortifying her
severely. There can hardly be a more unpleasant sensation than the having any
thing returned on our hands, which we have given with a reasonable hope of its
contributing to the comfort of a friend. Why should she lose a pleasure which
she has shewn herself so deserving of?" "If it had been given to me
in the first instance," said Fanny, "I should not have thought of
returning it; but being her brother's present, is not it fair to suppose that
she would rather not part with it, when it is not wanted?" "She must
not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable at least; and its having been
originally her brother's gift makes no difference, for as she was not prevented
from offering, nor you from taking it on that account, it ought not to affect
your keeping it. No doubt it is handsomer than mine, and fitter for a
ball-room." "No, it is not handsomer, not at all handsomer in its
way, and for my purpose not half so fit. The chain will agree with William's
cross beyond all comparison better than the necklace." "For one
night, Fanny, for only one night, if it be a sacrifice -- I am sure you will,
upon consideration, make that sacrifice rather than give pain to one who has been
so studious of your comfort. Miss Crawford's attentions to you have been -- not
more than you were justly entitled to -- I am the last person to think that
couldbe -- but they have been invariable; and to be returning them with what
must have something the air of ingratitude, though I know it could never have
the meaning, is not in your nature I am sure. Wear the necklace, as you are
engaged to do to-morrow evening, and let the chain, which was not ordered with
any reference to the ball, be kept for commoner occasions. This is my advice. I
would not have the shadow of a coolness between the two whose intimacy I have
been observing with the greatest pleasure, and in whose characters there is so
much general resemblance in true generosity and natural delicacy as to make the
few slight differences, resulting principally from situation, no reasonable
hindrance to a perfect friendship. I would not have the shadow of a coolness
arise," he repeated, his voice sinking a little, "between the two
dearest objects I have on earth." He was gone as he spoke; and Fanny
remained to tranquillise herself as she could. She was one of his two dearest
-- that must support her. But the other! -- the first! She had never heard him
speak so openly before, and though it told her no more than what she had long
perceived, it was a stab; -- for it told of his own convictions and views. They
were decided. He would marry Miss Crawford. It was a stab, in spite of every
long-standing expectation; and she was obliged to repeat again and again that she
was one of his two dearest, before the words gave her any sensation. Could she
believe Miss Crawford to deserve him, it would be -- Oh! how different would it
be -- how far more tolerable! But he was deceived in her; he gave her merits
which she had not; her faults were what they had ever been, but he saw them no
longer. Till she had shed many tears over this deception, Fanny could not
subdue her agitation; and the dejection which followed could only be relieved
by the influence of fervent prayers for his happiness. It was her intention, as
she felt it to be her duty, to try to overcome all that was excessive, all that
bordered on selfishness in her affection for Edmund. To call or to fancy it a
loss, a disappointment, would be a presumption; for which she had not words
strong enough to satisfy her own humility. To think of him as Miss Crawford
might be justified in thinking, would in her be insanity. To her, he could be
nothing under any circumstances -- nothing dearer than a friend. Why did such
an idea occur to her even enough to be reprobated and forbidden? It ought not
to have touched on the confines of her imagination. She would endeavour to be
rational, and to deserve the right of judging of Miss Crawford's character and
the privilege of true solicitude for him by a sound intellect and an honest
heart. She had all the heroism of principle, and was determined to do her duty;
but having also many of the feelings of youth and nature, let her not be much
wondered at if, after making all these good resolutions on the side of
self-government, she seized the scrap of paper on which Edmund had begun
writing to her, as a treasure beyond all her hopes, and reading with the
tenderest emotion these words, "My very dearFanny, you must do me the
favour to accept" -- locked it up with the chain, as the dearest part of
the gift. It was the only thing approaching to a letter which she had ever
received from him; she might never receive another; it was impossible that she
ever should receive another so perfectly gratifying in the occasion and the
style. Two lines more prized had never fallen from the pen of the most
distinguished author -- never more completely blessed the researches of the
fondest biographer. The enthusiasm of a woman's love is even beyond the
biographer's. To her, the hand-writing itself, independent of any thing it may
convey, is a blessedness. Never were such characters cut by any other human
being, as Edmund's commonest hand-writing, gave! This specimen, written in
haste as it was, had not a fault; and there was a felicity in the flow of the
first four words, in the arrangement of "My very dear Fanny," which
she could have looked at for ever. Having regulated her thoughts and comforted
her feelings by this happy mixture of reason and weakness, she was able, in due
time, to go down and resume her usual employments near her aunt Bertram, and
pay her the usual observances without any apparent want of spirits. Thursday,
predestined to hope and enjoyment, came; and opened with more kindness to Fanny
than such self-willed, unmanageable days often volunteer, for soon after
breakfast a very friendly note was brought from Mr. Crawford to William stating
that as he found himself obliged to go to London on the morrow for a few days,
he could not help trying to procure a companion; and therefore hoped that if
William could make up his mind to leave Mansfield half a day earlier than had
been proposed, he would accept a place in his carriage. Mr. Crawford meant to
be in town by his uncle's accustomary late dinner-hour, and William was invited
to dine with him at the Admiral's. The proposal was a very pleasant one to
William himself, who enjoyed the idea of travelling post with four horses and
such a good humoured agreeable friend; and in likening it to going up with dispatches,
was saying at once every thing in favour of its happiness and dignity which his
imagination could suggest; and Fanny, from a different motive, was exceedingly
pleased: for the original plan was that William should go up by the mail from
Northampton the following night, which would not have allowed him an hour's
rest before he must have got into a Portsmouth coach; and though this offer of
Mr. Crawford's would rob her of many hours of his company, she was too happy in
having William spared from the fatigue of such a journey, to think of any thing
else. Sir Thomas approved of it for another reason. His nephew's introduction
to Admiral Crawford might be of service. The Admiral he believed had interest.
Upon the whole, it was a very joyous note. Fanny's spirits lived on it half the
morning, deriving some accession of pleasure from its writer being himself to
go away. As for the ball so near at hand, she had too many agitations and fears
to have half the enjoyment in anticipation which she ought to have had, or must
have been supposed to have, by the many young ladies looking forward to the
same event in situations more at ease, but under circumstances of less novelty,
less interest, less peculiar gratification than would be attributed to her.
Miss Price, known only by name to half the people invited, was now to make her
first appearance, and must be regarded as the Queen of the evening. Who could
be happier than Miss Price? But Miss Price had not been brought up to the trade
of comingout; and had she known in what light this ball was, in general,
considered respecting her, it would very much have lessened her comfort by
increasing the fears she already had, of doing wrong and being looked at. To
dance without much observation or any extraordinary fatigue, to have strength
and partners for about half the evening, to dance a little with Edmund, and not
a great deal with Mr. Crawford, to see William enjoy himself, and be able to
keep away from her aunt Norris, was the height of her ambition, and seemed to
comprehend her greatest possibility of happiness. As these were the best of her
hopes, they could not always prevail; and in the course of a long morning,
spent principally with her two aunts, she was often under the influence of much
less sanguine views. William, determined to make this last day a day of
thorough enjoyment, was out snipe shooting; Edmund, she had too much reason to
suppose, was at the Parsonage; and left alone to bear the worrying of Mrs.
Norris, who was cross because the house-keeper would have her own way with the
supper, and whom she could not avoid though the house-keeper might, Fanny was
worn down at last to think every thing an evil belonging to the ball, and when
sent off with a parting worry to dress, moved as languidly towards her own room,
and felt as incapable of happiness as if she had been allowed no share in it.
As she walked slowly up stairs she thought of yesterday; it had been about the
same hour that she had returned from the Parsonage, and found Edmund in the
east room. -- "Suppose I were to find him there again to-day!" said
she to herself in a fond indulgence of fancy. "Fanny," said a voice
at that moment near her. Starting and looking up she saw across the lobby she
had just reached Edmund himself, standing at the head of a different staircase.
He came towards her. "You look tired and fagged, Fanny. You have been
walking too far." "No, I have not been out at all." "Then
you have had fatigues within doors, which are worse. You had better have gone
out." Fanny, not liking to complain, found it easiest to make no answer;
and though he looked at her with his usual kindness, she believed he had soon
ceased to think of her countenance. He did not appear in spirits; something
unconnected with her was probably amiss. They proceeded up stairs together,
their rooms being on the same floor above. "I come from Dr. Grant's,"
said Edmund presently. "You may guess my errand there, Fanny." And he
looked so conscious, that Fanny could think but of one errand, which turned her
too sick for speech. -- "I wished to engage Miss Crawford for the two
first dances," was the explanation that followed, and brought Fanny to
life again, enabling her, as she found she was expected to speak, to utter
something like an inquiry as to the result. "Yes," he answered,
"she is engaged to me; but (with a smile that did not sit easy) she says
it is to be the last time that she ever will dance with me. She is not serious.
I think, I hope, I am sure she is not serious -- but I would rather not hear
it. She never has danced with a clergyman she says, and she never will. For my
own sake, I could wish there had been no ball just at -- I mean not this very
week, this very day -- to-morrow I leave home." Fanny struggled for
speech, and said, "I am very sorry that any thing has occurred to distress
you. This ought to be a day of pleasure. My uncle meant it so." "Oh!
yes, yes, and it will be a day of pleasure. It will all end right. I am only
vexed for a moment. In fact, it is not that I consider the ball as ill-timed;
-- what does it signify? But, Fanny," -- stopping her by taking her hand,
and speaking low and seriously, "you know what all this means. You see how
it is; and could tell me, perhaps better than I could tell you, how and why I
am vexed. Let me talk to you a little. You are a kind, kind listener. I have
been pained by her manner this morning, and cannot get the better of it. I know
her disposition to be as sweet and faultless as your own, but the influence of
her former companions makes her seem, gives to her conversation, to her
professed opinions, sometimes a tinge of wrong. She does not think evil, but
she speaks it -- speaks it in playfulness -- and though I know it to be
playfulness, it grieves me to the soul." "The effect of
education," said Fanny gently. Edmund could not but agree to it.
"Yes, that uncle and aunt! They have injured the finest mind! -- for
sometimes, Fanny, I own to you, it does appear more than manner; it appears as
if the mind itself was tainted." Fanny imagined this to be an appeal to
her judgment, and therefore, after a moment's consideration, said, "If you
only want me as a listener, cousin, I will be as useful as I can; but I am not
qualified for an adviser. Do not ask advice of me. I am not competent."
"You are rightFanny, to protest against such an office, but you need not
be afraid. It is a subject on which I should never ask advice. It is the sort
of subject on which it had better never be asked; and few I imagine do ask it,
but when they want to be influenced against their conscience. I only want to
talk to you." "One thing more. Excuse the liberty -- but take care
how you talk to me. Do not tell me any thing now, which hereafter you may be
sorry for. The time may come --" The colour rushed into her cheeks as she
spoke. "Dearest Fanny!" cried Edmund, pressing her hand to his lips,
with almost as much warmth as if it had been Miss Crawford's, "you are all
considerate thought! -- But it is unnecessary here. The time will never come.
No such time as you allude to will ever come. I begin to think it most
improbable; the chances grow less and less. And even if it should -- there will
be nothing to be remembered by either you or me, that we need be afraid of, for
I can never be ashamed of my own scruples; and if they are removed, it must be
by changes that will only raise her character the more by the recollection of
the faults she once had. You are the only being upon earth to whom I should say
what I have said; but you have always known my opinion of her; you can bear me
witness, Fanny, that I have never been blinded. How many a time have we talked
over her little errors! You need not fear me. I have almost given up every
serious idea of her; but I must be a blockhead indeed if, whatever befell me, I
could think of your kindness and sympathy without the sincerest
gratitude." He had said enough to shake the experience of eighteen. He had
said enough to give Fanny some happier feelings than she had lately known, and
with a brighter look, she answered, "Yes, cousin, I am convinced that you would
be incapable of any thing else, though perhaps some might not. I cannot be
afraid of hearing any thing 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 further conversation. For Fanny's present comfort
it was concluded perhaps at the happiest moment; had he been able to talk
another five minutes, there is no saying that he might not have talked away all
Miss Crawford's faults and his own despondence. But as it was, they parted with
looks on his side of grateful affection, and with some very precious sensations
on her's. She had felt nothing like it for hours. Since the first joy from Mr.
Crawford's note to William had worn away, she had been in a state absolutely their
reverse; there had been no comfort around, no hope within her. Now, every thing
was smiling. William's good fortune returned again upon her mind, and seemed of
greater value than at first. The ball too -- such an evening of pleasure before
her! It was now a real animation! and she began to dress for it with much of
the happy flutter which belongs to a ball. All went well -- she did not dislike
her own looks; and when she came to the necklaces again, her good fortune
seemed complete, for upon trial the one given her by Miss Crawford would by no
means go through the ring of the cross. She had, to oblige Edmund, resolved to
wear it -- but it was too large for the purpose. His therefore must be worn;
and having, with delightful feelings, joined the chain and the cross, those
memorials of the two most beloved of her heart, those dearest tokens so formed
for each other by every thing real and imaginary -- and put them round her
neck, and seen and felt how full of William and Edmund they were, she was able,
without an effort, to resolve on wearing Miss Crawford's necklace too. She
acknowledged it to be rightMiss Crawford had a claim; and when it was no longer
to encroach on, to interfere with the stronger claims, the truer kindness of
another, she could do her justice even with pleasure to herself. The necklace
really looked very well; and Fanny left her room at last, comfortably satisfied
with herself and all about her. Her aunt Bertram had recollected her on this
occasion, with an unusual degree of wakefulness. It had really occurred to her,
unprompted, that Fanny, preparing for a ball, might be glad of better help than
the upper housemaid's, and when dressed herself, she actually sent her own maid
to assist her; too late of course to be of any use. Mrs. Chapman had just
reached the attic floor, when Miss Price came out of her room completely
dressed, and only civilities were necessary -- but Fanny felt her aunt's
attention almost as much as Lady Bertram or Mrs. Chapman could do themselves.
Her uncle and both her
aunts were in the drawing-room when Fanny went down. To the former she was an
interesting object, and he saw with pleasure the general elegance of her
appearance and her being in remarkably good looks. The neatness and propriety
of her dress was all that he would allow himself to commend in her presence,
but upon her leaving the room again soon afterwards, he spoke of her beauty
with very decided praise. "Yes," said Lady Bertram "she looks
very well. I sent Chapman to her." "Look well! Oh yes," cried
Mrs. Norris, "she has good reason to look well with all her advantages:
brought up in this family as she has been, with all the benefit of her cousins'
manners before her. Only think, my dear Sir Thomas, what extraordinary
advantages you and I have been the means of giving her. The very gown you have
been taking notice of, is your own generous present to her when dearMrs.
Rushworth married. What would she have been if we had not taken her by the
hand?" Sir Thomas said no more; but when they sat down to table the eyes
of the two young men assured him, that the subject might be gently touched
again when the ladies withdrew, with more success. Fanny saw that she was
approved; and the consciousness of looking well, made her look still better.
From a variety of causes she was happy, and she was soon made still happier;
for in following her aunts out of the room, Edmund, who was holding open the
door, said as she passed him, "You must dance with me, Fanny; you must
keep two dances for me; any two that you like, except the first." She had
nothing more to wish for. She had hardly ever been in a state so nearly
approaching high spirits in her life. Her cousins' former gaiety on the day of
a ball was no longer surprizing to her; she felt it to be indeed very charming,
and was actually practising her steps about the drawing-room as long as she
could be safe from the notice of her aunt Norris, who was entirely taken up at
first in fresh arranging and injuring the noble fire which the butler had
prepared. Half an hour followed, that would have been at least languid under
any other circumstances, but Fanny's happiness still prevailed. It was but to
think of her conversation with Edmund; and what was the restlessness of Mrs.
Norris? What were the yawns of Lady Bertram? The gentlemen joined them; and
soon after began the sweet expectation of a carriage, when a general spirit of
ease and enjoyment seemed diffused, and they all stood about and talked and
laughed, and every moment had its pleasure and its hope. Fanny felt that there
must be a struggle in Edmund's cheerfulness, but it was delightful to see the
effort so successfully made. When the carriages were really heard, when the
guests began really to assemble, her own gaiety of heart was much subdued; the
sight of so many strangers threw her back into herself; and besides the gravity
and formality of the first great circle, which the manners of neither Sir
Thomas nor Lady Bertram were of a kind to do away, she found herself
occasionally called on to endure something worse. She was introduced here and
there by her uncle, and forced to be spoken to, and to curtsey, and speak
again. This was a hard duty, and she was never summoned to it, without looking
at William, as he walked about at his ease in the back ground 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
every body grew comfortable. Fanny felt the advantage; and, drawing back from
the toils of civility, would have been again most happy, could she have kept
her eyes from wandering between Edmund and Mary Crawford. She looked all
loveliness -- and what might not be the end of it? Her own musings were brought
to an end on perceiving Mr. Crawford before her, and her thoughts were put into
another channel by his engaging her almost instantly for the two first dances.
Her happiness on this occasion was very much a`-la-mortal, finely chequered. To
be secure of a partner at first, was a most essential good -- for the moment of
beginning was now growing seriously near, and she so little understood her own
claims as to think, that if Mr. Crawford had not asked her, she must have been the
last to be sought after, and should have received a partner only through a
series of inquiry, and bustle, and interference which would have been terrible;
but at the same time there was a pointedness in his manner of asking her, which
she did not like, and she saw his eye glancing for a moment at her necklace --
with a smile -- she thought there was a smile -- which made her blush and feel
wretched. And though there was no second glance to disturb her, though his
object seemed then to be only quietly agreeable, she could not get the better
of her embarrassment, heightened as it was by the idea of his perceiving it,
and had no composure till he turned away to some one else. Then she could
gradually rise up to the genuine satisfaction of having a partner, a voluntary
partner secured against the dancing began. When the company were moving into
the ball-room she found herself for the first time near Miss Crawford, whose
eyes and smiles were immediately and more unequivocally directed as her
brother's had been, and who was beginning to speak on the subject, when Fanny,
anxious to get the story over, hastened to give the explanation of the second
necklace -- the real chain. Miss Crawford listened; and all her intended
compliments and insinuations to Fanny were forgotten; she felt only one thing;
and her eyes, bright as they had been before, shewing they could yet be
brighter, she exclaimed with eager pleasure, "Did he? Did Edmund? That was
like himself. No other man would have thought of it. I honour him beyond expression."
And she looked around as if longing to tell him so. He was not near, he was
attending a party of ladies out of the room; and Mrs. Grant coming up to the
two girls and taking an arm of each, they followed with the rest. Fanny's heart
sunk, but there was no leisure for thinking long even of Miss Crawford's
feelings. They were in the ball-room, the violins were playing, and her mind
was in a flutter that forbad its fixing on any thing serious. She must watch
the general arrangements and see how every thing was done. In a few minutes Sir
Thomas came to her, and asked if she were engaged; and the "Yes, sir, to
Mr. Crawford," was exactly what he had intended to hear. Mr. Crawford was
not far off; Sir Thomas brought him to her, saying something which discovered
to Fanny, that she was to lead the way and open the ball; an idea that had
never occurred to her before. Whenever she had thought on the minutia e 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 heruncle spoke the
contrary, she could not help an exclamation of surprize, 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 she
hoped it might be settled otherwise; in vain however; -- Sir Thomas smiled,
tried to encourage her, and then looked too serious and said too decidedly --
"It must be so, my dear," for her to hazard another word; and she
found herself the next moment conducted by Mr. Crawford to the top of the room,
and standing there to be joined by the rest of the dancers, couple after couple
as they were formed. She could hardly believe it. To be placed above so many
elegant young women! The distinction was too great. It was treating her like
her cousins! And her thoughts flew to those absent cousins with most unfeigned
and truly tender regret, that they were not at home to take their own place in
the room, and have their share of a pleasure which would have been so very
delightful to them. So often as she had heard them wish for a ball at home as
the greatest of all felicities! And to have them away when it was given -- and
for her to be opening the ball -- and with Mr. Crawford too! She hoped they
would not envy her that distinction now; but when she looked back to the state
of things in the autumn, to what they had all been to each other when once
dancing in that house before, the present arrangement was almost more than she
could understand herself. The ball began. It was rather honour than happiness
to Fanny, for the first dance at least; her partner was in excellent spirits
and tried to impart them to her, but she was a great deal too much frightened
to have any enjoyment, till she could suppose herself no longer looked at.
Young, pretty, and gentle, however, she had no awkwardnesses that were not as
good as graces, and there were few persons present that were not disposed to
praise her. She was attractive, she was modest, she was Sir Thomas's niece, and
she was soon said to be admired by Mr. Crawford. It was enough to give her
general favour. Sir Thomas himself was watching her progress down the dance
with much complacency; he was proud of his niece, and without attributing all
her personal beauty, as Mrs. Norris seemed to do, to her transplantation to
Mansfield, he was pleased with himself for having supplied every thing else; --
education and manners she owed to him. Miss Crawford saw much of Sir Thomas's
thoughts as he stood, and having, in spite of all his wrongs towards her, a
general prevailing desire of recommending herself to him, took an opportunity
of stepping aside to say something agreeable of Fanny. Her praise was warm, and
he received it as she could wish, joining in it as far as discretion, and
politeness, and slowness of speech would allow, and certainly appearing to
greater advantage on the subject, than his lady did, soon afterwards, when
Mary, perceiving her on a sofa very near, turned round before she began to
dance, to compliment her on Miss Price's looks. "Yes, she does look very
well," was Lady Bertram's placid reply. "Chapman helped her dress. I
sent Chapman to her." Not but that she was really pleased to have Fanny
admired; but she was so much more struck with her own kindness in sending
Chapman to her, that she could not get it out of her head. Miss Crawford knew
Mrs. Norris too well to think of gratifying her by commendation of Fanny; to her
it was, as the occasion offered, -- "Ah! ma'am, how much we want dearMrs.
Rushworth and Julia to-night!" and Mrs. Norris paid her with as many
smiles and courteous words as she had time for, amid so much occupation as she
found for herself, in making up card-tables, giving hints to Sir Thomas, and
trying to move all the chaperons to a better part of the room. Miss Crawford
blundered most towards Fanny herself, in her intentions to please. She meant to
be giving her little heart a happy flutter, and filling her with sensations of
delightful self-consequence; and misinterpreting Fanny's blushes, still thought
she must be doing so -- when she went to her after the two first dances and
said, with a significant look, "perhaps you can tell me why my brother
goes to town to-morrow. He says, he has business there, but will not tell me
what. The first time he ever denied me his confidence! But this is what we all
come to. All are supplanted sooner or later. Now, I must apply to you for
information. Pray what is Henry going for?" Fanny protested her ignorance
as steadily as her embarrassment allowed. "Well, then," replied Miss
Crawford laughing, "I must suppose it to be purely for the pleasure of
conveying your brother and 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 any
thing rather than insensible of pleasure in Henry's attentions. Fanny had a
good deal of enjoyment in the course of the evening -- but Henry's attentions
had very little to do with it. She would much rather not have been asked by him
again so very soon, and she wished she had not been obliged to suspect that his
previous inquiries of Mrs. Norris, about the supper-hour, were all for the sake
of securing her at that part of the evening. But it was not to be avoided; he
made her feel that she was the object of all; though she could not say that it
was unpleasantly done, that there was indelicacy or ostentation in his manner
-- and sometimes, when he talked of William, he was really not un-agreeable,
and shewed even a warmth of heart which did him credit. But still his
attentions made no part of her satisfaction. She was happy whenever she looked
at William, and saw how perfectly he was enjoying himself, in every five
minutes that she could walk about with him and hear his account of his
partners; she was happy in knowing herself admired, and she was happy in having
the two dances with Edmund still to look forward to, during the greatest part
of the evening, her hand being so eagerly sought after, that her indefinite
engagement with him was in continual perspective. She was happy even when they
did take place; but not from any flow of spirits on his side, or any such
expressions of tender gallantry as had blessed the morning. His mind was
fagged, and her happiness sprung from being the friend with whom it could find
repose. "I am worn out with civility," said he. "I have been
talking incessantly all night, and with nothing to say. But with you, Fanny,
there may be peace. You will not want to be talked to. Let us have the luxury
of silence." Fanny would hardly even speak her agreement. A weariness
arising probably, in great measure, from the same feelings which he had
acknowledged in the morning, was peculiarly to be respected, and they went down
their two dances together with such sober tranquillity as might satisfy any
looker-on, that Sir Thomas had been bringing up no wife for his younger son.
The evening had afforded Edmund little pleasure. Miss Crawford had been in gay
spirits when they first danced together, but it was not her gaiety that could
do him good; it rather sank than raised his comfort; and afterwards -- for he
found himself still impelled to seek her again, she had absolutely pained him
by her manner of speaking of the profession to which he was now on the point of
belonging. They had talked -- and they had been silent -- he had reasoned --
she had ridiculed -- and they had parted at last with mutual vexation. Fanny,
not able to refrain entirely from observing them, had seen enough to be
tolerably satisfied. It was barbarous to be happy when Edmund was suffering.
Yet some happiness must and would arise, from the very conviction, that he did
suffer. When her two dances with him were over, her inclination and strength
for more were pretty well at an end; and Sir Thomas having seen her rather walk
than dance down the shortening set, breathless and with her hand at her side,
gave his orders for her sitting down entirely. From that time, Mr. Crawford sat
down likewise. "Poor Fanny!" cried William, coming for a moment to
visit her and working away his partner's fan as if for life: -- "how soon
she is knocked up! Why, the sport is but just begun. I hope we shall keep it up
these two hours. How can you be tired so soon?" "So soon! my good
friend," said Sir Thomas, producing his watch with all necessary caution
-- "it is three o'clock, and your sister is not used to these sort of
hours." "Well then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before I
go. Sleep as long as you can and never mind me." "Oh! William."
"What! Did she think of being up before you set off?" "Oh! yes,
sir," cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat to be nearer her uncle,
"I must get up and breakfast with him. It will be the last time you know,
the last morning." "You had better not. -- He is to have breakfasted
and be gone by half past nine. -- Mr. Crawford, I think you call for him at
half past nine?" Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in
her eyes for denial; and it ended in a gracious, "Well, well," which
was permission. "Yes, half past nine," said Crawford to William, as
the latter was leaving them, "and I shall be punctual, for there will be
no kind sister to get up for me." And in a lower tone to Fanny, "I
shall have only a desolate house to hurry from. Your brother will find my ideas
of time and his own very different to-morrow." After a short
consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford to join the early breakfast party in
that house instead of eating alone; he should himself be of it; and the
readiness with which his invitation was accepted, convinced him that the
suspicions whence, he must confess to himself, this very ball had in great
measure sprung, were well founded. Mr. Crawford was in love with Fanny. He had
a pleasing anticipation of what would be. His niece, meanwhile, did not thank
him for what he had just done. She had hoped to have William all to herself,
the last morning. It would have been an unspeakable indulgence. But though her
wishes were overthrown there was no spirit of murmuring within her. On the
contrary, she was so totally unused to have her pleasure consulted, or to have
any thing take place at all in the way she could desire, that she was more disposed
to wonder and rejoice in having carried her point so far, than to repine at the
counteraction which followed. Shortly afterwards, Sir Thomas was again
interfering a little with her inclination, by advising her to go immediately to
bed. "Advise" was his word, but it was the advice of absolute power,
and she had only to rise and, with Mr. Crawford's very cordial adieus, pass
quietly away; stopping at the entrance door, like the Lady of Branxholm Hall,
"one moment and no more," to view the happy scene, and take a last
look at the five or six determined couple, who were still hard at work -- and
then, creeping slowly up the principal staircase, pursued by the ceaseless
country-dance, feverish with hopes and fears, soup and negus, sore-footed and
fatigued, restless and agitated, yet feeling, in spite of every thing, that a
ball was indeed delightful. In thus sending her away, Sir Thomas perhaps might
not be thinking merely of her health. It might occur to him, that Mr. Crawford
had been sitting by her long enough, or he might mean to recommend her as a
wife by shewing her persuadableness.
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 into the breakfast-room with a very saddened heart to grieve over
the melancholy change; and there her uncle kindly left her to cry in peace,
conceiving perhaps that the deserted chair of each young man might exercise her
tender enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold pork bones and mustard in
William's plate, might but divide her feelings with the broken egg-shells in
Mr. Crawford's. She sat and cried con amore as her uncle intended, but it was
con amore fraternal and no other. William was gone, and she now felt as if she
had wasted half his visit in idle cares and selfish solicitudes unconnected
with him. Fanny's disposition was such that she could never even think of her
aunt Norris in the meagreness and cheerlessness of her own small house, without
reproaching herself for some little want of attention to her when they had been
last together; much less could her feelings acquit her of having done and said
and thought every thing by William, that was due to him for a whole fortnight.
It was a heavy, melancholy day. -- Soon after the second breakfast, Edmund bad
them good bye for a week, and mounted his horse for Peterborough, and then all
were gone. Nothing remained of last night but remembrances, which she had
nobody to share in. She talked to her aunt Bertram -- she must talk to somebody
of the ball, but her aunt had seen so little of what passed, and had so little
curiosity, that it was heavy work. Lady Bertram was not certain of any body's
dress, or any body'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 thatLady Prescott had noticed in Fanny; she was not sure whether Colonel
Harrison had been talking of Mr. Crawford or of William, when he said he was
the finest young man in the room; somebody had whispered something to her, she
had forgot to ask Sir Thomas what it could be." And these were her longest
speeches and clearest communications; the rest was only a languid "Yes --
yes -- very well -- did you? did he? -- I did not see that -- I should not know
one from the other." This was very bad. It was only better than Mrs.
Norris's sharp answers would have been; but she being gone home with all the
supernumerary jellies to nurse a sick maid, there was peace and good humour in
their little party, though it could not boast much beside. The evening was
heavy like the day -- "I cannot think what is the matter with me!"
said Lady Bertram, when the tea-things were removed. "I feel quite stupid.
It must be sitting up so late last night. Fanny, you must do something to keep
me awake. I cannot work. Fetch the cards, -- I feel so very stupid." The
cards were brought, and Fanny played at cribbage with her aunt till bed-time;
and as Sir Thomas was reading to himself, no sounds were heard in the room for
the next two hours beyond the reckonings of the game -- "And that makes
thirty-one; -- four in hand and eight in crib. -- You are to deal, ma'am; shall
I deal for you?" Fanny thought and thought again of the difference which
twenty-four hours had made in that room, and all that part of the house. Last
night it had been hope and smiles, bustle and motion, noise and brilliancy in
the drawing-room, and out of the drawing-room, and every where. Now it was
languor, and all but solitude. A good night's rest improved her spirits. She
could think of William the next day more cheerfully, and as the morning
afforded her an opportunity of talking over Thursday night with Mrs. Grant and
Miss Crawford, in a very handsome style, with all the heightenings of
imagination and all the laughs of playfulness which are so essential to the
shade of a departed ball, she could afterwards bring her mind without much effort
into its everyday state, and easily conform to the tranquillity of the present
quiet week. They were indeed a smaller party than she had ever known there for
a whole day together, and he was gone on whom the comfort and cheerfulness of
every family-meeting and every meal chiefly depended. But this must be learned
to be endured. He would soon be always gone; and she was thankful that she
could now sit in the same room with her uncle, hear his voice, receive his
questions, and even answer them without such wretched feelings as she had
formerly known. "We miss our two young men," was Sir Thomas's
observation on both the first and second day, as they formed their very reduced
circle after dinner; and in consideration of Fanny's swimming eyes, nothing
more was said on the first day than to drink their good health; but on the
second it led to something farther. William was kindly commended and his
promotion hoped for. "And there is no reason to suppose," added Sir
Thomas, "but that his visits to us may now be tolerably frequent. As to
Edmund, we must learn to do without him. This will be the last winter of his
belonging to us, as he has done." "Yes," said Lady Bertram,
"but I wish he was not going away. They are all going away I think. I wish
they would stay at home." This wish was levelled principally at Julia, who
had just applied for permission to go to town with Maria; and as Sir Thomas
thought it best for each daughter that the permission should be granted, Lady
Bertram, though in her own good nature she would not have prevented it, was
lamenting the change it made in the prospect of Julia's return, which would
otherwise have taken place about this time. A great deal of good sense followed
on Sir Thomas's side, tending to reconcile his wife to the arrangement. Every
thing that a considerate parent ought to feel was advanced for her use; and
every thing that an affectionate mother must feel in promoting her children's
enjoyment, was attributed to her nature. Lady Bertram agreed to it all with a
calm "Yes" -- and at the end of a quarter of an hour's silent
consideration, spontaneously observed, "Sir Thomas, I have been thinking
-- and I am very glad we took Fanny as we did, for now the others are away, we
feel the good of it." Sir Thomas immediately improved this compliment by
adding, "Very true. We shew Fanny what a good girl we think her by
praising her to her face -- she is now a very valuable companion. If we have
been kind to her, she is now quite as necessary to us." "Yes,"
said Lady Bertram presently -- "and it is a comfort to think that we shall
always have her." Sir Thomas paused, half smiled, glanced at his niece,
and then gravely replied, "She will never leave us, I hope, till invited
to some other home that may reasonably promise her greater happiness than she
knows here." "And that is not very likely to be, Sir Thomas. Who
should invite her? Maria might be very glad to see her at Sotherton now and
then, but she would not think of asking her to live there -- and I am sure she
is better off here -- and besides I cannot do without her." The week which
passed so quietly and peaceably at the great house in Mansfield, had a very
different character at the Parsonage. To the young lady at least in each
family, it brought very different feelings. What was tranquillity and comfort
to Fanny was tediousness and vexation to Mary. Something arose from difference
of disposition and habit -- one so easily satisfied, the other so unused to
endure; but still more might be imputed to difference of circumstances. In some
points of interest they were exactly opposed to each other. To Fanny's mind,
Edmund's absence was really in its cause and its tendency a relief. To Mary it
was every way painful. She felt the want of his society every day, almost every
hour; and was too much in want of it to derive any thing but irritation from
considering the object for which he went. He could not have devised any thing
more likely to raise his consequence than this week's absence, occurring as it
did at the very time of her brother's going away, of William Price's going too,
and completing the sort of general break-up of a party which had been so
animated. She felt it keenly. They were now a miserable trio, confined within
doors by a series of rain and snow, with nothing to do and no variety to hope
for. Angry as she was with Edmund for adhering to his own notions and acting on
them in defiance of her, (and she had been so angry that they had hardly parted
friends at the ball,) she could not help thinking of him continually when
absent, dwelling on his merit and affection, and longing again for the almost
daily meetings they lately had. His absence was unnecessarily long. He should
not have planned such an absence -- he should not have left home for a week,
when her own departure from Mansfield was so near. Then she began to blame
herself. She wished she had not spoken so warmly in their last conversation.
She was afraid she had used some strong -- some contemptuous expressions in
speaking of the clergy, and that should not have been. It was ill-bred -- it
was wrong. She wished such words unsaid with all her heart. Her vexation did
not end with the week. All this was bad, but she had still more to feel when
Friday came round again and brought no Edmund -- when Saturday came and still
no Edmund -- and when, through the slight communication with the other family
which Sunday produced, she learnt that he had actually written home to defer
his return, having promised to remain some days longer with his friend! If she
had felt impatience and regret before -- if she had been sorry for what she
said, and feared its too strong effect on him, she now felt and feared it all
tenfold more. She had, moreover, to contend with one disagreeable emotion
entirely new to her -- jealousy. His friend Mr. Owen had sisters -- He might
find them attractive. But at any rate his staying away at a time, when,
according to all preceding plans, she was to remove to London, meant something
that she could not bear. Had Henry returned, as he talked of doing, at the end
of three or four days, she should now have been leaving Mansfield. It became
absolutely necessary for her to get to Fanny and try to learn something more.
She could not live any longer in such solitary wretchedness; and she made her
way to the Park, through difficulties of walking which she had deemed
unconquerable a week before, for the chance of hearing a little in addition,
for the sake of at least hearing his name. The first half hour was lost, for
Fanny and Lady Bertram were together, and unless she had Fanny to herself she
could hope for nothing. But at last Lady Bertram left the room -- and then
almost immediately Miss Crawford thus began, with a voice as well regulated as
she could -- "And how do you like your cousin Edmund's staying away so
long? -- being the only young person at home, I consider you as the greatest
sufferer. -- You must miss him. Does his staying longer surprize you?"
"I do not know," said Fanny hesitatingly. "Yes -- I had not
particularly expected it." "Perhaps he will always stay longer than
he talks of. It is the general way; all young men do." "He did not,
the only time he went to see Mr. Owen before." "He finds the house
more agreeable now. -- He is a very -- a very pleasing young man himself, and I
cannot help being rather concerned at not seeing him again before I go to
London, as will now undoubtedly be the case. -- I am looking for Henry every
day, and as soon as he comes there will be nothing to detain me at Mansfield. I
should like to have seen him once more, I confess. But you must give my
compliments to him. Yes -- I think it must be compliments. Is not there a
something wanted, Miss Price, in our language a something between compliments
and -- and love -- to suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have had
together? -- So many months acquaintance! -- But compliments may be sufficient
here. -- Was his letter a long one? -- Does he give you much account of what he
is doing? -- Is it Christmas gaieties that he is staying for?" "I
only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle -- but I believe it was
very short; indeed I am sure it was but a few lines. All that I heard was that
his friend had pressed him to stay longer, and that he had agreed to do so. A
few days longer, or some days longer, I am not quite sure which." "Oh!
if he wrote to his father -- but I thought it might have been to Lady Bertram
or you. But if he wrote to his father, no wonder he was concise. Who could
write chat to Sir Thomas? If he had written to you, there would have been more
particulars. You would have heard of balls and parties. -- He would have sent
you a description of every thing and every body. How many Miss Owens are
there?" "Three grown up." "Are they musical?" "I
do not at all know. I never heard." "That is the first question, you
know," said Miss Crawford, trying to appear gay and unconcerned,
"which every woman who plays herself is sure to ask about another. But it
is very foolish to ask questions about any young ladies -- about any three
sisters just grown up; for one knows, without being told, exactly what they are
-- all very accomplished and pleasing, and one very pretty. There is a beauty
in every family. -- It is a regular thing. Two play on the piano-forte, and one
on the harp -- and all sing -- or would sing if they were taught -- or sing all
the better for not being taught -- or something like it." "I know
nothing of the Miss Owens," said Fanny calmly. "You know nothing and
you care less, as people say. Never did tone express indifference plainer.
Indeed how can one care for those one has never seen? -- Well, when your cousin
comes back, he will find Mansfield very quiet; -- all the noisy ones gone, your
brother and mine and myself. I do not like the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant now
the time draws near. She does not like my going." Fanny felt obliged to
speak. "You cannot doubt your being missed by many," said she.
"You will be very much missed." Miss Crawford turned her eye on her,
as if wanting to hear or see more, and then laughingly said, "Oh! yes,
missed as every noisy evil is missed when it is taken away; that is, there is a
great difference felt. But I am not fishing; don't compliment me. If I am
missed, it will appear. I may be discovered by those who want to see me. I
shall not be in any doubtful, or distant, or unapproachable region." Now
Fanny could not bring herself to speak, and Miss Crawford was disappointed; for
she had hoped to hear some pleasant assurance of her power, from one who she
thought must know; and her spirits were clouded again. "The Miss
Owens," said she soon afterwards -- "Suppose you were to have one of
the Miss Owens settled at Thornton Lacey; how should you like it? Stranger
things have happened. I dare say they are trying for it. And they are quite in
the right, for it would be a very pretty establishment for them. I do not at
all wonder or blame them. -- It is every body's duty to do as well for
themselves as they can. Sir Thomas Bertram's son is somebody; and now, he is in
their own line. Their father is a clergyman and their brother is a clergyman,
and they are all clergymen together. He is their lawful property, he fairly
belongs to them. You don't speak, Fanny -- Miss Price -- you don't speak. --
But honestly now, do not you rather expect it than otherwise?"
"No," said Fanny stoutly, "I do not expect it at all."
"Not at all!" -- cried Miss Crawford with alacrity. "I wonder at
that. But I dare say you know exactly -- I always imagine you are -- perhaps
you do not think him likely to marry at all -- or not at present."
"No, I do not," said Fanny softly -- hoping she did not err either in
the belief or the acknowledgment of it. Her companion looked at her keenly; and
gathering greater spirit from the blush soon produced from such a look, only
said, "He is best off as he is," and turned the subject.
Miss Crawford's
uneasiness was much lightened by this conversation, and she walked home again
in spirits which might have defied almost another week of the same small party
in the same bad weather, had they been put to the proof; but as that very
evening brought her brother down from London again in quite, or more than
quite, his usual cheerfulness, she had nothing further 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 surprize to
herself. And the next day did bring a surprize 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 possibly 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 half!" exclaimed Mary. But this was
only the beginning of her surprize. "Yes, Mary," said he, drawing her
arm within his, and walking along the sweep as if not knowing where he was --
"I could not get away sooner -- Fanny looked so lovely! -- I am quite
determined, Mary. My mind is entirely made up. Will it astonish you? No -- You
must be aware that I am quite determined to marry Fanny Price." The surprize
was now complete; for in spite of whatever his consciousness might suggest, a
suspicion of his having any such views had never entered his sister's
imagination; and she looked so truly the astonishment she felt, that he was
obliged to repeat what he had said, and more fully and more solemnly. The
conviction of his determination once admitted, it was not unwelcome. There was
even pleasure with the surprize. Mary was in a state of mind to rejoice in a
connection with the Bertram family, and to be not displeased with her brother's
marrying a little beneath him. "Yes, Mary," was Henry's concluding
assurance, "I am fairly caught. You know with what idle designs I began --
but this is the end of them. I have (I flatter myself) made no inconsiderable
progress in her affections; but my own are entirely fixed." "Lucky,
lucky girl!" cried Mary as soon as she could speak -- "what a match
for her! My dearest Henry, this must be my first feeling; but my second, which
you shall have as sincerely, is that I approve your choice from my soul, and
foresee your happiness as heartily as I wish and desire it. You will have a
sweet little wife; all gratitude and devotion. Exactly what you deserve. What
an amazing match for her! Mrs. Norris often talks of her luck; what will she
say now? The delight of all the family indeed! And she has some true friends in
it. How they will rejoice! But tell me all about it. Talk to me for ever. When
did you begin to think seriously about her?" Nothing could be more
impossible than to answer such a question, though nothing be more agreeable
than to have it asked. "How the pleasing plague had stolen on him" he
could not say, and before he had expressed the same sentiment with a little
variation of words three times over, his sister eagerly interrupted him with,
"Ah! my dear Henry, and this is what took you to London! This was your
business! You chose to consult the Admiral, before you made up your mind."
But this he stoutly denied. He knew his uncle too well to consult him on any
matrimonial scheme. The Admiral hated marriage, and thought it never pardonable
in a young man of independent fortune. "When Fanny is known to him,"
continued Henry, "he will doat on her. She is exactly the woman to do away
every prejudice of such a man as the Admiral, for she is exactly such a woman
as he thinks does not exist in the world. She is the very impossibility he
would describe -- if indeed he has now delicacy of language enough to embody
his own ideas. But till it is absolutely settled -- settled beyond all
interference, he shall know nothing of the matter. No, Mary, you are quite
mistaken. You have not discovered my business yet!" "Well, well, I am
satisfied. I know now to whom it must relate, and am in no hurry for the
restFanny Price -- Wonderful -- quite wonderful! -- That Mansfield should have
done so much for -- that you should have found your fate in Mansfield! But you
are quite right, you could not have chosen better. There is not a better girl
in the world, and you do not want for fortune; and as to her connections, they
are more than good. The Bertrams are undoubtedly some of the first people in
this country. She is niece to Sir Thomas Bertram; that will be enough for the
world. But go on, go on. Tell me more. What are your plans? Does she know her
own happiness?" "No." "What are you waiting for?"
"For -- for very little more than opportunity. Mary, she is not like her
cousins; but I think I shall not ask in vain." "Oh! no, you cannot.
Were you even less pleasing -- supposing her not to love you already (of which
however I can have little doubt,) you would be safe. The gentleness and
gratitude of her disposition would secure her all your own immediately. From my
soul I do not think she would marry you without love; that is, if there is a
girl in the world capable of being uninfluenced by ambition, I can suppose it
her; but ask her to love you, and she will never have the heart to
refuse." As soon as her eagerness could rest in silence, he was as happy
to tell as she could be to listen, and a conversation followed almost as deeply
interesting to her as to himself, though he had in fact nothing to relate but
his own sensations, nothing to dwell on but Fanny's charms. -- Fanny's beauty
of face and figure, Fanny's graces of manner and goodness of heart were the
exhaustless theme. The gentleness, modesty, and sweetness of her character were
warmly expatiated on, that sweetness which makes so essential a part of every
woman's worth in the judgment of man, that though he sometimes loves where it
is not, he can never believe it absent. Her temper he had good reason to depend
on and to praise. He had often seen it tried. Was there one of the family,
excepting Edmund, who had not in some way or other continually exercised her
patience and forbearance? Her affections were evidently strong. To see her with
her brother! What could more delightfully prove that the warmth of her heart
was equal to its gentleness? -- What could be more encouraging to a man who had
her love in view? Then, her understanding was beyond every suspicion, quick and
clear; and her manners were the mirror of her own modest and elegant mind. Nor
was this all. Henry Crawford had too much sense not to feel the worth of good
principles in a wife, though he was too little accustomed to serious reflection
to know them by their proper name; but when he talked of her having such a
steadiness and regularity of conduct, such a high notion of honour, and such an
observance of decorum as might warrant any man in the fullest dependence on her
faith and integrity, he expressed what was inspired by the knowledge of her
being well principled and religious. "I could so wholly and absolutely
confide in her," said he; "and that is what I want." Well might
his sister, believing as she really did that his opinion of Fanny Price was
scarcely beyond her merits, rejoice in her prospects. "The more I think of
it," she cried, "the more am I convinced that you are doing quite
right, and though I should never have selected Fanny Price as the girl most
likely to attach you, I am now persuaded she is the very one to make you happy.
Your wicked project upon her peace turns out a clever thought indeed. You will
both find your good in it." "It was bad, very bad in me against such
a creature! but I did not know her then. And she shall have no reason to lament
the hour that first put it into my head. I will make her very happy, Mary,
happier than she has ever yet been herself, or ever seen any body else. I will
not take her from Northamptonshire. I shall let Everingham, and rent a place in
this neighbourhood -- perhaps Stanwix Lodge. I shall let a seven year's lease
of Everingham. I am sure of an excellent tenant at half a word. I could name
three people now, who would give me my own terms and thank me."
"Ha!" cried Mary, "settle in Northamptonshire! That is pleasant!
Then we shall be all together." When she had spoken it, she recollected
herself, and wished it unsaid; but there was no need of confusion, for her
brother saw her only as the supposed inmate of Mansfield Parsonage, and replied
but to invite her in the kindest manner to his own house, and to claim the best
right in her. "You must give us more than half your time," said he;
"I cannot admit Mrs. Grant to have an equal claim with Fanny and myself,
for we shall both have a right in you. Fanny will be so truly your
sister!" Mary had only to be grateful and give general assurances; but she
was now very fully purposed to be the guest of neither brother nor sister many
months longer. "You will divide your year between London and Northamptonshire?"
"Yes." "That's right; and in London, of course, a house of your
own; no longer with the Admiral. My dearest Henry, the advantage to you of
getting away from the Admiral before your manners are hurt by the contagion of
his, before you have contracted any of his foolish opinions, or learnt to sit
over your dinner, as if it were the best blessing of life! -- You are not
sensible of the gain, for your regard for him has blinded you; but, in my
estimation, your marrying early may be the saving of you. To have seen you grow
like the Admiral in word or deed, look or gesture, would have broken my
heart." "Well, well, we do not think quite alike here. The Admiral
has his faults, but he is a very good man, and has been more than a father to
me. Few fathers would have let me have my own way half so much. You must not
prejudice Fanny against him. I must have them love one another." Mary
refrained from saying what she felt, that there could not be two persons in
existence, whose characters and manners were less accordant; time would
discover it to him; but she could not help this reflection on the Admiral.
"Henry, I think so highly of Fanny Price, that if I could suppose the next
Mrs. Crawford would have half the reason which my poor ill used aunt had to
abhor the very name, I would prevent the marriage, if possible; but I know you,
I know that a wife you loved would be the happiest of women, and that even when
you ceased to love, she would yet find in you the liberality and good-breeding
of a gentleman." The impossibility of not doing every thing in the world
to make Fanny Price happy, or of ceasing to love Fanny Price, was of course the
ground-work of his eloquent answer. "Had you seen her this morning,
Mary," he continued, "attending with such ineffable sweetness and
patience, to all the demands of her aunt's stupidity, working with her, and for
her, her colour beautifully heightened as she leant over the work, then
returning to her seat to finish a note which she was previously engaged in
writing for that stupid woman's service, and all this with such unpretending
gentleness, so much as if it were a matter of course that she was not to have a
moment at her own command, her hair arranged as neatly as it always is, and one
little curl falling forward as she wrote, which she now and then shook back,
and in the midst of all this, still speaking at intervals to me, or listening,
and as if she liked to listen to what I said. Had you seen her soMary, you
would not have implied the possibility of her power over my heart ever ceasing."
"My dearest Henry," cried Mary, stopping short, and smiling in his
face, "how glad I am to see you so much in love! It quite delights me. But
what will Mrs. Rushworth and Julia say?" "I care neither what they
say, nor what they feel. They will now see what sort of woman it is that can
attach me, that can attach a man of sense. I wish the discovery may do them any
good. And they will now see their cousin treated as she ought to be, and I wish
they may be heartily ashamed of their own abominable neglect and unkindness.
They will be angry," he added, after a moment's silence, and in a cooler
tone, "Mrs. Rushworth will be very angry. It will be a bitter pill to her;
that is, like other bitter pills, it will have two moments ill-flavour, and
then be swallowed and forgotten; for I am not such a coxcomb as to suppose her
feelings more lasting than other women's, though I was the object of them. Yes,
Mary, my Fanny will feel a difference indeed, a daily, hourly difference, in
the behaviour of every being who approaches her; and it will be the completion
of my happiness to know that I am the doer of it, that I am the person to give
the consequence so justly her due. Now she is dependent, helpless, friendless,
neglected, forgotten." "Nay, Henry, not by all, not forgotten by all,
not friendless or forgotten. Her cousin Edmund never forgets her."
"Edmund -- True, I believe he is (generally speaking) kind to her; and so
is Sir Thomas in his way, but it is the way of a rich, superior, longworded,
arbitrary uncle. What can Sir Thomas and Edmund together do, what do they do
for her happiness, comfort, honour, and dignity in the world to what I shall
do?"
Henry Crawford was at
Mansfield Park again the next morning, and at an earlier hour than common
visiting warrants. The two ladies were together in the breakfast-room, and
fortunately for him, Lady Bertram was on the very point of quitting it as he
entered. She was almost at the door, and not chusing by any means to take so
much trouble in vain, she still went on, after a civil reception, a short
sentence about being waited for, and a "Let Sir Thomas know," to the
servant. Henry, overjoyed to have her go, bowed and watched her off, and
without losing another moment, turned instantly to Fanny, and taking out some
letters said, with a most animated look, "I must acknowledge myself
infinitely obliged to any creature who gives me such an opportunity of seeing
you alone: I have been wishing it more than you can have any idea. Knowing as I
do what your feelings as a sister are, I could hardly have borne that any one
in the house should share with you in the first knowledge of the news I now
bring. He is made. Your brother is a Lieutenant. I have the infinite
satisfaction of congratulating you on your brother's promotion. Here are the
letters which announce it, this moment come to hand. You will, perhaps, like to
see them." Fanny could not speak, but he did not want her to speak. To see
the expression of her eyes, the change of her complexion, the progress of her
feelings, their doubt, confusion, and felicity, was enough. She took the
letters as he gave them. The first was from the Admiral to inform his nephew,
in a few words, of his having succeeded in the object he had undertaken, the
promotion of young Price, and inclosing two more, one from the Secretary of the
First Lord to a friend, whom the Admiral had set to work in the business, the
other from that friend to himself, by which it appeared that his Lordship had
the very great happiness of attending to the recommendation of Sir Charles,
that Sir Charles was much delighted in having such an opportunity of proving
his regard for Admiral Crawford, and that the circumstance of Mr. William
Price's commission as second Lieutenant of H. M. sloop Thrush, being made out,
was spreading general joy through a wide circle of great people. While her hand
was trembling under these letters, her eye running from one to the other, and
her heart swelling with emotion, Crawford thus continued, with unfeigned
eagerness, to express his interest in the event. "I will not talk of my
own happiness," said he, "great as it is, for I think only of yours.
Compared with you, who has a right to be happy? I have almost grudged myself my
own prior knowledge of what you ought to have known before all the world. I
have not lost a moment, however. The post was late this morning, but there has
not been since, a moment's delay. How impatient, how anxious, how wild I have
been on the subject, I will not attempt to describe; how severely mortified,
how cruelly disappointed, in not having it finished while I was in London! I
was kept there from day to day in the hope of it, for nothing less dear to me
than such an object would have detained me half the time from Mansfield. But
though my uncle entered into my wishes with all the warmth I could desire, and
exerted himself immediately, there were difficulties from the absence of one
friend, and the engagements of another, which at last I could no longer bear to
stay the end of, and knowing in what good hands I left the cause, I came away
on Monday, trusting that many posts would not pass before I should be followed
by such very letters as these. My uncle, who is the very best man in the world,
has exerted himself, as I knew he would after seeing your brother. He was
delighted with him. I would not allow myself yesterday to say how delighted, or
to repeat half that the Admiral said in his praise. I deferred it all, till his
praise should be proved the praise of a friend, as this day does prove it. Now
I may say that even I could not require William Price to excite a greater
interest, or be followed by warmer wishes and higher commendation, than were
most voluntarily bestowed by my uncle, after the evening they passed
together." "Has this been all your doing then?" cried Fanny.
"Good Heaven! how very, very kind! Have you really -- was it by your
desire -- I beg your pardon, but I am bewildered. Did Admiral Crawford apply?
-- how was it? -- I am stupified." Henry was most happy to make it more
intelligible, by beginning at an earlier stage, and explaining very
particularly what he had done. His last journey to London had been undertaken
with no other view than that of introducing her brother in Hill-street, and
prevailing on the Admiral to exert whatever interest he might have for getting
him on. This had been his business. He had communicated it to no creature; he
had not breathed a syllable of it even to Mary; while uncertain of the issue,
he could not have borne any participation of his feelings, but this had been
his business; and he spoke with such a glow of what his solicitude had been,
and used such strong expressions, was so abounding in the deepestinterest, in twofoldmotives,
in viewsandwishesmorethancouldbetold, that Fanny could not have remained
insensible of his drift, had she been able to attend; but her heart was so full
and her senses still so astonished, that she could listen but imperfectly even
to what he told her of William, and saying only when he paused, "How kind!
how very kind! Oh! Mr. Crawford, we are infinitely obliged to you. Dearest,
dearest William!" she jumped up and moved in haste towards the door,
crying out, "I will go to my uncle. My uncle ought to know it as soon as
possible." But this could not be suffered. The opportunity was too fair,
and his feelings too impatient. He was after her immediately. "She must
not go, she must allow him five minutes longer," and he took her hand and
led her back to her seat, and was in the middle of his further explanation,
before she had suspected for what she was detained. When she did understand it,
however, and found herself expected to believe that she had created sensations
which his heart had never known before, and that every thing he had done for
William, was to be placed to the account of his excessive and unequalled
attachment to her, she was exceedingly distressed, and for some moments unable
to speak. She considered it all as nonsense, as mere trifling and gallantry,
which meant only to deceive for the hour; she could not but feel that it was
treating her improperly and unworthily, and in such a way as she had not
deserved; but it was like himself, and entirely of a piece with what she had
seen before; and she would not allow herself to shew half the displeasure she
felt, because he had been conferring an obligation, which no want of delicacy
on his part could make a trifle to her. While her heart was still bounding with
joy and gratitude on William's behalf, she could not be severely resentful of
any thing that injured only herself; and after having twice drawn back her
hand, and twice attempted in vain to turn away from him, she got up and said
only, with much agitation, "Don't, Mr. Crawford, pray don't. I beg you
would not. This is a sort of talking which is very unpleasant to me. I must go
away. I cannot bear it." But he was still talking on, describing his
affection, soliciting a return, and, finally, in words so plain as to bear but
one meaning even to her, offering himself, hand, fortune, every thing to her
acceptance. It was so; he had said it. Her astonishment and confusion
increased; and though still not knowing how to suppose him serious, she could
hardly stand. He pressed for an answer. "No, no, no," she cried,
hiding her face. "This is all nonsense. Do not distress me. I can hear no
more of this. Your kindness to William makes me more obliged to you than words
can express; but I do not want, I cannot bear, I must not listen to such -- No,
no, don't think of me. But you are not thinking of me. I know it is all
nothing." She had burst away from him, and at that moment Sir Thomas was
heard speaking to a servant in his way towards the room they were in. It was no
time for further assurances or entreaty, though to part with her at a moment
when her modesty alone seemed to his sanguine and pre-assured mind to stand in
the way of the happiness he sought, was a cruel necessity. -- She rushed out at
an opposite door from the one her uncle was approaching, and was walking up and
down the east room in the utmost confusion of contrary feelings, before Sir
Thomas's politeness and apologies were over, or he had reached the beginning of
the joyful intelligence, which his visitor came to communicate. She was feeling,
thinking, trembling, about every thing; -- agitated, happy, miserable,
infinitely obliged, absolutely angry. It was all beyond belief! He was
inexcusable, incomprehensible! -- But such were his habits, that he could do
nothing without a mixture of evil. He had previously made her the happiest of
human beings, and now he had insulted -- she knew not what to say -- how to
class or how to regard it. She would not have him be serious, and yet what
could excuse the use of such words and offers, if they meant but to trifle? But
William was a Lieutenant. -- That was a fact beyond a doubt and without an
alloy. She would think of it for ever and forget all the restMr. Crawford would
certainly never address her so again: he must have seen how unwelcome it was to
her; and in that case, how gratefully she could esteem him for his friendship
to William! She would not stir farther from the east-room than the head of the
great staircase, till she had satisfied herself of Mr. Crawford's having left
the house; but when convinced of his being gone, she was eager to go down and
be with her uncle, and have all the happiness of his joy as well as her own,
and all the benefit of his information or his conjectures as to what would now
be William's destination. Sir Thomas was as joyful as she could desire, and
very kind and communicative; and she had so comfortable a talk with him about
William as to make her feel as if nothing had occurred to vex her, till she
found towards the close that Mr. Crawford was engaged to return and dine there
that very day. This was a most unwelcome hearing, for though he might think
nothing of what had passed, it would be quite distressing to her to see him
again so soon. She tried to get the better of it, tried very hard as the dinner
hour approached, to feel and appear as usual; but it was quite impossible for
her not to look most shy and uncomfortable when their visitor entered the room.
She could not have supposed it in the power of any concurrence of circumstances
to give her so many painful sensations on the first day of hearing of William's
promotion. Mr. Crawford was not only in the room; he was soon close to her. He
had a note to deliver from his sister. Fanny could not look at him, but there
was no consciousness of past folly in his voice. She opened her note
immediately, glad to have any thing to do, and happy, as she read it, to feel
that the fidgettings of her aunt Norris, who was also to dine there, screened
her a little from view. "My dearFanny, for so I may now always call you, to
the infinite relief of a tongue that has been stumbling at Miss Price for at
least the last six weeks -- I cannot let my brother go without sending you a
few lines of general congratulation, and giving my most joyful consent and
approval. -- Go on, my dearFanny, and without fear; there can be no
difficulties worth naming. I chuse to suppose that the assurance of my consent
will be something; so, you may smile upon him with your sweetest smiles this
afternoon, and send him back to me even happier than he goes. Your's
affectionately, M. C." These were not expressions to do Fanny any good;
for though she read in too much haste and confusion to form the clearest
judgment of Miss Crawford's meaning, it was evident that she meant to
compliment her on her brother's attachment and even to appear to believe it
serious. She did not know what to do, or what to think. There was wretchedness
in the idea of its being serious; there was perplexity and agitation every way.
She was distressed whenever Mr. Crawford spoke to her, and he spoke to her much
too often; and she was afraid there was a something in his voice and manner in
addressing her, very different from what they were when he talked to the
others. Her comfort in that day's dinner was quite destroyed; she could hardly eat
any thing; and when Sir Thomas good humouredly observed, that joy had taken
away her appetite, she was ready to sink with shame, from the dread of Mr.
Crawford's interpretation; for though nothing could have tempted her to turn
her eyes to the right hand where he sat, she felt that his were immediately
directed towards her. She was more silent than ever. She would hardly join even
when William was the subject, for his commission came all from the right hand
too, and there was pain in the connection. She thought Lady Bertram sat longer
than ever, and began to be in despair of ever getting away; but at last they
were in the drawing-room and she was able to think as she would, while her
aunts finished the subject of William's appointment in their own style. Mrs.
Norris seemed as much delighted with the saving it would be to Sir Thomas, as
with any part of it. "Now William would be able to keep himself, which
would make a vast difference to his uncle, for it was unknown how much he had
cost his uncle; and indeed it would make some difference in her presents too.
She was very glad that she had given William what she did at parting, very glad
indeed that it had been in her power, without material inconvenience just at
that time, to give him something rather considerable; that is, for her, with
her limited means, for now it would all be useful in helping to fit up his
cabin. She knew he must be at some expense, that he would have many things to
buy, though to be sure his father and mother would be able to put him in the
way of getting every thing very cheap -- but she was very glad that 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 10L." "Indeed!" cried Mrs. Norris,
reddening. "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 10L. would be enough." Mrs. Norris being not at all
inclined to question its sufficiency, began to take the matter in another
point. "It is amazing," said she, "how much young people cost
their friends, what with bringing them up and putting them out in the world!
They little think how much it comes to, or what their parents, or their uncles and
aunts pay for them in the course of the year. Now, here are my sister Price's
children; -- take them all together, I dare say nobody would believe what a sum
they cost Sir Thomas every year, to say nothing of what I do for them."
"Very true, sister, as you say. But, poor things! they cannot help it; and
you know it makes very little difference to Sir Thomas. Fanny, William must not
forget my shawl, if he goes to the East Indies; and I shall give him a
commission for any thing else that is worth having. I wish he may go to the
East Indies, that I may have my shawl. I think I will have two shawls,
Fanny." Fanny, meanwhile, speaking only when she could not help it, was
very earnestly trying to understand what Mr. and Miss Crawford were at. There
was every thing in the world against their being serious, but his words and
manner. Every thing natural, probable, reasonable was against it; all their
habits and ways of thinking, and all her own demerits. -- How could she have
excited serious attachment in a man, who had seen so many, and been admired by
so many, and flirted with so many, infinitely her superiors -- who seemed so
little open to serious impressions, even where pains had been taken to please
him -- who thought so slightly, so carelessly, so unfeelingly on all such
points -- who was every thing to every body, and seemed to find no one
essential to him? -- And further, how could it be supposed that his sister,
with all her high and worldly notions of matrimony, would be forwarding any
thing of a serious nature in such a quarter? Nothing could be more unnatural in
either. Fanny was ashamed of her own doubts. Every thing might be possible
rather than serious attachment or serious approbation of it toward her. She had
quite convinced herself of this before Sir Thomas and Mr. Crawford joined them.
The difficulty was in maintaining the conviction quite so absolutely after Mr.
Crawford was in the room; for once or twice a look seemed forced on her which
she did not know how to class among the common meaning; in any other man at
least, she would have said that it meant something very earnest, very pointed.
But she still tried to believe it no more than what he might often have
expressed towards her cousins and fifty other women. She thought he was wishing
to speak to her unheard by the rest. She fancied he was trying for it the whole
evening at intervals, whenever Sir Thomas was out of the room, or at all
engaged with Mrs. Norris, and she carefully refused him every opportunity. At
last -- it seemed an at last to Fanny's nervousness, though not remarkably
late, -- he began to talk of going away; but the comfort of the sound was
impaired by his turning to her the next moment, and saying, "Have you
nothing to send to Mary? No answer to her note? She will be disappointed if she
receives nothing from you. Pray write to her, if it be only a line."
"Oh! yes, certainly," cried Fanny, rising in haste, the haste of
embarrassment and of wanting to get away -- "I will write directly."
She went accordingly to the table, where she was in the habit of writing for
her aunt, and prepared her materials without knowing what in the world to say!
She had read Miss Crawford's note only once; and how to reply to any thing 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 any thing
really intended, she wrote thus, in great trembling both of spirits and hand:
"I am very much obliged to you, my dearMiss 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 any thing of the sort, that I
hope you will excuse my begging you to take no further notice. I have seen too
much of Mr. Crawford not to understand his manners; if he understood me as
well, he would, I dare say, behave differently. I do not know what I write, but
it would be a great favour of you never to mention the subject again. With
thanks for the honour of your note, I remain, dearMiss Crawford, &c.
&c." The conclusion was scarcely intelligible from increasing fright,
for she found that Mr. Crawford, under pretence of receiving the note, was
coming towards her. "You cannot think I mean to hurry you," said he,
in an under voice, perceiving the amazing trepidation with which she made up
the note; "you cannot think I have any such object. Do not hurry yourself,
I entreat." "Oh! I thank you, I have quite done, just done -- it will
be ready in a moment -- I am very much obliged to you -- if you will be so good
as to give that to Miss Crawford." The note was held out and must be taken;
and as she instantly and with averted eyes walked towards the fireplace, where
sat the others, he had nothing to do but to go in good earnest. Fanny thought
she had never known a day of greater agitation, both of pain and pleasure; but
happily the pleasure was not of a sort to die with the day -- for every day
would restore the knowledge of William's advancement, whereas the pain she
hoped would return no more. She had no doubt that her note must appear
excessively ill-written, that the language would disgrace a child, for her
distress had allowed no arrangement; but at least it would assure them both of
her being neither imposed on, nor gratified by Mr. Crawford's attentions.
Fanny had by no means
forgotten Mr. Crawford, when she awoke the next morning; but she remembered the
purport of her note, and was not less sanguine, as to its effect, than she had
been the night before. If Mr. Crawford would but go away! -- That was what she
most earnestly desired; -- go and take his sister with him, as he was to do,
and as he returned to Mansfield on purpose to do. And why it was not done
already, she could not devise, for Miss Crawford certainly wanted no delay. --
Fanny had hoped, in the course of his yesterday's visit, to hear the day named;
but he had only spoken of their journey as what would take place ere long.
Having so satisfactorily settled the conviction her note would convey, she
could not but be astonished to see Mr. Crawford, as she accidentally did,
coming up to the house again, and at an hour as early as the day before. -- His
coming might have nothing to do with her, but she must avoid seeing him if
possible; and being then in her way up stairs, she resolved there to remain,
during the whole of his visit, unless actually sent for; and as Mrs. Norris was
still in the house, there seemed little danger of her being wanted. She sat
some time in a good deal of agitation, listening, trembling, and fearing to be
sent for every moment; but as no footsteps approached the east room, she grew
gradually composed, could sit down, and be able to employ herself, and able to
hope that Mr. Crawford had come, and would go without her being obliged to know
any thing of the matter. Nearly half an hour had passed, and she was growing
very comfortable, when suddenly the sound of a step in regular approach was
heard -- a heavy step, an unusual step in that part of the house; it was her
uncle's; she knew it as well as his voice; she had trembled at it as often, and
began to tremble again, at the idea of his coming up to speak to her, whatever
might be the subject. -- It was indeed Sir Thomas, who opened the door, and
asked if she were there, and if he might come in. The terror of his former
occasional visits to that room seemed all renewed, and she felt as if he were going
to examine her again in French and English. She was all attention, however, in
placing a chair for him, and trying to appear honoured; and in her agitation,
had quite overlooked the deficiences of her apartment, till he, stopping short
as he entered, said, with much surprise, "Why have you no fire
to-day?" There was snow on the ground, and she was sitting in a shawl. She
hesitated. "I am not cold, Sir -- I never sit here long at this time of
year." "But, -- you have a fire in general?" "No,
Sir." "How comes this about; here must be some mistake. I understood
that you had the use of this room by way of making you perfectly comfortable.
-- In your bed-chamber I know you cannot have a fire. Here is some great
misapprehension which must be rectified. It is highly unfit for you to sit --
be it only half an hour a day, without a fire. You are not strong. You are
chilly. Your aunt cannot be aware of this." Fanny would rather have been
silent, but being obliged to speak, she could not forbear, in justice to the aunt
she loved best, from saying something in which the words "my aunt
Norris" were distinguishable. "I understand," cried her uncle
recollecting himself, and not wanting to hear more -- "I understand. Your
aunt Norris has always been an advocate, and very judiciously, for young
people's being brought up without unnecessary indulgences; but there should be
moderation in every thing. -- She is also very hardy herself, which of course
will influence her in her opinion of the wants of others. And on another account
too, I can perfectly comprehend. -- I know what her sentiments have always
been. The principle was good in itself, but it may have been, and I believe
hasbeen carried too far in your case. -- I am aware that there has been
sometimes, in some points, a misplaced distinction; but I think too well of
you, Fanny, to suppose you will ever harbour resentment on that account. -- You
have an understanding, which will prevent you from receiving things only in
part, and judging partially by the event. -- You will take in the whole of the
past, you will consider times, persons, and probabilities, and you will feel
that they were not least your friends who were educating and preparing you for
that mediocrity of condition which seemed to be your lot. -- Though their
caution may prove eventually unnecessary, it was kindly meant; and of this you
may be assured, that every advantage of affluence will be doubled by the little
privations and restrictions that may have been imposed. I am sure you will not
disappoint my opinion of you, by failing at any time to treat your aunt Norris
with the respect and attention that are due to her. -- But enough of this. Sit
down, my dear. I must speak to you for a few minutes, but I will not detain you
long." Fanny obeyed, with eyes cast down and colour rising. -- After a
moment's pause, Sir Thomas, trying to suppress a smile, went on. "You are
not aware, perhaps, that I have had a visitor this morning. -- I had not been
long in my own room, after breakfast, when Mr. Crawford was shewn in. -- His
errand you may probably conjecture." Fanny's colour grew deeper and
deeper; and her uncle perceiving that she was embarrassed to a degree that made
either speaking or looking up quite impossible. turned away his own eyes, and
without any farther pause, proceeded in his account of Mr. Crawford's visit.
Mr. Crawford's business had been to declare himself the lover of Fanny, make
decided proposals for her, and intreat the sanction of the uncle, who seemed to
stand in the place of her parents; and he had done it all so well, so openly,
so liberally, so properly, that Sir Thomas, feeling, moreover, his own replies,
and his own remarks to have been very much to the purpose -- was exceedingly
happy to give the particulars of their conversation -- and, little aware of
what was passing in his niece's mind, conceived that by such details he must be
gratifying her far more than himself. He talked therefore for several minutes
without Fanny's daring to interrupt him. -- She had hardly even attained the
wish to do it. Her mind was in too much confusion. She had changed her
position, and with her eyes fixed intently on one of the windows, was listening
to her uncle, in the utmost perturbation and dismay. -- For a moment he ceased,
but she had barely become conscious of it, when, rising from his chair, he
said, "And now, Fanny, having performed one part of my commission, and
shewn you every thing placed on a basis the most assured and satisfactory, I
may execute the remainder by prevailing on you to accompany me down stairs,
where -- though I cannot but presume on having been no unacceptable companion
myself, I must submit to your finding one still better worth listening to. --
Mr. Crawford, as you have perhaps foreseen, is yet in the house. He is in my
room, and hoping to see you there." There was a look, a start, an
exclamation, on hearing this, which astonished Sir Thomas; but what was his
increase of astonishment on hearing her exclaim -- "Oh! no, Sir, I cannot,
indeed I cannot go down to him. Mr. Crawford ought to know -- he must know that
-- I told him enough yesterday to convince him -- he spoke to me on this
subject yesterday -- and I told him without disguise that it was very
disagreeable to me, and quite out of my power to return his good opinion."
"I do not catch your meaning," said Sir Thomas, sitting down again.
-- "Out of your power to return his good opinion! what is all this? I know
he spoke to you yesterday, and (as far as I understand), received as much
encouragement to proceed as a well-judging young woman could permit herself to
give. I was very much pleased with what I collected to have been your behaviour
on the occasion; it shewed a discretion highly to be commended. But now, when
he has made his overtures so properly, and honourably -- what are your scruples
now?" "You are mistaken, Sir," -- cried Fanny, forced by the
anxiety of the moment even to tell her uncle that he was wrong -- "You are
quite mistaken. How could Mr. Crawford say such a thing? I gave him no
encouragement yesterday -- On the contrary, I told him -- I cannot recollect my
exact words -- but I am sure I told him that I would not listen to him, that it
was very unpleasant to me in every respect, and that I begged him never to talk
to me in that manner again. -- I am sure I said as much as that and more; and I
should have said still more, -- if I had been quite certain of his meaning any
thing seriously, but I did not like to be -- I could not bear to be -- imputing
more than might be intended. I thought it might all pass for nothing with
him." She could say no more; her breath was almost gone. "Am I to
understand," said Sir Thomas, after a few moments silence, "that you
mean to refuse Mr. Crawford?" "Yes, Sir." "Refuse
him?" "Yes, Sir." "Refuse Mr. Crawford! Upon what plea? For
what reason?" "I -- I cannot like him, Sir, well enough to marry
him." "This is very strange!" said Sir Thomas, in a voice of
calm displeasure. "There is something in this which my comprehension does
not reach. Here is a young man wishing to pay his addresses to you, with every
thing to recommend him; not merely situation in life, fortune, and character,
but with more than common agreeableness, with address and conversation pleasing
to every body. And he is not an acquaintance of to-day, you have now known him
some time. His sister, moreover, is your intimate friend, and he has been doing
that for your brother, which I should suppose would have been almost sufficient
recommendation to you, had there been no other. It is very uncertain when my
interest might have got William on. He has done it already."
"Yes," said Fanny, in a faint voice, and looking down with fresh
shame; and she did feel almost ashamed of herself, after such a picture as her
uncle had drawn, for not liking Mr. Crawford. "You must have been
aware," continued Sir Thomas, presently, "you must have been some
time aware of a particularity in Mr. Crawford's manners to you. This cannot
have taken you by surprise. You must have observed his attentions; and though
you always received them very properly, (I have no accusation to make on that
head,) I never perceived them to be unpleasant to you. I am half inclined to
think, Fanny, that you do not quite know your own feelings." "Oh!
yes, Sir, indeed I do. His attentions were always -- what I did not like."
Sir Thomas looked at her with deeper surprise. "This is beyond me,"
said he. "This requires explanation. Young as you are, and having seen
scarcely any one, it is hardly possible that your affections ----" He
paused and eyed her fixedly. He saw her lips formed into a no, though the sound
was inarticulate, but her face was like scarlet. That, however, in so modest a
girl might be very compatible with innocence; and chusing at least to appear
satisfied, he quickly added, "No, no, I know that is quite out of the question
-- quite impossible. Well, there is nothing more to be said." And for a
few minutes he did say nothing. He was deep in thought. His niece was deep in
thought likewise, trying to harden and prepare herself against farther
questioning. She would rather die than own the truth, and she hoped by a little
reflection to fortify herself beyond betraying it. "Independently of the
interest whichMr. Crawford's choice seemed to justify," said Sir Thomas,
beginning again, and very composedly, "his wishing to marry at all so
early is recommendatory to me. I am an advocate for early marriages, where
there are means in proportion, and would have every young man, with a
sufficient income, settle as soon after four and twenty as he can. This is so
much my opinion, that I am sorry to think how little likely my own eldest son,
your cousin, Mr. Bertram, is to marry early; but at present, as far as I can
judge, matrimony makes no part of his plans or thoughts. I wish he were more
likely to fix." Here was a glance at Fanny. "Edmund I consider from
his disposition and habits as much more likely to marry early than his brother.
He, indeed, I have lately thought has seen the woman he could love, which, I am
convinced, my eldest son has not. Am I right? Do you agree with me, my dear?"
"Yes, Sir." It was gently, but it was calmly said, and Sir Thomas was
easy on the score of the cousins. But the removal of his alarm did his niece no
service; as her unaccountableness was confirmed, his displeasure increased; and
getting up and walking about the room, with a frown, whichFanny could picture
to herself, though she dared not lift up her eyes, he shortly afterwards, and
in a voice of authority, said, "Have you any reason, child, to think ill
of Mr. Crawford's temper?" "No, Sir." She longed to add,
"but of his principles I have;" but her heart sunk under the
appalling prospect of discussion, explanation, and probably non-conviction. Her
ill opinion of him was founded chiefly on observations, which, for her cousins'
sake, she could scarcely dare mention to their father. Maria and Julia -- and
especially Maria, were so closely implicated in Mr. Crawford's misconduct, that
she could not give his character, such as she believed it, without betraying
them. She had hoped that to a man like her uncle, so discerning, so honourable,
so good, the simple acknowledgment of settled dislike on her side, would have
been sufficient. To her infinite grief she found it was not. Sir Thomas came
towards the table where she sat in trembling wretchedness, and with a good deal
of cold sternness, said, "It is of no use, I perceive, to talk to you. We
had better put an end to this most mortifying conference. Mr. Crawford must not
be kept longer waiting. I will, therefore, only add, as thinking it my duty to
mark my opinion of your conduct -- that you have disappointed every expectation
I had formed, and proved yourself of a character the very reverse of what I had
supposed. For I had, Fanny, as I think my behaviour must have shewn, formed a
very favourable opinion of you from the period of my return to England. I had
thought you peculiarly free from wilfulness of temper, self-conceit, and every
tendency to that independence of spirit, which prevails so much in modern days,
even in young women, and which in young women is offensive and disgusting
beyond all common offence. But you have now shewn me that you can be wilful and
perverse, that you can and will decide for yourself, without any consideration
or deference for those who have surely some right to guide you -- without even
asking their advice. You have shewn yourself very, very different from any
thing that I had imagined. The advantage or disadvantage of your family -- of
your parents -- your brothers and sisters -- never seems to have had a moment's
share in your thoughts on this occasion. How they might be benefited, how they
must rejoice in such an establishment for you -- is nothing to you. You think
only of yourself; and because you do not feel for Mr. Crawford exactly what a
young, heated fancy imagines to be necessary for happiness, you resolve to
refuse him at once, without wishing even for a little time to consider of it --
a little more time for cool consideration, and for really examining your own
inclinations -- and are, in a wild fit of folly, throwing away from you such an
opportunity of being settled in life, eligibly, honourably, nobly settled, as
will, probably, never occur to you again. Here is a young man of sense, of
character, of temper, of manners, and of fortune, exceedingly attached to you, and
seeking your hand in the most handsome and disinterested way; and let me tell
you, Fanny, that you may live eighteen years longer in the world, without being
addressed by a man of half Mr. Crawford's estate, or a tenth part of his
merits. Gladly would I have bestowed either of my own daughters on him. Maria
is nobly married -- but had Mr. Crawford sought Julia's hand, I should have
given it to him with superior and more heartfelt satisfaction than I gave
Maria's to Mr. Rushworth." After half a moment's pause -- "And I
should have been very much surprised had either of my daughters, on receiving a
proposal of marriage at any time, which might carry with it only half the
eligibility of this, immediately and peremptorily, and without paying my
opinion or my regard the compliment of any consultation, put a decided negative
on it. I should have been much surprised, and much hurt, by such a proceeding.
I should have thought it a gross violation of duty and respect. You are not to
be judged by the same rule. You do not owe me the duty of a child. But, Fanny,
if your heart can acquit you of ingratitude --" He ceased. Fanny was by
this time crying so bitterly, that angry as he was, he would not press that
article farther. Her heart was almost broke by such a picture of what she
appeared to him; by such accusations, so heavy, so multiplied, so rising in
dreadful gradation! Self-willed, obstinate, selfish, and ungrateful. He thought
her all this. She had deceived his expectations; she had lost his good opinion.
What was to become of her? "I am very sorry," said she inarticulately
through her tears, "I am very sorry indeed." "Sorry! yes, I hope
you are sorry; and you will probably have reason to be long sorry for this
day's transactions." "If it were possible for me to do
otherwise," said she with another strong effort, "but I am so
perfectly convinced that I could never make him happy, and that I should be
miserable myself." Another burst of tears; but in spite of that burst, and
in spite of that great black word miserable, which served to introduce it, Sir
Thomas began to think a little relenting, a little change of inclination, might
have something to do with it; and to augur favourably from the personal
intreaty of the young man himself. He knew her to be very timid, and
exceedingly nervous; and thought it not improbable that her mind might be in
such a state, as a little time, a little pressing, a little patience, and a
little impatience, a judicious mixture of all on the lover's side, might work
their usual effect on. If the gentleman would but persevere, if he had but love
enough to persevere -- Sir Thomas began to have hopes; and these reflections
having passed across his mind and cheered it, "Well," said he, in a
tone of becoming gravity, but of less anger, "well, child, dry up your
tears. There is no use in these tears; they can do no good. You must now come
down stairs with me. Mr. Crawford has been kept waiting too long already. You
must give him your own answer; we cannot expect him to be satisfied with less;
and you only can explain to him the grounds of that misconception of your
sentiments, which, unfortunately for himself, he certainly has imbibed. I am
totally unequal to it." But Fanny shewed such reluctance, such misery, at
the idea of going down to him, that Sir Thomas, after a little consideration,
judged it better to indulge her. His hopes from both gentleman and lady
suffered a small depression in consequence; but when he looked at his niece,
and saw the state of feature and complexion which her crying had brought her
into, he thought there might be as much lost as gained by an immediate
interview. With a few words, therefore, of no particular meaning, he walked off
by himself, leaving his poor niece to sit and cry over what had passed, with
very wretched feelings. Her mind was all disorder. The past, present, future,
every thing was terrible. But her uncle's anger gave her the severest pain of
all. Selfish and ungrateful! to have appeared so to him! She was miserable for
ever. She had no one to take her part, to counsel, or speak for her. Her only
friend was absent. He might have softened his father; but all, perhaps all,
would think her selfish and ungrateful. She might have to endure the reproach
again and again; she might hear it, or see it, or know it to exist for ever in
every connection about her. She could not but feel some resentment against Mr.
Crawford; yet, if he really loved her, and were unhappy too! -- it was all
wretchedness together. In about a quarter of an hour her uncle returned; she
was almost ready to faint at the sight of him. He spoke calmly, however,
without austerity, without reproach, and she revived a little. There was
comfort too in his words, as well as his manner, for he began with, "Mr.
Crawford is gone; he has just left me. I need not repeat what has passed. I do
not want to add to any thing you may now be feeling, by an account of what he
has felt. Suffice it, that he has behaved in the most gentlemanlike and
generous manner; and has confirmed me in a most favourable opinion of his
understanding, heart, and temper. Upon my representation of what you were
suffering, he immediately, and with the greatest delicacy, ceased to urge to
see you for the present." Here Fanny, who had looked up, looked down
again. "Of course," continued her uncle, "it cannot be supposed
but that he should request to speak with you alone, be it only for five
minutes; a request too natural, a claim too just to be denied. But there is no
time fixed, perhaps to-morrow, or whenever your spirits are composed enough.
For the present you have only to tranquillize yourself. Check these tears; they
do but exhaust you. If, as I am willing to suppose, you wish to shew me any
observance, you will not give way to these emotions, but endeavour to reason
yourself into a stronger frame of mind. I advise you to go out, the air will do
you good; go out for an hour on the gravel, you will have the shrubbery to
yourself, and will be the better for air and exercise. And, Fanny, (turning
back again for a moment) I shall make no mention below of what has passed; I
shall not even tell your aunt Bertram. There is no occasion for spreading the
disappointment; say nothing about it yourself." This was an order to be
most joyfully obeyed; this was an act of kindness whichFanny felt at her heart.
To be spared from her aunt Norris's interminable reproaches! -- he left her in
a glow of gratitude. Any thing might be bearable rather than such reproaches.
Even to see Mr. Crawford would be less overpowering. She walked out directly as
her uncle recommended, and followed his advice throughout, as far as she could;
did check her tears, did earnestly try to compose her spirits, and strengthen
her mind. She wished to prove to him that she did desire his comfort, and
sought to regain his favour; and he had given her another strong motive for
exertion, in keeping the whole affair from the knowledge of her aunts. Not to
excite suspicion by her look or manner was now an object worth attaining; and
she felt equal to almost any thing that might save her from her aunt Norris.
She was struck, quite struck, when on returning from her walk, and going into
the east room again, the first thing which caught her eye was a fire lighted
and burning. A fire! it seemed too much; just at that time to be giving her
such an indulgence, was exciting even painful gratitude. She wondered that Sir
Thomas could have leisure to think of such a trifle again; but she soon found,
from the voluntary information of the housemaid, who came in to attend it, that
so it was to be every day. Sir Thomas had given orders for it. "I must be
a brute indeed, if I can be really ungrateful!" said she in soliloquy;
"Heaven defend me from being ungrateful!" She saw nothing more of her
uncle, nor of her aunt Norris, till they met at dinner. Her uncle's behaviour
to her was then as nearly as possible what it had been before; she was sure he
did not mean there should be any change, and that it was only her own
conscience that could fancy any; but her aunt was soon quarrelling with her:
and when she found how much and how unpleasantly her having only walked out
without her aunt's knowledge could be dwelt on, she felt all the reason she had
to bless the kindness which saved her from the same spirit of reproach, exerted
on a more momentous subject. "If I had known you were going out, I should
have got you just to go as far as my house with some orders for Nanny,"
said she, "which I have since, to my very great inconvenience, been
obliged to go and carry myself. I could very ill spare the time, and you might
have saved me the trouble, if you would only have been so good as to let us
know you were going out. It would have made no difference to you, I suppose,
whether you had walked in the shrubbery, or gone to my house." "I
recommended the shrubbery to Fanny as the dryest place," said Sir Thomas.
"Oh!" said Mrs. Norris with a moment's check, "that was very
kind of you, Sir Thomas; but you do not know how dry the path is to my house.
Fanny would have had quite as good a walk there, I assure you; with the
advantage of being of some use, and obliging her aunt: it is all her fault. If
she would but have let us know she was going out -- but there is a something
about Fanny, I have often observed it before, -- she likes to go her own way to
work; she does not like to be dictated to; she takes her own independent walk
whenever she can; she certainly has a little spirit of secrecy, and
independence, and nonsense, about her, which I would advise her to get the
better of." As a general reflection on Fanny, Sir Thomas thought nothing
could be more unjust, though he had been so lately expressing the same
sentiments himself, and he tried to turn the conversation; tried repeatedly
before he could succeed; for Mrs. Norris had not discernment enough to
perceive, either now, or at any other time, to what degree he thought well of
his niece, or how very far he was from wishing to have his own children's
merits set off by the depreciation of hers. She was talking at Fanny, and
resenting this private walk half through the dinner. It was over, however, at
last; and the evening set in with more composure to Fanny, and more
cheerfulness of spirits than she could have hoped for after so stormy a
morning; but she trusted, in the first place, that she had done right, that her
judgment had not misled her; for the purity of her intentions she could answer;
and she was willing to hope, secondly, that her uncle's displeasure was
abating, and would abate farther as he considered the matter with more
impartiality, and felt, as a good man must feel, how wretched, and how
unpardonable, how hopeless and how wicked it was, to marry without affection.
When the meeting with which she was threatened for the morrow was past, she
could not but flatter herself that the subject would be finally concluded, and
Mr. Crawford once gone from Mansfield, that every thing 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 re-appeared
ten minutes afterwards, and advancing decidedly towards herself, said,
"Sir Thomas wishes to speak with you, Ma'am, in his own room." Then
it occurred to her what might be going on; a suspicion rushed over her mind
which drove the colour from her cheeks; but instantly rising, she was preparing
to obey, when Mrs. Norris called out, "Stay, stay, Fanny! what are you
about? -- where are you going? -- don't be in such a hurry. Depend upon it, it
is not you that are wanted; depend upon it it is me; (looking at the butler)
but you are so very eager to put yourself forward. What should Sir Thomas want
you for? It is me, Baddeley, you mean; I am coming this moment. You mean me,
Baddeley, I am sure; Sir Thomas wants me, not Miss Price." But Baddeley
was stout. "No, Ma'am, it is Miss Price, I am certain of its being Miss
Price." And there was a half smile with the words which meant, "I do not
think you would answer the purpose at all." Mrs. Norris, much
discontented, was obliged to compose herself to work again; and Fanny, walking
off in agitating consciousness, found herself, as she anticipated, in another
minute alone with Mr. Crawford.
The conference was
neither so short, nor so conclusive, as the lady had designed. The gentleman
was not so easily satisfied. 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 love 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 that 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; her 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 considered her
rather as one who had never thought on the subject enough to be in danger; 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 still
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 distance; and he had so much
delight in the idea of obliging her to love him in a very short time, that her
not loving him now was scarcely regretted. A little difficulty 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 unintelligible. She found that he did mean to persevere; but
how he could, after such language 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 most painful to her, that she must intreat 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 said, 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 would 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 self-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 acknowledged. 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 marriage 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 for 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 angry 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 courteous, 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 bely his words, or give her hopes of his being less unreasonable
than he professed himself. Now she was angry. Some resentment did arise at a
perseverance so selfish and ungenerous. Here was again a want of delicacy and
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 before.
How evidently was there a gross want of feeling and humanity where his own
pleasure 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 sadness, as she sat musing over that too
great indulgence and luxury of a fire upstairs -- wondering at the past and
present, wondering at what was yet to come, and in a nervous agitation which
made nothing clear to her but the persuasion of her being never under any
circumstances able to love Mr. Crawford, and the felicity of having 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 feeling was
disappointment; he had hoped better things; he had thought that an hour's
intreaty from a young man like Crawford could not have worked so little change
on a gentle tempered girl like Fanny; but there was speedy comfort in the
determined view and sanguine perseverance of the lover; and when seeing such
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 steadiness was honoured,
and Fanny was praised, and the connection was still the most desirable in the
world. At Mansfield Park Mr. Crawford would always be welcome; 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 there could be but
one opinion, one wish on the subject; the influence of all who loved her must
incline one way. Every thing 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. Intreaty 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 overcoming, "Well, Fanny, I have seen Mr. Crawford
again, and learn from him exactly 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 cannot 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 claims 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 ---- I 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 done. 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 and 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 engaged for your seeing him whenever
he calls, as you might have done, had nothing of his sort occurred. You will
see him with the rest of us, in the same manner, and as much as you can,
dismissing the recollection of every thing unpleasant. 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 thatFanny
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.
Romantic delicacy was certainly not to be expected from him. She must do her
duty, and trust that time might make her duty easier than it now was. She could
not, though only eighteen, suppose Mr. Crawford's attachment would hold out for
ever; she could not but imagine that steady, unceasing discouragement from
herself would put an end to it in time. How much time she might, in her own
fancy, allot for its dominion, is another concern. It would not be fair to
enquire into a young lady's exact estimate of her own perfections. In spite of
his intended silence, Sir Thomas found himself once more obliged to mention the
subject to his niece, to prepare her 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 opposite 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 have 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 Fanny herself. He deprecated her
mistaken, but well-meaning zeal. Sir Thomas, indeed, was, by this time, not
very far from classing Mrs. Norris as one of those well-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 ought 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 allowing 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 all
that excited her respect. To know Fanny to be sought in marriage by a man of
fortune, raised her, therefore, very much in her opinion. By convincing her
that Fanny was very pretty, which she had been doubting about before, and that
she would 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 must
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 say; 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 much for that." "No, my dear, I
should not think of missing you, when such an offer as this comes in your way.
I could do very well without 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, whichFanny had
ever received from her aunt in the course of eight years and a half. -- It
silenced her. She felt now unprofitable contention would be. If her aunt's
feelings were against her, nothing could be hoped from attacking her
understanding. Lady Bertram was quite talkative. "I will tell you
whatFanny," 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. Every body said soSir Thomas said so. And you know you had Chapman to
help you dress. I am very glad I sent Chapman to you. I shall tell Sir Thomas
that I am sure it was done that evening." -- And still pursuing the same
cheerful thoughts, she soon afterwards added, -- "And I will tell you
whatFanny -- which is more than I did for Maria -- 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 feed 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 from him in inclination than any distance
could express. Her reception of him was of a sort which he could 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 any thing rather 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 state 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 alone, 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 seen by Edmund
again, she felt dreadfully guilty. He came to her, sat down by her, 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 have 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
quickened 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 regard the connection 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 her present indifference, honouring her in rather stronger terms
than Sir Thomas 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 appear 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 every thing 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 stay 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 manners; 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 have 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 that 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 which he thought more
promising. When he and Crawford walked into the drawing-room, his mother and
Fanny were sitting as intently and silently at work as if there were nothing
else to care for. Edmund could not help noticing their apparently deep
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 inclination 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 forced to
listen; his reading was capital, and her pleasure in good reading extreme. 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 Queen,
Buckingham, Wolsey, Cromwell, all were given in turn; for with the happiest
knack, the happiest power of jumping and guessing, he could always light, 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 expressed,
he could do it with equal beauty. -- It was truly dramatic. -- His acting had
first taught Fanny what pleasure a play might give, and his reading brought all
his 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 needle-work, 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 which 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 8th 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 an Englishman's constitution. His
thoughts and beauties are so spread abroad that one touches them every where,
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 Shakespeare in a
degree," said Edmund, "from one's earliest years. His celebrated
passages are quoted by every body; they are in half the books we open, and we
all talk Shakespeare, use his similies, and describe with his descriptions; but
this is totally distinct from giving his sense as you gave it. To know him in
bits and scraps, is common enough; to know him pretty thoroughly, is, perhaps,
not uncommon; but to read him well aloud, is no every-day talent."
"Sir, you do me honour;" was Crawford's answer, with a bow of mock
gravity. Both gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see if 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. -- "I wish Sir Thomas had been here." Crawford
was excessively pleased. -- If Lady Bertram, with all her incompetency and
languor, could feel this, the inference of what her niece, alive and enlightened
as she was, must feel, was elevating. "You have a great turn for acting, I
am sure, 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 house in Norfolk. I mean when you are settled there. I do, indeed. I think
you will fit 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 mistaken. 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 the 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, giving instances of blunders, and
failures with their secondary causes, the want of management 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 Fanny 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 little 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 abroad; but among those who were ordained twenty, thirty, forty
years ago, the larger 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 criticize." Edmund had already gone
through the service once since his ordination; and upon this being understood,
he had a variety of questions from Crawford as to his feelings and success;
questions which being made -- though with the vivacity of friendly interest and
quick taste -- without any touch of that spirit of banter or air of levity
whichEdmund 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. "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 always
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 read, and
longing to have it to read myself -- Did you speak?" stepping eagerly 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 minutes of
supplication and waiting. He then returned to his former station, and went on
as if there had been no such tender interruption. "A sermon, well
delivered, is more uncommon 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 trick of composition are oftener an object of study.
A thoroughly good sermon, thoroughly well delivered, is a capital
gratification. I can never hear such a one without the greatest admiration and
respect, and more than half a mind to take orders 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 thread-bare in all common hands; who can say any thing new or striking,
any thing that rouses the attention, without offending the taste, or wearing
out the feelings of his hearers, is a man whom one could 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 fond 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, intreating 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 attack, that looks and
undertones were to be well tried, he sank as quietly as possible into a corner,
turned his back, and took up a newspaper, very sincerely wishing 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 the 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 every thing in the power of her modest gentle nature, to repulse Mr.
Crawford, and avoid both his looks and enquiries; and he unrepulsable was
persisting in both. "What did that shake of the head mean?" 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.
Only 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, re-urging the same
questions as before. She grew more agitated and displeased. "How can you,
Sir? You quite astonish me -- I wonder how you can" -- "Do I astonish
you?" said he. "Do you wonder? Is there any thing in my present
intreaty that you do not understand? I will explain to you instantly all that
makes me urge you in this 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 any body. I see nothing alarming in the 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 another. He had always something to intreat 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 just on the other side of the table was a trifle, for she
might always be considered as only half awake, and Edmund's advertisements were
still of the first utility. "Well," said Crawford, after a course of
rapid questions and reluctant answers -- "I am happier than I was, because
I now understand more clearly your opinion of me. You think me unsteady -- easily
swayed by the whim of the moment -- easily tempted -- easily put aside. With
such an opinion, no wonder that -- But we shall see. -- It is not by
protestations that 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 speak for me. -- They shall prove, that as far as
you can be deserved by any body, 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 any thing 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 he who sees and worships your merit
the strongest, who loves you most devotedly, that 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 can 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. -- You 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 longer, 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 Baddely, of tea-board, urn, and cake-bearers, made its
appearance, and delivered her from a grievous imprisonment of body and mind.
Mr. Crawford was obliged to move. She 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 flush 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 entirely 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 should never be touched on by him; but after a day or two of
mutual reserve, he was induced by his father to change his mind, and try what
his influence might do for his 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 his 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 engage 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 denied 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 him,
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 very 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 word. 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 every body but Fanny herself?" Fanny, at once agitated and dejected,
replied, "If you hear of it from every body, 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 could
return his affection. I consider it as most natural that all your family should
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. Can 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
hope of creating that regard which had not been created before. This, we know,
must be a work of time. But (with an affectionate smile), let him succeed at
last, Fanny, let him succeed at last. You have proved yourself upright and
disinterested, prove yourself grateful and tender-hearted; and then you will be
the perfect model of a woman, which I have always believed you born for."
"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, more 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 up-hill 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 things 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 time 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 think 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 you by his steady affection, will
give him his reward. I cannot suppose that you have 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 Fanny, 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 ever be tolerably happy together, even if I could like
him. There never were two people more dissimilar. We have not one taste in
common. We should be miserable." "You are mistaken, Fanny. The
dissimilarity 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 listen
to Shakespeare the other night, will think you unfitted as companions? You
forget yourself: there is a decided difference in your tempers, I allow. He is
lively, 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 than they are. His cheerfulness will counteract this. He sees
difficulties no where; and his pleasantness and gaiety will be a constant
support to you. Your being so far unlike, Fanny, does not in the smallest
degree make against the probability of your happiness together: do not imagine
it. I am myself convinced that it is rather a favourable circumstance. I am
perfectly persuaded that the tempers had better be unlike; I mean unlike in the
flow of 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
said, "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 may
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 dearFanny," 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
by-stander," 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 Maria 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 Julia 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 Fanny, 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 perfectly prudent. I can remember that they
were evidently fond of his society; and with 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, because 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, every thing that I had been used to wish to believe him, and feared he
was not." "I am persuaded that he does not think as 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 could 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 they 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 the
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 character
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 every thing." "I would not engage in such a
charge," cried Fanny in a shrinking accent -- "in such an office of
high responsibility!" "As usual, believing yourself unequal to
anything! -- fancying every thing too much for you! Well, though I may not be
able 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 the
first claim on me. You are aware of my having no common interest in
Crawford." Fanny was too well aware of it, to have anything 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 every thing 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,
which 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 connection as warmly as your
uncle or myself. We had a long talk about it. I should not have mentioned the
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 with 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
every thing 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
distress you. It is anger to be talked of, rather than felt. Her heart is made
for love and kindness, not for resentment. I wish you could have overheard her
tribute of praise; I wish you could have seen her countenance, when she said
that you should be Henry's wife. And I observed, that she always spoke of you
as ""Fanny,"" which she was never used to do; and it had a
sound of most sisterly cordiality." "And Mrs. Grant, did she say --
did she speak -- 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
teazing 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 all 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 feeling 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 teaching 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 to 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, dearFanny, now I have the truth. 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 now given exactly the explanation
which I ventured to make for you to your friend and Mrs. Grant, and they were
both better satisfied, though your warm-hearted friend was still run away with
a little, by the enthusiasm of her fondness for Henry. 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 time, and of having his
addresses most kindly received at the end of about ten years' 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 mention
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 Monday. 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 felt 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 stayed; but I knew nothing that had happened here for a
fortnight, and felt that I had been away long enough." "You spent
your time pleasantly there." "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 wearied; he saw it in her looks, it could not
be talked away, and attempting it no more, he led her directly with the kind
authority of a privileged guardian into the house.
Edmund now believed
himself perfectly acquainted with all thatFanny could tell, or could leave to
be conjectured of her sentiments, and he was satisfied. -- It had been, as he
before presumed, too hasty 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 being 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 every thing should
be left to Crawford's assiduities, and the natural workings of her own mind.
Sir Thomas promised that it should be so. Edmund'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 had; 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, before 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 lived 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 penetration, 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-room, 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 than she had anticipated, Fanny
began to hope there would be nothing worse to be endured than an 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 must speak to you for a few
minutes somewhere;" words thatFanny felt all over her, in all her pulses,
and all her nerves. Denial was impossible. Her habits 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 inevitable. They were no sooner
in the hall than all restraint 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," and had discretion enough to reserve the rest till
they might be secure of having four walls to themselves. Fanny naturally turned
up stairs, and took her guest 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 herself in the east room again produced. "Ha!" she
cried, with instant animation, "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 were 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, here were the chairs. -- Oh! why will such things ever
pass away?" Happily for her companion, she wanted no answer. 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 his 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 week of my existence, it
should be that week, that acting week. Say what you would, 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 expression. But alas! that very
evening destroyed it all. That very evening brought your most unwelcome uncle.
Poor Sir Thomas, who was glad to see you? Yet, Fanny, do not 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 head 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 whichFanny
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 the
last time of seeing you; for I do not know how long -- I feel it quite
impossible to do any thing but love you." Fanny was affected. She had not
foreseen anything 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 sight of such emotion, hung about her with fondness,
and said, "I hate to leave 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 part, 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 trust and
confide in you; which, in common intercourse, one knows nothing of. I wish I
had settled with Mrs. Fraser not to go to her till after Easter, a much better
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
particular friend of the two; but I have not cared much for her these three
years." After this speech, the two girls sat many minutes silent, each
thoughtful; Fanny meditating on the different sorts of friendship in the world,
Mary on something of less philosophic tendency. She first spoke again.
"How perfectly I remember my resolving to look for you up stairs; and
setting off to find my way to the east room, without 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 table at work; and then your
cousin's astonishment when he opened the door at seeing 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 -- when, shaking it off,
she thus attacked her companion. "Why, Fanny, you are absolutely in a
reverie! 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
heart-burnings 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 hero
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
how 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 comes
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 himself.
And my friend does not manage him well; she does not seem to know how to make
the 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 judgment,
which makes one feel there is attachment; but of that, I shall see nothing with
the Frasers. I shall be at Mansfield for ever, Fanny. My own sister as a wife,
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 asked
the advice of every body 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
say 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 any
thing like indifference. But are you so insensible as you profess yourself? No,
no, 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 teaze you. Every thing shall take its
course. But dearFanny, you must allow that you were not so absolutely
unprepared to have the question asked as your cousin fancies. 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
meant. You were as conscious as heart could desire. I remember it
perfectly." "Do you mean then that your brother knew of the necklace
beforehand? Oh! Miss Crawford, that was not fair." "Knew of it! it
was his own doing entirely, 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 three 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 any serious thoughts of
me. I had not, Miss Crawford, been an inattentive observer of what was passing
between him and some part of this family in the summer and autumn. I was quiet,
but I was not blind. I could not but see that Mr. Crawford allowed 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 havock he might be
making in young ladies' affections. I have often scolded him for it, but it is
his only fault; and there is this to be said, that very few young ladies have
any affections worth caring for. And then, Fanny, the glory of fixing one who
has been shot 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 well 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 entirely to your mercy; and when he has got you at Everingham, I do
not care how much you 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 never 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 here. "Oh! yes. How very, very kind of
him!" "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 attended 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 called her attention, by saying, "I should
like to sit talking with you here all day, but we must not forget the ladies
below, and so good bye, my dear, my amiable, 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, longing for a happy re-union, 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 course 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, Fanny; one is your correspondence. You must write to
me. And the other, that you will often call on Mrs. Grant and make her amends
for my being gone." The first, at least, of these favours Fanny would
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 readily
than her own judgment authorised. There was no resisting so much apparent
affection. Her disposition was peculiarly calculated to value a fond treatment,
and from 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 tête-á-tête 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 that was the case, she thought she could resign
herself to almost every thing. In the evening there was another parting. Henry
Crawford came and sat some time with them; and her spirits not being previously
in the strongest state, her heart was softened for a while towards him --
because 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 nothing 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 -- but he could hardly tell with what success. He hardly
knew whether there were any 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 than she had been. Edmund did not discern any symptoms of
regret, and thought his father a little unreasonable in supposing the first
three or four days could produce any. What chiefly surprised Edmund was, that
Crawford'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 determined 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 every
thing was now in a fairer train for Miss Crawford's marrying Edmund than it had
ever been before. -- On his side, the inclination was 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 apparent 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 town, 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 once with her
again, Fanny could not doubt the rest. -- Her acceptance must be as certain 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 matrimony.
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 would lead her to adopt the
opinions of the man she loved and respected, as her own. -- 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 hopes,
and his own observations, still feeling a right, by all his knowledge of human
nature, to expect to see the effect of the loss of power and consequence, on
his niece'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
completely 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 shew his uniform there too, had not cruel custom
prohibited its appearance except on duty. So the uniform remained at
Portsmouth, and Edmund conjectured that before Fanny had any chance of seeing
it, all its own freshness, and all the freshness 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 uniform of a lieutenant, who has been a
lieutenant a year or two, and sees others made commanders before him? So
reasoned Edmund, till his father made him the confident of a scheme which
placed Fanny's chance of seeing the 2d 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
thing was good in itself, and could not be done at a better time; and he had no
doubt of it being highly agreeable to Fanny. This was enough to determine Sir Thomas;
and a decisive "then so it shall be," closed that stage of the
business; Sir Thomas retiring from it with some feelings of satisfaction, and
views of good over and above what he had communicated to his son, for his prime
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 happy.
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 disordered 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 had devised. Had Fanny been at all addicted to raptures, she
must have had a strong attack of them, when she first understood what was
intended, when her uncle first made her the offer of visiting the parents and
brothers, 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 protector and companion of her journey; and the certainty of continuing to
see William 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 was 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 she could only thank and accept. Afterwards, when familiarized 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 could 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 feel 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. At a distance
unassailed by his looks or his kindness, and safe from the perpetual irritation
of knowing his heart, and striving to avoid his confidence, she should be able
to reason herself into a properer state; she should be able to think of him as
in London, and arranging every thing there, without wretchedness. -- What might
have been hard to bear at Mansfield, was to become a slight evil at Portsmouth.
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 had 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 go,
and therefore that she must. In the calmness of her own dressing room, in the
impartial flow of her own meditations, unbiassed by his bewildering statements,
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, conscience,
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 could
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 Portsmouth. 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 "Mamma" who had
certainly shewn no remarkable fondness for her formerly; but this she could easily
suppose to have been her own fault, or her own fancy. She had probably
alienated Love by the helplessness and fretfulness of a fearful temper, or been
unreasonable in wanting a larger share than any one among so many could
deserve. Now, when she knew better how 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 last moment before he sailed,
and perhaps find her there still when he came in, from 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 in the service). And there
were several improvements in the dock-yard, too, which he quite longed to shew
her. He did not scruple to add, that her being at home for a while would be a
great advantage to every body. "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 love
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 subject of their journey, for when the mode of it
came to be talked of, and Mrs. Norris 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 Fanny, they were to travel post, when she saw
Sir Thomas actually give William notes for the purpose, she was struck with the
idea of there being room for a third in the carriage, and suddenly seized with
a strong inclination to go with them -- 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 would 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 journey 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 idea. All the comfort of their comfortable
journey would be destroyed at once. With woeful countenances they looked at
each other. Their 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 possibly be spared from Mansfield Park at present; that she
was a great deal too necessary 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 other 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 avoid 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 twenty 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 Mansfield 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 every body else of most importance to their
comfort, was leaving them; and with an effort, felt 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 every thing. It made the substance of
one other confidential discourse about Miss Crawford; and Fanny was the more
affected from feeling it to be the last time in whichMiss Crawford's name would
ever be mentioned between 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 any thing worth
writing about; any thing to say, that I think 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. That 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
changes. 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 house, 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, because she had displeased him; and as
for Edmund, she could neither speak, nor look, nor think, when the last moment
came with him, and it was not till it was over that she knew he was giving her
the affectionate farewell of a brother. All this passed over night, 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 leave of the old coachman, and send back proper
messages, with cheerful looks. Of pleasant talk between the brother and sister,
there was no end. Every thing 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 with
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
make the little cottage comfortable, in which he and Fanny were to pass all
their middle and latter 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 be 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 knowing
her wish on the subject, he would not distress her by the slightest allusion.
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 letter there had been a few lines from
himself, warm and determined like his speeches. It was a correspondence
whichFanny found quite as unpleasant as she had feared. Miss Crawford's style
of writing, lively and affectionate, was itself an evil, 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 him, and then she had to
listen to his admiration of her language, and the warmth 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 passion 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 trusted that
Miss Crawford would have no motive for writing, strong enough to overcome 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
any where, till they reached Newbury, where 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, and 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 high 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 stopt, a trollopy-looking
maid-servant, seemingly in waiting for them at the door, stept forward, and
more intent on telling the news, than giving them any help, immediately began
with, "the Thrush 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 opening the chaise door himself, called out, "you are
just in time. We have been 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 which 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 whichFanny loved the more, because 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 that her first conviction was of
its being only a passage-room to something better, and she stood for a moment
expecting to be invited on; but when she saw there 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 any thing. She was gone again to
the street door, to welcome William. "Oh! my dearWilliam, 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; and 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 tooCampbell 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 every thing comes upon me at once." Her son answered
cheerfully, telling her that every thing was always for the best; and making
light of his own inconvenience, in being obliged to hurry away so soon.
"To be sure, I had much rather she had stayed in harbour, that I might
have sat a few hours with you in comfort; but as there 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 matter -- here's Fanny in the
parlour, and why should we stay in the passage? -- Come, mother, you have
hardly looked at your dearFanny 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 would be for some
meat, or only a dish of tea after your journey, or else I would have 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 Rebecca 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 mother, "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
whatRebecca 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 up
stairs, mamma, 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
between 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 portmanteau, and his daughter's band-box 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 word, you see. By G@@@, you are just
in time. The doctor has been here enquiring for 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 you cannot sail with this
wind, if you are to cruize to the westward; and Captain Walsh thinks you will
certainly have a cruize to the westward, with the Elephant. By G@@@, I wish you
may. But old Scholey was saying just now, that 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 the morning to see the Thrush go out
of harbour. I would not have been out of the way for a thousand pounds. Old
Scholey ran in at breakfast time, to say she had slipped 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 just where I should
have put her myself. It's the best birth at Spithead. But here is my sister,
Sir, here is Fanny;" turning and leading her forward; -- "it is so
dark you do not see her." With an acknowledgement that he had quite forgot
her, Mr. Price now received his daughter; and, having given her a cordial hug,
and observed that she was grown into a woman, and he supposed would be wanting
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, William 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, ragged 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 the harbour; Tom and Charles: Charles had been born
since Fanny's going away, but Tom she often helped to nurse, and now felt a
particular pleasure 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 talk to him of his infant preference of herself. Tom, however, had
no mind for such treatment: he came home, not to stand and be talked to, but to
run about and make a noise; and both boys had soon burst away 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 clerk 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 great 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 was 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 whole of which, as
almost every door in the house was open, could be plainly distinguished in the
parlour, except when drowned at intervals by the superior noise of Sam, 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 every thing so close to her, that, added 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 disappeared 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 himself to
studying it, without seeming to recollect her existence. The solitary candle
was held between himself and the paper, without any reference to her possible
convenience; but she had nothing to do, and was glad to have the light screened
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 could 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 enquiry 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 pre-eminently interesting. A day 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 have been a
consideration of times and seasons, a regulation of subject, a propriety, an
attention towards every body 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, not 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 dogs! How they are singing out! Ay, Sam's voice
louder than all the rest! That boy 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 any thing more 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 despair of seeing that evening. Susan and an attendant girl,
whose inferior appearance informed Fanny, to her great surprise, that she had
previously seen the upper servant, brought in every thing 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
about making it, as if pleased to have the employment all to herself; and with
only 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 good will towards herself. In this more placid state of things
William re-entered, followed not far behind by his mother and Betsey. He,
complete in his Lieutenant's uniform, looking and moving all the taller, firmer,
and more graceful for it, and with the happiest smile over his face, walked up
directly 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
recovered herself: and wiping away her tears, was able to notice and admire all
the striking parts of his dress -- listening with reviving spirits to his
cheerful hopes of being 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 rising upon noise, and bustle upon bustle, men and boys at
last all in motion together, the moment came for setting off; every thing was
ready, William took leave, and all of them were gone -- for the three boys, in
spite of their mother's intreaty, 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, whichBetsey at last hunted out from a drawer in the kitchen, the
small party 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 enquiries began; but one of the earliest -- "How did her 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 whom she believed her own two were the very worst,
engrossed her completely. The Bertrams were all forgotten in detailing the
faults of Rebecca, against whomSusan 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 help 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-year. 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
difficult mistress to please -- and I am sure the place is easy enough, for
there is always a girl 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 for 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 alluding to her, for the world. --
While considering her with these ideas, Betsey, at a small 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,
claiming 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 death-bed, and she ought to have had it to keep herself
long ago. But mamma kept it from her, and was always letting Betsey get hold of
it; and the end of it would be that Betsey would spoil it, and get it for her
own, though mamma 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. Poor 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 just speak to be heard, and she said so prettily,
Let sister Susan have my knife, mamma, 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 her good godmother, old Mrs.
Admiral Maxwell, only six weeks before she was taken for death. Poor little
sweet creature! Well, she was taken 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 her
god-daughter was a good girl, 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 second 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 small a print for a child's eyes, and the other to be too
cumbersome for her to carry about. Fanny fatigued and fatigued again, was
thankful to accept the first invitation of going to bed; and before Betsey had
finished 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 boys begging for toasted cheese, her father calling out for his rum and
water, and Rebecca 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. The smallness of the rooms above and below indeed, and the narrowness
of the passage and staircase, struck her beyond her imagination. She soon
learnt 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 the 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 with his own sagacity. Before the week ended, it was all
disappointment. In the first place, William was gone. The Thrush had had her
orders, the wind had changed, and he was sailed within four days from their
reaching Portsmouth; and during those days, she had seen him only twice, in a
short and hurried way, when he had come ashore on duty. There had been no free
conversation, no walk on the ramparts, no visit to the dock-yard, no
acquaintance with the Thrush -- nothing of all that they had planned and
depended on. Every thing 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 very 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 his profession;
he read only the newspaper and the navy-list; he talked only of the dock-yard,
the harbour, Spithead, and the Motherbank; he swore and he drank, he was dirty
and gross. She had never been able to recal 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 noticed 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 unkind -- 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 Mrs. 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 regarded. 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 heart; her time was given chiefly to her house and
her servants. Her days were spent in a kind of slow bustle; always 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 indulging 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-nothing-ness 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 woman 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 sensible
of. She might scruple to make use of the words, but she must and did feel that
her mother was a partial, ill-judging parent, a dawdle, a slattern, who neither
taught nor restrained her children, whose house was the scene of mismanagement
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
dispatch, 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-timed 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 was 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 the house; and she very early learnt to sigh at
the approach of Saturday's constant half holiday. Betsey too, a spoilt child,
trained up to think the alphabet her greatest enemy, left to be with the
servants at her pleasure, 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, that 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, and from affording any repose to herself. Such was
the home which was to put Mansfield out 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. Every thing where
she now was was in full contrast to it. The elegance, propriety, regularity,
harmony -- and perhaps, above all, the peace and tranquillity of Mansfield,
were brought to her remembrance every hour of the day, by the prevalence of
every thing 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 super-added
elegance or harmony could have entirely atoned for. It was the greatest misery
of all. 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; every body had their due importance; every body's
feelings 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 as a drop of water to the ocean, compared with the ceaseless tumult of her
present abode. Here, every body was noisy, every voice was loud, (excepting,
perhaps, her mother's, which resembled the soft monotony of Lady Bertram's,
only worn into fretfulness.) -- Whatever was wanted, was halloo'd for, and the
servants halloo'd 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, and nobody could command attention when they spoke.
In a review of the two houses, as they appeared to her before the end of a
week, Fanny was tempted to apply to them Dr. Johnson's celebrated judgment as
to matrimony and celibacy, and say, that though Mansfield Park might have some
pains, Portsmouth could have no pleasures.
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 last, but she was not right in supposing that such an
interval would be felt a great relief to herself. -- Here was another strange
revolution of mind! -- She was really glad to receive the letter when it did
come. In her present exile from good society, and distance from every thing
that had been wont to interest her, a letter from 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 letter will not be worth your reading, for
there will be no little offering of love at the end, no three or four lines
passione=es 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
the call, for the sake of being travelling at the same time that you were. But
there he is, and, by the by, his absence may sufficiently account for any
remissness of his sister's in writing, for there 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, ""dearJulia and dearest Mrs.
Rushworth;"" they found me at home yesterday, and we were glad to see
each other again. We seemedvery glad to see each other, and I do really think
we were a little. -- We had a vast 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 had 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 recovering 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 cards for
her first party on the 28th. -- Then she will be in beauty, for she will open
one of the best houses in Wimpole Street. I was in it two years ago, when it
was Lady Lascelles'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
penny-worth for her penny. Henry could not have afforded her such a house. I
hope she will recollect it, and be satisfied, as well she may, with moving the
queen of a palace, though the king may appear best in the back ground, and as I
have no desire to tease her, I shall never force your name upon her again. She
will grow sober by degrees. -- From all that I hear and guess, Baron
Wildenhaim's attentions to Julia continue, but I do not know that he has any
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 equal to his rants! -- Your cousin Edmund moves slowly; detained,
perchance, by parish 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 uneasiness it supplied, it connected her with
the absent, it told her of people and things 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 satisfaction; she
saw nobody in whose favour she could wish to overcome her own shyness and
reserve. The men appeared to her all coarse, the women all pert, every body
under-bred; and she gave as little contentment as she received from
introductions either to old or new acquaintance. The young ladies who
approached her at first 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 played on the pianoforte nor wore fine pelisses, they could,
on farther observation, admit no right of superiority. The first solid
consolation whichFanny received 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, and 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 wrong at home, and wanted to set it right. That a girl
of fourteen, acting only on her own unassisted reason, should err in the method
of reform was not wonderful; 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 faults of conduct to which it led. Susan was only acting
on the same truths, and pursuing the same system, which her own judgment
acknowledged, but which her more supine and yielding temper would have shrunk
from asserting. Susan tried to be useful, 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, to make her
better bear with its excesses to the others. All this became gradually evident,
and gradually placed Susan before her sister as an object of mingled compassion
and respect. 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
indefensible, Fanny could not cease to feel; but she began to hope they might
be rectified. Susan, she found, looked up to her and wished for her good
opinion; and new as any thing 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 every body, and what would be
wisest for herself, which her own more favoured education had fixed in her. Her
influence, or at least the consciousness and 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 continually, and the riches which she was in possession
of herself, her uncle having given her 10L. at parting, made her as able as she
was willing to be generous. 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, and so fearful of appearing to elevate herself as
a great lady at home, that it took 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 Betsey, 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 prettier herself, she should never want that
again -- and no reproach seemed conveyed to the equally satisfied mother,
whichFanny had almost feared to be impossible. 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 house. Her temper was open. She acknowledged her fears,
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; advice
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 happiness
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
impatience against her better knowledge -- but that so much better knowledge,
so many good notions, should have been hers at all; and that, brought up in the
midst of negligence and error, she should have formed such proper opinions of
what ought to be -- she, who had no cousin Edmund to direct her thoughts or fix
her principles. The intimacy thus begun between them was a material advantage
to each. By sitting together up stairs, they avoided a great deal of the
disturbance of the house; Fanny had peace, and Susan learnt 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 chief of the morning up
stairs, 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 any thing 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 choice!
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 which
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 mind 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 doubt of
what would ensue. The promised notification was hanging over her head. The
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 seeing 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 think over and calculate every
day -- as she and Susan were preparing to remove as usual up stairs, they were
stopt 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 thatFanny was just
turning pale about, when Mr. Crawford walked into the room. Good sense, like
hers, will always act when really called upon; and she found that she had been
able to name him to her mother, and recal 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 re-seated, the terrors that occurred of
what this visit might lead to, were overpowering, and she fancied herself on
the point of fainting away. While trying to keep herself alive, their visitor,
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, while
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, artless, 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 whichMrs. 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 agreeable 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 island, nor of seeing the Dock-yard. 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 coming. 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 sent 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 off 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," 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 season 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 nothing, he soon proceeded to a
positive recommendation to Mrs. Price and her daughters, 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 knew they
had some errands in the town, which they would be very glad to do." -- And
the consequence was, that Fanny, strange as it was -- strange, awkward, and
distressing -- found herself and Susan, within ten minutes, walking towards the
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 father,
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 have 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 almost 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 sought by a clever, agreeable man, than have him driven
away by the vulgarity of her nearest relations. Mr. Crawford probably could not
regard his future father-in-law with any idea of taking him for a model in
dress; but (as Fanny instantly, and to her great relief discerned), her father
was a very different man, a very different Mr. Price in his behaviour to this most
highly-respected 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. Crawford; and be the consequence what it might, Fanny's
immediate feelings were infinitely soothed. The conclusion of the two
gentlemen's civilities was an offer of Mr. Price's to take Mr. Crawford into
the dock-yard, whichMr. Crawford, desirous of accepting as a favour, what was
intended as such, though he had seen the dock-yard 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 dock-yard they were all to go; and, but for Mr.
Crawford, Mr. Price would have turned thither directly, without the smallest
consideration for his daughters' errands in the High Street. He took care,
however, that they should be allowed to go to the shops they came out expressly
to visit; and it did not delay them 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 begin 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 dock-yard 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 regulation 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, "Come girls
-- come, Fan -- come, Sue -- take care of yourselves -- keep a sharp look out,"
he would give them his particular attendance. Once fairly in the dock-yard, 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 how things went on, and who must prove a far more worthy companion
than himself; and after a time the two officers seemed very well satisfied in
going about together and discussing matters of equal and never-failing
interest, while the young people 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 want of restCrawford 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 Susan's age was the very worst third in the world
-- totally different from Lady Bertram -- 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 look 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 every thing there was rising 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 his 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 his agent of some underhand
dealing -- of meaning to bias him against the deserving -- 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 been 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 acquaintance 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 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 such 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 turned to Mansfield. He could not have
chosen better; that was a topic to bring back her attention and her looks
almost instantly. It was a real indulgence to her to hear or to speak of
Mansfield. Now so long divided from every body who knew 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 clever 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 upon 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," 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 every thing so dear -- for as to any partnership
in Thornton Lacey, as Edmund Bertram once good-humouredly proposed, I hope I
foresee two objections, 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 must 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; and 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 much 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 was decidedly improved. She wished
the next day over, she wished he had come only 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 them 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 engagement. 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, &c. and so they parted --
Fanny in a state of actual felicity from escaping so horrible an evil! 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 pulling every thing about as she chose,
were whatFanny 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 look.
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 some
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 saw
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 chapel he still continued with them,
and made one in the family party on the ramparts. 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 Portsmouth 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 there long -- somehow
or other -- there was no saying how -- Fanny could not have believed 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 time -- but
yet there were enjoyments in the day and in the view which would be felt. 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
every thing 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 with 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 exercise; 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,
leaning 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
charms 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 all in all, he was convinced that her present residence could not be
comfortable, 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, must be so much greater. "You have been here a month, I
think?" said he. "No. Not quite a month. -- It is only four weeks
tomorrow since I left Mansfield." "You are a most accurate and honest
reckoner. 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
it?" "Yes. -- My uncle talked of two months. I suppose it will not be
less." "And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for
you?" "I do not know. I have heard nothing about 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
replied, "I know Mansfield, I know its way, I know its faults towards you.
I know the danger of your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give
way 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 every
thing 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 returning 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 walk. He attended them to the last, and left
them only at the door of their own house, when he knew them to be going to
dinner, and therefore pretended to be waited 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 before. -- 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 back into Norfolk
directly, and put every thing at once on such a footing as cannot 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 simple 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, instead of an
honest man, to whom I have given half a promise already. -- Would not it 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 always know what is right. Your judgment is my rule of right."
"Oh, no! -- do not say so. We have all a better 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?" "My love to your sister, if you please; and 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
negligent, I will write his excuses myself --" He could say no more, for
Fanny would be no longer 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 her 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 knives 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 under the cure. Fanny was out of spirits all the
rest of the day. 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 though 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 Edmund, without feelings so near akin to envy, as made her hate herself for
having them. 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 to 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, might 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 travelling 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 account, 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 Dock-yard last Saturday, and one still
more to be dwelt on the 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 ecstacy 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 your's, a fine
girl of fifteen, who was 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, dearFanny, if I had you here, how I would talk to you!
-- You should listen to me till you were tired, and advise me till you were
tired still more; but it is impossible to put an 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. You have politics of course; and it would be too
bad to plague you with the names of people and parties, that fill up my time. I
ought to have sent you an account of your cousin's first party, but I was lazy,
and now it is too long ago; suffice it, that every thing was just as it ought
to be, in a style that any of her connections 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 such a house, and it would not make me miserable.
I go to Lady Stornaway after Easter. She seems in high spirits, and very happy.
I fancy Lord S. is very good-humoured 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 cousin 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 gentleman-like 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 now-a-days to tell tales, but -- but -- but. Your's,
affectionately." "I had almost forgot (it was Edmund's fault, 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 service 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 not 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 like to be
tempted. What a long letter! -- one word more. Henry I find has some idea 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 cannot any
how 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 I own I am not sorry for -- having a little curiosity -- and
so I think has he, though he will not acknowledge it." This was a letter
to be run through eagerly, to be read deliberately, to supply matter for much
reflection, and to leave every thing in greater suspense than ever. The only
certainty to be drawn from it was, that nothing decisive had yet taken place.
Edmund had not yet spoken. 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 been 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 conclusion. 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 to be more ambitious than her heart would allow. She
would hesitate, she would teaze, 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
saying whatMiss 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 Mrs. 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 her's, though,
every thing 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 such 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
not 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
appearing in the course of three or four days more, she was in a most restless,
anxious state. At length, a something like composure succeeded. 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 them. 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 information for information's sake, she had so strong
a desire of not appearing ignorant, 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. WhatFanny 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 any 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 Mansfield 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-appointed, 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 every thing said or done in her uncle's house, and earnest
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 home 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 capable of being made, every thing 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 have been the greatest increase of all her own comforts. She
thought he was really 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 contents. "Mansfield Park. "My dearFanny, "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 would 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 London, 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 carrying with me hopes of an intercourse at all like that of
Mansfield. It was her manner, however, rather than any unfrequency of meeting.
Had she been different when I did see her, I should have made no complaint, but
from the very first she was altered; my first reception was so unlike what I
had hoped, that I had almost resolved on leaving London again directly. -- I
need not particularize. You know the weak side of her character, and may
imagine the sentiments and expressions which were torturing me. She was in high
spirits, and surrounded by those who 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, places 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 acquaintance, especially than her sister, Lady Stornaway,
and is the determined supporter of every thing mercenary and ambitious,
provided it be only mercenary and ambitious 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 years. 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 her; 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 every thing noble, and I am ready to blame
myself for a too harsh construction 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 had 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 that I am jealous of. It is the habits of
wealth that I fear. Her ideas are not higher than her own fortune may warrant,
but they are beyond what our incomes united 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 scarcely 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
dearFanny; perhaps they are some times 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 writing 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 Mansfield. 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 determined on explaining myself by letter. To
be at an early certainty is a material object. My present state is miserably
irksome. Considering every thing, I think 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 danger 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 any thing 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, and 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 sorry that Mrs. Rushworth should resent any former
supposed slight to Miss Bertram. You will wish to hear my opinion of Maria's
degree of comfort as a wife. There 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 exceedingly. 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 desires her best love, and hopes to hear
from you soon. She talks of you almost every 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 improvements 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 any body; but your aunt seems to feel out of
luck that such an article of Mansfield news should fall to my pen instead of
her's. Your's ever, my dearest Fanny." "I never will -- no, I
certainly never will wish for a letter again," was Fanny's secret
declaration, as she finished 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!" Fanny checked the tendency of these thoughts as
well as she could, but she was within half a minute of starting the idea, that
Sir Thomas was quite unkind, both to her aunt and to herself. -- As for the
main 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 nothing 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 nobody 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 refused, his heart is
wedded to her for ever. -- ""The loss of Mary, I must consider as
comprehending the loss of Crawford and Fanny."" Edmund, you do not
know me. The families would 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 a kin
to resentment to be long guiding Fanny's soliloquies. She was soon more
softened and sorrowful. -- His warm regard, his kind expressions, his
confidential treatment touched her strongly. He was only too good to every
body. -- It was a letter, in short, which she would not but have had for the
world, and which could never be valued enough. This was the end of it. Every
body at all addicted to letter writing, without having much to say, which will
include a large proportion of the female world at least, must feel with Lady
Bertram, that she was out of luck in having 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 admit 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 her own. -- For though Lady Bertram
rather shone in the epistolary line, having early 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 receipt of
Edmund's letter, Fanny had one from her aunt, beginning thus: -- "My
dearFanny, "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 take 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 brought
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
considerably, and it was not long before he thought so ill of himself, as to be
as ready as his physician to have a letter dispatched 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 being greatly alarmed, and apprehensive for the
poor invalid, whose state Sir Thomas fears may be very critical; and Edmund
kindly proposes attending his brother 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,
whichSir 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 doubt of your
feeling for us, my dearFanny, 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 felt
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 wonder
whether Edmund had written to Miss Crawford before this summons came, but no
sentiment 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 regularly transmitted to Fanny, in the same diffuse style, and the same
medley of trusts, hopes, and fears, all following and producing each other at hap-hazard.
It was a sort of playing at being frightened. The sufferings whichLady 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
different style, in the language of real feeling and alarm; then, she wrote as
she might have spoken. "He is just come, my dearFanny, and is taken up
stairs; and I am so shocked to see him, that I do not know what to do. I am
sure he has been very ill. Poor Tom, I am quite grieved for him, and very much
frightened, and 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 maternal
bosom was not soon over. Tom's extreme impatience to be removed to Mansfield,
and experience those comforts of home and family which had been little thought
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 alarming
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
tomorrow's. Without any particular affection for her eldest cousin, her
tenderness of heart made her feel that she could not spare him; and the purity
of her principles added yet a keener solicitude, when she considered how little
useful, how little self-denying his life had (apparently) been. Susan was her
only companion and listener on this, as on more common occasions. Susan was
always ready to hear and to sympathize. 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 the quiet observation of "My poor
sister Bertram must be in a great deal of trouble." So long divided, and
so differently situated, the 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 from 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 safe, as to make his mother perfectly easy; for being now used
to the sight of him 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 hint, Lady Bertram was the happiest subject in the world
for a little medical imposition. 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 purposely 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, with 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 sick room in a juster and stronger light
than all Lady Bertram's sheets of paper could do. There was hardly any one in
the house who might have not 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 quietly 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 Thomas 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 believe him so at least, and must find that her
estimation of him was higher than ever when he appeared as the attendant,
supporter, cheerer of a suffering brother. 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 raise; and her own imagination
added that there must be a mind to be properly guided. The family were not
consumptive, and she was more 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 luck, 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 Fanny 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 return. 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 coming 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 penance, 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 ever 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
school-boy'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 nothing 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 distressing 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 sentences 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 talking of what she
should do when she went home, before she was aware. -- She reproached 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 wish
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. -- To 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 longing to be useful to those who were wanting her! Could she
have been at home, she might have been 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 were 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 companion, 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 return 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 if in Miss
Crawford, as well as in her cousins; her attachment to Edmund had been
respectable, the most respectable part of her character, her friendship 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 think
lightly of the friendship which had been so dwelt on. -- It was weeks since she
had heard any thing of Miss Crawford or of her other connections in town, except
through Mansfield, and she was beginning to suppose that she might never know
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 dearFanny, as soon as you can, for my long silence, and
behave as if you could forgive me directly. This is my modest request and
expectation, for you are so good, that I depend upon 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 chance of ultimate recovery. I
thought little of his illness at first. I looked upon him as the sort of person
to be made a fuss with, and to make a fuss himself 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 intreat you to let me know how far I have been 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 fall 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 and gilding hide
many stains. It will be but the loss of the Esquire after his name. With 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 fountain head. And now, do not trouble yourself to be
ashamed of either my feelings or your own. Believe me, they are not only
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, than any other possible ""Sir."" Had the
Grants been at home, I would not have troubled 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 Aylmers 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 forgot their name and street. Could I immediately
apply to either, however, I should still prefer you, because 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 holidays 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 began folding my letter, when Henry walked in; but he
brings no intelligence to prevent my sending it. Mrs. R. knows a decline is
apprehended; he saw her this morning, she returns to Wimpole-Street today, 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 moment, 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. DearFanny, 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 to 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 messages; 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 herself, 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 would 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
doubtful notions of right; there was no occasion to determine, whether she
ought to keep Edmund and Mary asunder or not. She had a rule to apply to, which
settled every thing. Her awe of her uncle, and her dread of taking a liberty
with him, made it instantly plain to her, what she had to do. She must
absolutely decline the proposal. If he wanted, he would send for her; and even to
offer an early return, was a presumption which hardly any thing 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 incumbrance." Her representation of her cousin's state at this
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 every thing
she was wishing for. Edmund would be forgiven for being a clergyman, it seemed,
under certain conditions of wealth; and this, she suspected, was all the conquest
of prejudice, which he was so ready to congratulate himself upon. She 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 second letter arrived for the space of a week, she had
still the same feeling when it did come. On receiving it, she could instantly
decide on its containing little writing, and was persuaded of its having the
air of a letter of haste and business. Its object was unquestionable; and two
moments were enough to start the probability of its being merely to give her
notice that they should be in Portsmouth that very day, and to throw her into
all the agitation of doubting what she ought to do in such a case. If two
moments, however, can surround with difficulties, a third can disperse them;
and before she had opened the letter, the possibility of Mr. and Miss
Crawford's having applied to her uncle and obtained his permission, was giving
her ease. This was the letter. "A most scandalous, ill-natured rumour has
just reached me, and I write, dearFanny, to warn you against giving the least
credit to it, should it spread into the country. Depend upon it there is some
mistake, and that a day or two will clear it up -- at any rate, that Henry is
blameless, and in spite of a moment's etourderie thinks of nobody but you. Say
not a word of it -- hear nothing, surmise nothing, whisper nothing, till I
write again. I am sure it will be all hushed up, and nothing proved but
Rushworth's folly. If they are gone, I would lay my life they are only gone to
Mansfield Park, and Julia with them. But why would not you let us come for you?
I wish you may not repent it. "Yours, &c." Fanny stood aghast. As
no scandalous, ill-natured rumour had reached her, it was impossible for her to
understand much of this strange letter. She could only perceive that it must
relate to Wimpole Street and Mr. Crawford, and only conjecture that something
very imprudent had just occurred in that quarter to draw the notice of the
world, and to excite her jealousy, in Miss Crawford's apprehension, if she
heard it. Miss Crawford need not be alarmed for her. She was only sorry for the
parties concerned and for Mansfield, if the report should spread so far; but
she hoped it might not. If the Rushworths were gone themselves to Mansfield, as
was to be inferred from whatMiss Crawford said, it was not likely that any
thing unpleasant should have preceded them, or at least should make any
impression. As to Mr. Crawford, she hoped it might give him a knowledge of his
own disposition, convince him that he was not capable of being steadily
attached to any one woman in the world, and shame him from persisting any
longer in addressing herself. It was very strange! She had begun to think he
really loved her, and to fancy his affection for her something more than common
-- and his sister still said that he cared for nobody else. Yet there must have
been some marked display of attentions to her cousin, there must have been some
strong indiscretion, since her correspondent was not of a sort to regard a
slight one. Very uncomfortable she was and must continue till she heard from
Miss Crawford again. It was impossible to banish the letter from her thoughts,
and she could not relieve herself by speaking of it to any human being. Miss
Crawford need not have urged secrecy with so much warmth, she might have
trusted to her sense of what was due to her cousin. The next day came and
brought no second letter. Fanny was disappointed. She could still think of
little else all the morning; but when her father came back in the afternoon
with the daily newspaper as usual, she was so far from expecting any elucidation
through such a channel, that the subject was for a moment out of her head. She
was deep in other musing. The remembrance of her first evening in that room, of
her father and his newspaper came across her. No candle was now wanted. The sun
was yet an hour and half above the horizon. She felt that she had, indeed, been
three months there; and the sun's rays falling strongly into the parlour,
instead of cheering, made her still more melancholy; for sun-shine appeared to
her a totally different thing in a town and in the country. Here, its power was
only a glare, a stifling, sickly glare, serving but to bring forward stains and
dirt that might otherwise have slept. There was neither health nor gaiety in
sun-shine in a town. She sat in a blaze of oppressive heat, in a cloud of
moving dust; and her eyes could only wander from the walls marked by her
father's head, to the table cut and knotched by her brothers, where stood the
tea-board never thoroughly cleaned, the cups and saucers wiped in streaks, the
milk a mixture of motes floating in thin blue, and the bread and butter growing
every minute more greasy than even Rebecca's hands had first produced it. Her
father read his newspaper, and her mother lamented over the ragged carpet as
usual, while the tea was in preparation -- and wished Rebecca would mend it;
and Fanny was first roused by his calling out to her, after humphing and
considering over a particular paragraph -- "What's the name of your great
cousins in town, Fan?" A moment's recollection enabled her to say,
"Rushworth, Sir." "And don't they live in Wimpole Street?"
"Yes, Sir." "Then, there's the devil to pay among them, that's
all. There, (holding out the paper to her) -- much good may such fine relations
do you. I don't know whatSir 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 rope's end as long as I could
stand over her. A little flogging for man and woman too, would be the best way
of preventing such things." Fanny read to herself that "it was with
infinite concern the newspaper had to announce to the world, a matrimonial
fracas in the family of Mr. R. of Wimpole Street; the beautiful Mrs. R. whose
name had not long been enrolled in the lists of hymen, and who had promised to
become so brilliant a leader in the fashionable world, having quitted her
husband's roof in company with the well known and captivating Mr. C. the
intimate friend and associate of Mr. R. and it was not known, even to the
editor of the newspaper, whither they were gone." "It is a mistake,
Sir," said Fanny instantly; "it must be a mistake -- it cannot be
true -- it must mean some other people." She spoke from the instinctive
wish of delaying shame, she spoke with a resolution which sprung from despair,
for she spoke what she did not, could not believe herself. It had been the
shock of conviction as she read. The truth rushed on her; and how she could
have spoken at all, how she could even have breathed -- was afterwards matter
of wonder to herself. Mr. Price cared too little about the report, to make her
much answer. "It might be all a lie," he acknowledged; "but so
many fine ladies were going to the devil now-a-days that way, that there was no
answering for anybody." "Indeed, I hope it is not true," said
Mrs. Price plaintively, "it would be so very shocking! -- If I have spoke
once to Rebecca about that carpet, I am sure I have spoke at least a dozen
times; have not I, Betsey? -- And it would not be ten minutes work." The
horror of a mind like Fanny's, as it received the conviction of such guilt, and
began to take in some part of the misery that must ensue, can hardly be
described. At first, it was a sort of stupefaction; but every moment was
quickening her perception of the horrible evil. She could not doubt; she dared
not indulge a hope of the paragraph being false. Miss Crawford's letter, which
she had read so often as to make every line her own, was in frightful
conformity with it. Her eager defence of her brother, her hope of its being
hushed up, her evident agitation, were all of a piece with something very bad;
and if there was a woman of character in existence, who could treat as a trifle
this sin of the first magnitude, who could try to gloss it over, and desire to
have it unpunished, she could believe Miss Crawford to be the woman! Now she
could see her own mistake as to who were gone -- or said to be gone. It was not
Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth, it was Mrs. Rushworth and Mr. Crawford. Fanny seemed to
herself never to have been shocked before. There was no possibility of rest.
The evening passed, without a pause of misery, the night was totally sleepless.
She passed only from feelings of sickness to shudderings of horror; and from
hot fits of fever to cold. The event was so shocking, that there were moments
even when her heart revolted from it as impossible -- when she thought it could
not be. A woman married only six months ago, a man professing himself devoted,
even engaged, to another -- that other her near relation -- the whole family,
both families connected as they were by tie upon tie, all friends, all intimate
together! -- it was too horrible a confusion of guilt, too gross a complication
of evil, for human nature, not in a state of utter barbarism, to be capable of!
-- yet her judgment told her it was so. His unsettled affections, wavering with
his vanity, Maria's decided attachment, and no sufficient principle on either
side, gave it possibility -- Miss Crawford's letter stampt it a fact. What
would be the consequence? Whom would it not injure? Whose views might it not
affect? Whose peace would it not cut up for ever? Miss Crawford herself --
Edmund; but it was dangerous, perhaps, to tread such ground. She confined
herself, or tried to confine herself to the simple, indubitable family-misery
which must envelope all, if it were indeed a matter of certified guilt and
public exposure. The mother's sufferings, the father's -- there, she paused.
Julia's, Tom's, Edmund's -- there, a yet longer pause. They were the two on
whom it would fall most horribly. Sir Thomas's parental solicitude, and high
sense of honour and decorum, Edmund's upright principles, unsuspicious temper,
and genuine strength of feeling, made her think it scarcely possible for them
to support life and reason under such disgrace; and it appeared to her, that as
far as this world alone was concerned, the greatest blessing to every one of
kindred with Mrs. Rushworth would be instant annihilation. Nothing happened the
next day, or the next, to weaken her terrors. Two posts came in, and brought no
refutation, public or private. There was no second letter to explain away the
first, from Miss Crawford; there was no intelligence from Mansfield, though it
was now full time for her to hear again from her aunt. This was an evil omen.
She had, indeed, scarcely the shadow of a hope to soothe her mind, and was
reduced to so low and wan and trembling a condition as no mother -- not unkind,
except Mrs. Price, could have overlooked, when the third day did bring the sickening
knock, and a letter was again put into her hands. It bore the London postmark,
and came from Edmund. "DearFanny, You know our present wretchedness. May
God support you under your share. We have been here two days, but there is
nothing to be done. They cannot be traced. You may not have heard of the last
blow -- Julia's elopement; she is gone to Scotland with Yates. She left London
a few hours before we entered it. At any other time, this would have been felt
dreadfully. Now it seems nothing, yet it is an heavy aggravation. My father is
not overpowered. More cannot be hoped. He is still able to think and act; and I
write, by his desire, to propose your returning home. He is anxious to get you
there for my mother's sake. I shall be at Portsmouth the morning after you
receive this, and hope to find you ready to set off for Mansfield. My Father
wishes you to invite Susan to go with you, for a few months. Settle it as you
like; say what is proper; I am sure you will feel such an instance of his
kindness at such a moment! Do justice to his meaning, however I may confuse it.
You may imagine something of my present state. There is no end of the evil let
loose upon us. You will see me early, by the mail. Your's, &c." Never
had Fanny more wanted a cordial. Never had 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 be going so soon, sent for so kindly, sent for
as a comfort, and with leave to take Susan, was altogether such a combination
of blessings as set her heart in a glow, and for a time, seemed to distance
every pain, and make her incapable of suitably sharing the distress even of
those whose distress she thought of most. Julia's elopement could affect her
comparatively but little; she was amazed and shocked; but it could not occupy
her, could not dwell on her mind. She was obliged to call herself to think of
it, and acknowledge it to be terrible and grievous, or it was escaping her, in
the midst of all the agitating, pressing joyful cares attending this summons to
herself. There is nothing like employment, active, indispensable employment,
for relieving sorrow. Employment, even melancholy, may dispel melancholy, and
her occupations were hopeful. She had so much to do, that not even the horrible
story of Mrs. Rushworth (now fixed to the last point of certainty), could
affect her as it had done before. She had not time to be miserable. Within
twenty-four hours she was hoping to be gone; her father and mother must be
spoken to, Susan prepared, every thing got ready. Business followed business;
the day was hardly long enough. The happiness she was imparting too, happiness
very little alloyed by the black communication which must briefly precede it --
the joyful consent of her father and mother to Susan's going with her -- the
general satisfaction with which the going of both seemed regarded -- and the
ecstacy 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 any thing to hold Susan's
clothes, because Rebecca took away all the boxes and spoilt them, was much more
in her thoughts, and as for Susan, now unexpectedly gratified in the first wish
of her heart, and knowing nothing personally of those who had sinned, or of
those who were sorrowing -- if she could help rejoicing from beginning to end,
it was as much as ought to be expected from human virtue at fourteen. As
nothing was really left for the decision of Mrs. Price, or the good offices of
Rebecca, every thing was rationally and duly accomplished, and the girls were
ready for the morrow. The advantage of much sleep to prepare them for their
journey, was impossible. The cousin who was travelling towards them, could
hardly have less than visited their agitated spirits, one all happiness, the
other all varying and indescribable perturbation. By eight in the morning,
Edmund was in the house. The girls heard his entrance from above, and Fanny
went down. The idea of immediately seeing him, with the knowledge of what he
must be suffering, brought back all her own first feelings. He so near her, and
in misery. She was ready to sink, as she entered the parlour. He was alone, and
met her instantly; and she found herself pressed to his heart with only these
words, just articulate, "My Fanny -- my only sister -- my only comfort
now." She could say nothing; nor for some minutes could he say more. He
turned away to recover himself, and when he spoke again, though his voice still
faltered, his manner showed the wish of self-command, and the resolution of
avoiding any farther allusion. "Have you breakfasted? -- When shall you be
ready? -- Does Susan go?" were questions following each other rapidly. His
great object was to be off as soon as possible. When Mansfield was considered,
time was precious; and the state of his own mind made him find relief only in
motion. It was settled that he should order the carriage to the door in half an
hour; Fanny answered for their having breakfasted, and being quite ready in
half an hour. He had already ate, and declined staying for their meal. He would
walk round the ramparts, and join them with the carriage. He was gone again,
glad to get away even from Fanny. He looked very ill; evidently suffering under
violent emotions, which he was determined to suppress. She knew it must be so,
but it was terrible to her. The carriage came; and he entered the house again
at the same moment, just in time to spend a few minutes with the family, and be
a witness -- but that he saw nothing -- of the tranquil manner in which the daughters
were parted with, and just in time to prevent their sitting down to the
breakfast table, which by dint of much unusual activity, was quite and
completely ready as the carriage drove from the door. Fanny's last meal in her
father's house was in character with her first; she was dismissed from it as
hospitably as she had been welcomed. How her heart swelled with joy and
gratitude, as she passed the barriers of Portsmouth, and how Susan's face wore
its broadest smiles, may be easily conceived. Sitting forwards, however, and
screened by her bonnet, those smiles were unseen. The journey was likely to be
a silent one. Edmund's deep sighs often reached Fanny. Had he been alone with
her, his heart must have opened in spite of every resolution; but Susan's presence
drove him quite into himself, and his attempts to talk on indifferent subjects
could never be long supported. Fanny watched him with never-failing solicitude,
and sometimes catching his eye, received an affectionate smile, which comforted
her; but the first day's journey passed without her hearing a word from him on
the subjects that were weighing him down. The next morning produced a little
more. Just before their setting out from Oxford, while Susan was stationed at a
window, in eager observation of the departure of a large family from the inn,
the other two were standing by the fire; and Edmund, particularly struck by the
alteration in Fanny's looks, and from his ignorance of the daily evils of her
father's house, attributing an undue share of the change, attributing all to
the recent event, took her hand, and said in a low, but very expressive tone,
"No wonder -- you must feel it -- you must suffer. How a man who had once
loved, could desert you! But your's -- your regard was new compared with --
Fanny, think of me!" The first division of their journey occupied a long
day, and brought them almost knocked up, to Oxford; but the second was over at
a much earlier hour. They were in the environs of Mansfield long before the
usual dinner-time, and as they approached the beloved place, the hearts of both
sisters sank a little. Fanny began to dread the meeting with her aunts and Tom,
under so dreadful a humiliation; and Susan to feel with some anxiety, that all
her best manners, all her lately acquired knowledge of what was practised here,
was on the point of being called into action. Visions of good and ill breeding,
of old vulgarisms and new gentilities were before her; and she was meditating
much upon silver forks, napkins, and finger glasses. Fanny had been every where
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 every where on lawns and plantations of the
freshest green; and the trees, though not fully clothed, were in that
delightful state, when farther beauty is known to be at hand, and when, while
much is actually given to the sight, more yet remains for the imagination. Her
enjoyment, however, was for herself alone. Edmund could not share it. She
looked at him, but he was leaning back, sunk in a deeper gloom than ever, and
with eyes closed as if the view of cheerfulness oppressed him, and the lovely
scenes of home must be shut out. It made her melancholy again; and the
knowledge of what must be enduring there, invested even the house, modern,
airy, and well situated as it was, with a melancholy aspect. By one of the
suffering party within, they were expected with such impatience as she had
never known before. Fanny had scarcely passed the solemn-looking servants, when
Lady Bertram came from the drawing-room to meet her; came with no indolent
step; and, falling on her neck, said, "DearFanny! now I shall be
comfortable."
It had been a miserable
party, each of the three 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,
stupified, indifferent to every thing that passed. The being left with her
sister and nephew, and all the house under her care, had been an advantage
entirely thrown away; she had been unable to direct or dictate, or even fancy
herself useful. 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 each 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 comfort 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 da emon 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, and
an intruder, and an indigent niece, and every thing most odious. By her other
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 have
stood against a great deal more indifference than she met with from the others.
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, were shut up, or wholly occupied each
with the person quite dependant on them, at this time, for every thing 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
every thing 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
deeply, 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
endeavoured herself, nor required Fanny to advise her, to think little of guilt
and infamy. Her affections were not acute, nor was her mind tenacious. After a
time, Fanny found it not impossible to direct her thoughts 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 holidays, to Twickenham,
with a family whom she had just grown intimate with -- a family of lively,
agreeable manners, and probably of morals and discretion to suit -- for to
their house Mr. Crawford had constant access at all times. His having been 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 mother
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 Thomas
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 daughter, to put an end to an intimacy which was already exposing her to
unpleasant remarks, and evidently making Mr. Rushworth uneasy. Sir Thomas was
preparing to act upon this letter, 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 people. Mrs. Rushworth had left her husband's house;
Mr. Rushworth had been in great anger and distress to him (Mr. Harding), for
his advice; Mr. Harding feared there had been atleast, very flagrant
indiscretion. The maid-servant of Mrs. Rushworth, senior, threatened
alarmingly. He was doing all in his power to quiet every thing, 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 the others had been
left in a state of wretchedness, inferior only to what followed the receipt of
the next letters from London. Every thing was by that time public beyond a
hope. The servant of Mrs. Rushworth, the mother, had exposure in her power,
and, supported by her mistress, was not to be silenced. The two ladies, 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 almost as much from the
personal disrespect with which she had herself been treated, as from
sensibility for her son. However that might be, she was unmanageable. But 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 appear again,
and there was every reason to conclude her to be concealed somewhere with Mr.
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 longer in
town, in the hope of discovering, and snatching her from farther vice, though
all was lost on the side of character. His present state, Fanny could hardly
bear to think 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 had 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 been
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 called
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
conclusion 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
displeasure 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 nature 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 attachment, and strong probability of success; and who
in every thing but this despicable brother, would have been so eligible a
connection. He was aware of whatEdmund 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 whichEdmund 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 consoling; 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 affliction, but that it was too keenly felt to be a subject of
the slightest communication. This must be his state. He yielded, but it was
with agonies, which did not admit 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
Thursday, 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 every thing 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 speak; and so, with the usual beginnings, hardly to be traced
as to what came first, 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 sensations 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
himself, 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
wretchedness whichCrawford's sister ought to have known, he had gone to her in
such a state 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 wanted 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 then 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 cannot recall all her words. I
would not dwell upon them if I could. Their substance 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 what 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? -- Spoilt, spoilt!
--" After a little reflection, he went on with a sort of desperate
calmness -- "I will tell you every thing, 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 whole time
of her being at Twickenham -- her putting herself in the power of a servant; --
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 things 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 always has done
justice to you. ""He has thrown away,"" said she,
""such a woman as he will never see again. She would have fixed him,
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 -- but 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 marriage, 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 charm
is broken. My eyes are opened." "Cruel!" said Fanny --
"quite cruel! At such a moment to give way to gaiety and to speak with
lightness, and to you! -- Absolute cruelty." "Cruelty, do you call
it? -- We differ there. No, her's 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, unsuspiciousness 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 every
body else would speak. Her's are not faults of temper. She would not
voluntarily give unnecessary pain to any one, and though I may deceive myself,
I cannot but think that for me, for my feelings, she would -- Her's are faults
of principle, Fanny, of blunted delicacy 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 told 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 between 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 Henry 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
stamp, and therefore I hope we may find no insuperable difficulty. My
influence, which 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
know, 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. What I
advise is, that your father be quiet. Do not let him injure his own cause by
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 chance 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 all end well; but if he get his daughter away, it will
be destroying the chief hold." After repeating this, Edmund was so much
affected, that Fanny, watching him with silent, but most tender concern, was
almost sorry that the subject had been entered on at all. It was long before he
could speak again. At last, "Now, Fanny," said he, "I shall soon
have done. I have 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 that house, as I had done, that any thing 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 difference 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 every reproach but the right, considering its
ill consequences only as they were to be braved or overborne by a defiance of
decency and impudence in wrong; and, last of all, and above all, recommending
to us a compliance, a compromise, an acquiescence, 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 before, and that, as
far as related to mind, it had been the creature of my own imagination, 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 tenderness 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 every body at Mansfield and Thornton Lacey; and when
I hear of you next, 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 heart 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 had 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 -- regretted 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 deceived! Equally in brother and sister deceived! I thank
you for your patience, Fanny. This has been the greatest relief, and now we
will have done." And such was Fanny's dependance 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 rousing thoroughly
up, could really close such a conversation. Till that happened, they continued
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 some
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 intimation.
Nature resisted it for a while. It would have been a vast deal pleasanter to
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 thought,
that considering the many counteractions of opposing habits, she had certainly
been more attached to him than could have been expected, and for his sake been
more near doing right. Fanny thought exactly the same; and they were also quite
agreed in their opinion of the lasting effect, the indelible impression, which
such a disappointment must make on his mind. Time would undoubtedly abate
somewhat 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 quit such odious subjects as soon as I can, impatient to
restore every body, not greatly in fault themselves, to tolerable comfort, and
to have done with all the rest. My Fanny indeed at this very time, I have the
satisfaction of knowing, must have been happy in spite of every thing. She must
have been a happy creature in spite of all that she felt or thought she felt,
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 was
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 her,
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, and 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 suffer. 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
expedient, and been governed by motives of selfishness and worldly wisdom.
These were reflections that required some time to soften; but time will do
almost every thing, 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 other children. Julia's match became a less desperate business
than he had considered 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 becoming less trifling -- of his being at least tolerably domestic and
quiet; and, at any rate, there was comfort in finding his estate rather more,
and his debts much less, than he had feared, and in being consulted and treated
as the friend best worth attending to. There was comfort also in Tom, who
gradually regained his health, without regaining the thoughtlessness and
selfishness of his previous habits. He was the better for ever for his illness.
He had suffered, and he had learnt to think, two advantages that he had never
known before; and the self-reproach arising from the deplorable event in
Wimpole Street, to which he felt himself accessary 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 good 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 contributing 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 mind into submission, as to be very
tolerably cheerful again. These were the circumstances and the hopes which
gradually brought their alleviation to Sir Thomas, deadening his sense of what
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
the character of any young people, must be the totally opposite treatment
whichMaria 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 presence,
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 mistake 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, active 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 useful influence that way, no moral effect on
the mind. He had meant them to be good, 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 they 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, that 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 they continued together till she was obliged to be convinced that such hope
was vain, and till the disappointment and wretchedness arising from the
conviction, 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 such 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 despised
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 mortified 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
humour 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 woman
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 expect
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
encouragement to do right, which their relative situations admitted; but
farther than that, he would not go. Maria had destroyed her own character, and
he would not by a vain attempt to restore what never could be restored, be
affording his sanction to vice, or in seeking to lessen its disgrace, be
anywise accessary 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 establishment 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 mutual punishment. Mrs.
Norris's removal from Mansfield was the great supplementary comfort of Sir
Thomas's life. His opinion of her had been sinking 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 been 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 evil, which was so much the
worse, as there seemed no chance of its ceasing but with life; she seemed a
part of himself, that must be borne for ever. To be relieved 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 almost 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.
Rushworth's elopement, her temper had been in a state of such irritation, as to
make her every where 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, but 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 second 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, were more controulable; and education had not given her so very hurtful
a degree of self-consequence. She had submitted the best to the disappointment
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 thinking 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 herself
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 motive
in going to her cousins. Mr. Yates's convenience had had nothing to do with it.
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 and bad domestic example, indulged in the freaks of a
cold-blooded vanity a little 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 amiable woman's affections, could he have found
sufficient exultation in overcoming the reluctance, in working himself into the
esteem and tenderness of Fanny Price, there would have been every probability
of success and felicity for him. His affection had already done something. Her
influence over him had already given him some influence over her. Would he have
deserved more, there can be no doubt that more would have been obtained;
especially when that marriage had taken place, which would have given him the
assistance of her conscience in subduing 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 voluntarily 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 might have been deciding his own happy destiny. But he was
pressed to stay for Mrs. 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 temptation of immediate pleasure was too strong for a
mind unused to make any sacrifice to right; he resolved to defer his Norfolk
journey, resolved that writing should 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 subdue 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 treatment of himself. In this spirit he
began the attack; and by animated perseverance had soon re-established the sort
of familiar intercourse -- of gallantry -- of flirtation which bounded his
views, but in triumphing over the 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 supposed. -- 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 glad to see Mrs. Rushworth
no more. -- All that followed was the result of her imprudence; 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 bustle of the intrigue
was over, and a very few months had taught him, by the force 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 know, 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 vexation 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 latter,
for some months purposely lengthened, ended very fortunately in the necessity,
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 excuse
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 society, secure her a great deal to
enjoy, and she had again a home to offer Mary; and Mary had had enough of her
own friends, enough of vanity, ambition, love, and 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 together; and
when Dr. Grant had brought on apoplexy and death, by three great institutionary
dinners in one week, they still lived together; for Mary, though perfectly
resolved against ever attaching herself to a younger brother again, was long in
finding among the dashing representatives, or idle heir apparents, who were at
the command of her beauty, and her 20_000L. 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 learnt 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 Crawford, 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 were 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 hopeful 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 occasion, that every one may be at liberty to fix
their own, aware that the cure of unconquerable passions, and the transfer of
unchanging attachments, must vary much as to time in different people. -- I
only intreat every body 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 object 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 that he should learn to
prefer soft light eyes to sparkling dark ones. -- And being always with her,
and always talking confidentially, and his feelings exactly in that 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 from 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 language
in which he could cloathe it to her or to himself; it must have been a
delightful 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
connections, prizing more and more the sterling good of principle and temper,
and chiefly anxious to bind by the strongest securities all that remained to
him of domestic felicity, he had pondered with genuine satisfaction on the more
than possibility of the two young friends finding their mutual 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 little
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
every 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
her, because Susan remained to supply her place. -- Susan became the stationary
niece -- 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 comfort to Fanny, then as an auxiliary, and last as her substitute, she was
established at Mansfield, with every appearance of equal permanency. Her more
fearless disposition and happier nerves made every thing easy to her there. --
With quickness 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 beloved 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 acknowledge the advantages of early hardship and discipline, and the
consciousness of being born to struggle and endure. With so much true merit and
true love, and no want of fortune or 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 the 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 every thing else, within the view and patronage of Mansfield
Park, had long been.