[End volume one of this edition.
Printed by T. and A. Constable,
Printers to Her Majesty at
the Edinburgh University Press]
CHAPTER XXV
The intercourse of the two families was at this period
more nearly restored to what it had been in the autumn,
than any member of the old intimacy had thought ever
likely to be again. The return of Henry Crawford,
and the arrival of William Price, had much to do with it,
but much was still owing to Sir Thomas's more than toleration
of the neighbourly attempts at the Parsonage. His mind,
now disengaged from the cares which had pressed on him
at first, was at leisure to find the Grants and their
young inmates really worth visiting; and though infinitely
above scheming or contriving for any the most advantageous
matrimonial establishment that could be among the apparent
possibilities of any one most dear to him, and disdaining
even as a littleness the being quick-sighted on such points,
he could not avoid perceiving, in a grand and careless way,
that Mr. Crawford was somewhat distinguishing his niece--
nor perhaps refrain (though unconsciously) from giving a
more willing assent to invitations on that account.
His readiness, however, in agreeing to dine at the Parsonage,
when the general invitation was at last hazarded,
after many debates and many doubts as to whether it were
worth while, "because Sir Thomas seemed so ill inclined,
and Lady Bertram was so indolent!" proceeded from
good-breeding and goodwill alone, and had nothing to do
with Mr. Crawford, but as being one in an agreeable group:
for it was in the course of that very visit that he first
began to think that any one in the habit of such idle
observations _would_ _have_ _thought_ that Mr. Crawford
was the admirer of Fanny Price.
The meeting was generally felt to be a pleasant one,
being composed in a good proportion of those who would talk
and those who would listen; and the dinner itself was elegant
and plentiful, according to the usual style of the Grants,
and too much according to the usual habits of all to raise
any emotion except in Mrs. Norris, who could never behold
either the wide table or the number of dishes on it
with patience, and who did always contrive to experience
some evil from the passing of the servants behind her chair,
and to bring away some fresh conviction of its being
impossible among so many dishes but that some must be cold.
In the evening it was found, according to the predetermination
of Mrs. Grant and her sister, that after making up
the whist-table there would remain sufficient for a
round game, and everybody being as perfectly complying
and without a choice as on such occasions they always are,
speculation was decided on almost as soon as whist;
and Lady Bertram soon found herself in the critical situation
of being applied to for her own choice between the games,
and being required either to draw a card for whist or not.
She hesitated. Luckily Sir Thomas was at hand.
"What shall I do, Sir Thomas? Whist and speculation;
which will amuse me most?"
Sir Thomas, after a moment's thought, recommended speculation.
He was a whist player himself, and perhaps might feel
that it would not much amuse him to have her for a partner.
"Very well," was her ladyship's contented answer;
"then speculation, if you please, Mrs. Grant. I know
nothing about it, but Fanny must teach me."
Here Fanny interposed, however, with anxious protestations
of her own equal ignorance; she had never played the
game nor seen it played in her life; and Lady Bertram
felt a moment's indecision again; but upon everybody's
assuring her that nothing could be so easy, that it
was the easiest game on the cards, and Henry Crawford's
stepping forward with a most earnest request to be allowed
to sit between her ladyship and Miss Price, and teach
them both, it was so settled; and Sir Thomas, Mrs. Norris,
and Dr. and Mrs. Grant being seated at the table of prime
intellectual state and dignity, the remaining six,
under Miss Crawford's direction, were arranged round
the other. It was a fine arrangement for Henry Crawford,
who was close to Fanny, and with his hands full of business,
having two persons' cards to manage as well as his own;
for though it was impossible for Fanny not to feel herself
mistress of the rules of the game in three minutes,
he had yet to inspirit her play, sharpen her avarice,
and harden her heart, which, especially in any competition
with William, was a work of some difficulty; and as for
Lady Bertram, he must continue in charge of all her fame
and fortune through the whole evening; and if quick enough
to keep her from looking at her cards when the deal began,
must direct her in whatever was to be done with them
to the end of it.
He was in high spirits, doing everything with happy ease,
and preeminent in all the lively turns, quick resources,
and playful impudence that could do honour to the game;
and the round table was altogether a very comfortable
contrast to the steady sobriety and orderly silence of
the other.
Twice had Sir Thomas inquired into the enjoyment and
success of his lady, but in vain; no pause was long enough
for the time his measured manner needed; and very little
of her state could be known till Mrs. Grant was able,
at the end of the first rubber, to go to her and pay
her compliments.
"I hope your ladyship is pleased with the game."
"Oh dear, yes! very entertaining indeed. A very odd game.
I do not know what it is all about. I am never to see
my cards; and Mr. Crawford does all the rest."
"Bertram," said Crawford, some time afterwards, taking the
opportunity of a little languor in the game, "I have never
told you what happened to me yesterday in my ride home."
They had been hunting together, and were in the midst of a
good run, and at some distance from Mansfield, when his horse
being found to have flung a shoe, Henry Crawford had been
obliged to give up, and make the best of his way back.
"I told you I lost my way after passing that old farmhouse
with the yew-trees, because I can never bear to ask;
but I have not told you that, with my usual luck--for I
never do wrong without gaining by it--I found myself in due
time in the very place which I had a curiosity to see.
I was suddenly, upon turning the corner of a steepish
downy field, in the midst of a retired little village
between gently rising hills; a small stream before me to
be forded, a church standing on a sort of knoll to my right--
which church was strikingly large and handsome for
the place, and not a gentleman or half a gentleman's house
to be seen excepting one--to be presumed the Parsonage--
within a stone's throw of the said knoll and church.
I found myself, in short, in Thornton Lacey."
"It sounds like it," said Edmund; "but which way did you
turn after passing Sewell's farm?"
"I answer no such irrelevant and insidious questions;
though were I to answer all that you could put in the course
of an hour, you would never be able to prove that it
was _not_ Thornton Lacey--for such it certainly was."
"You inquired, then?"
"No, I never inquire. But I _told_ a man mending a hedge
that it was Thornton Lacey, and he agreed to it."
"You have a good memory. I had forgotten having ever
told you half so much of the place."
Thornton Lacey was the name of his impending living,
as Miss Crawford well knew; and her interest in a negotiation
for William Price's knave increased.
"Well," continued Edmund, "and how did you like what
you saw?"
"Very much indeed. You are a lucky fellow. There will be
work for five summers at least before the place is liveable."
"No, no, not so bad as that. The farmyard must be moved,
I grant you; but I am not aware of anything else.
The house is by no means bad, and when the yard is removed,
there may be a very tolerable approach to it."
"The farmyard must be cleared away entirely, and planted
up to shut out the blacksmith's shop. The house must
be turned to front the east instead of the north--
the entrance and principal rooms, I mean, must be on
that side, where the view is really very pretty; I am
sure it may be done. And _there_ must be your approach,
through what is at present the garden. You must make
a new garden at what is now the back of the house;
which will be giving it the best aspect in the world,
sloping to the south-east. The ground seems precisely
formed for it. I rode fifty yards up the lane,
between the church and the house, in order to look about me;
and saw how it might all be. Nothing can be easier.
The meadows beyond what _will_ _be_ the garden, as well
as what now _is_, sweeping round from the lane I stood
in to the north-east, that is, to the principal road
through the village, must be all laid together, of course;
very pretty meadows they are, finely sprinkled with timber.
They belong to the living, I suppose; if not, you must
purchase them. Then the stream--something must be done
with the stream; but I could not quite determine what.
I had two or three ideas."
"And I have two or three ideas also," said Edmund,
"and one of them is, that very little of your plan
for Thornton Lacey will ever be put in practice.
I must be satisfied with rather less ornament and beauty.
I think the house and premises may be made comfortable,
and given the air of a gentleman's residence, without any
very heavy expense, and that must suffice me; and, I hope,
may suffice all who care about me."
Miss Crawford, a little suspicious and resentful of a
certain tone of voice, and a certain half-look attending
the last expression of his hope, made a hasty finish
of her dealings with William Price; and securing his knave
at an exorbitant rate, exclaimed, "There, I will stake
my last like a woman of spirit. No cold prudence for me.
I am not born to sit still and do nothing. If I lose
the game, it shall not be from not striving for it."
The game was hers, and only did not pay her for what
she had given to secure it. Another deal proceeded,
and Crawford began again about Thornton Lacey.
"My plan may not be the best possible: I had not many
minutes to form it in; but you must do a good deal.
The place deserves it, and you will find yourself not
satisfied with much less than it is capable of. (Excuse me,
your ladyship must not see your cards. There, let them
lie just before you.) The place deserves it, Bertram.
You talk of giving it the air of a gentleman's residence.
_That_ will be done by the removal of the farmyard;
for, independent of that terrible nuisance, I never saw
a house of the kind which had in itself so much the air
of a gentleman's residence, so much the look of a something
above a mere parsonage-house--above the expenditure of a few
hundreds a year. It is not a scrambling collection of low
single rooms, with as many roofs as windows; it is not
cramped into the vulgar compactness of a square farmhouse:
it is a solid, roomy, mansion-like looking house, such as one
might suppose a respectable old country family had lived
in from generation to generation, through two centuries
at least, and were now spending from two to three thousand
a year in." Miss Crawford listened, and Edmund agreed
to this. "The air of a gentleman's residence, therefore,
you cannot but give it, if you do anything. But it is
capable of much more. (Let me see, Mary; Lady Bertram
bids a dozen for that queen; no, no, a dozen is more
than it is worth. Lady Bertram does not bid a dozen.
She will have nothing to say to it. Go on, go on.)
By some such improvements as I have suggested (I do not really
require you to proceed upon my plan, though, by the bye,
I doubt anybody's striking out a better) you may give it
a higher character. You may raise it into a _place_.
From being the mere gentleman's residence, it becomes,
by judicious improvement, the residence of a man
of education, taste, modern manners, good connexions.
All this may be stamped on it; and that house receive
such an air as to make its owner be set down as the great
landholder of the parish by every creature travelling
the road; especially as there is no real squire's house
to dispute the point--a circumstance, between ourselves,
to enhance the value of such a situation in point
of privilege and independence beyond all calculation.
_You_ think with me, I hope" (turning with a softened
voice to Fanny). "Have you ever seen the place?"
Fanny gave a quick negative, and tried to hide her interest
in the subject by an eager attention to her brother,
who was driving as hard a bargain, and imposing on her
as much as he could; but Crawford pursued with "No, no,
you must not part with the queen. You have bought
her too dearly, and your brother does not offer half
her value. No, no, sir, hands off, hands off. Your sister
does not part with the queen. She is quite determined.
The game will be yours," turning to her again; "it will
certainly be yours."
"And Fanny had much rather it were William's," said Edmund,
smiling at her. "Poor Fanny! not allowed to cheat herself
as she wishes!"
"Mr. Bertram," said Miss Crawford, a few minutes afterwards,
"you know Henry to be such a capital improver, that you
cannot possibly engage in anything of the sort at Thornton
Lacey without accepting his help. Only think how useful
he was at Sotherton! Only think what grand things were
produced there by our all going with him one hot day
in August to drive about the grounds, and see his genius
take fire. There we went, and there we came home again;
and what was done there is not to be told!"
Fanny's eyes were turned on Crawford for a moment
with an expression more than grave--even reproachful;
but on catching his, were instantly withdrawn.
With something of consciousness he shook his head at
his sister, and laughingly replied, "I cannot say there
was much done at Sotherton; but it was a hot day, and we
were all walking after each other, and bewildered."
As soon as a general buzz gave him shelter, he added,
in a low voice, directed solely at Fanny, "I should be
sorry to have my powers of _planning_ judged of by the
day at Sotherton. I see things very differently now.
Do not think of me as I appeared then."
Sotherton was a word to catch Mrs. Norris, and being
just then in the happy leisure which followed securing
the odd trick by Sir Thomas's capital play and her own
against Dr. and Mrs. Grant's great hands, she called out,
in high good-humour, "Sotherton! Yes, that is a place,
indeed, and we had a charming day there. William, you are
quite out of luck; but the next time you come, I hope dear
Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth will be at home, and I am sure
I can answer for your being kindly received by both.
Your cousins are not of a sort to forget their relations,
and Mr. Rushworth is a most amiable man. They are at
Brighton now, you know; in one of the best houses there,
as Mr. Rushworth's fine fortune gives them a right to be.
I do not exactly know the distance, but when you get back
to Portsmouth, if it is not very far off, you ought to go
over and pay your respects to them; and I could send
a little parcel by you that I want to get conveyed to
your cousins."
"I should be very happy, aunt; but Brighton is almost
by Beachey Head; and if I could get so far, I could
not expect to be welcome in such a smart place as that--
poor scrubby midshipman as I am."
Mrs. Norris was beginning an eager assurance of the
affability he might depend on, when she was stopped
by Sir Thomas's saying with authority, "I do not advise
your going to Brighton, William, as I trust you may soon
have more convenient opportunities of meeting; but my
daughters would be happy to see their cousins anywhere;
and you will find Mr. Rushworth most sincerely disposed
to regard all the connexions of our family as his own."
"I would rather find him private secretary to the First
Lord than anything else," was William's only answer,
in an undervoice, not meant to reach far, and the
subject dropped.
As yet Sir Thomas had seen nothing to remark in Mr. Crawford's
behaviour; but when the whist-table broke up at the end
of the second rubber, and leaving Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris
to dispute over their last play, he became a looker-on
at the other, he found his niece the object of attentions,
or rather of professions, of a somewhat pointed character.
Henry Crawford was in the first glow of another scheme
about Thornton Lacey; and not being able to catch
Edmund's ear, was detailing it to his fair neighbour
with a look of considerable earnestness. His scheme
was to rent the house himself the following winter,
that he might have a home of his own in that neighbourhood;
and it was not merely for the use of it in the hunting-season
(as he was then telling her), though _that_ consideration
had certainly some weight, feeling as he did that,
in spite of all Dr. Grant's very great kindness, it was
impossible for him and his horses to be accommodated
where they now were without material inconvenience;
but his attachment to that neighbourhood did not depend
upon one amusement or one season of the year: he had set
his heart upon having a something there that he could
come to at any time, a little homestall at his command,
where all the holidays of his year might be spent, and he
might find himself continuing, improving, and _perfecting_
that friendship and intimacy with the Mansfield Park
family which was increasing in value to him every day.
Sir Thomas heard and was not offended. There was no want
of respect in the young man's address; and Fanny's reception
of it was so proper and modest, so calm and uninviting,
that he had nothing to censure in her. She said little,
assented only here and there, and betrayed no inclination
either of appropriating any part of the compliment to herself,
or of strengthening his views in favour of Northamptonshire.
Finding by whom he was observed, Henry Crawford addressed
himself on the same subject to Sir Thomas, in a more
everyday tone, but still with feeling.
"I want to be your neighbour, Sir Thomas, as you have,
perhaps, heard me telling Miss Price. May I hope
for your acquiescence, and for your not influencing
your son against such a tenant?"
Sir Thomas, politely bowing, replied, "It is the only way,
sir, in which I could _not_ wish you established as a
permanent neighbour; but I hope, and believe, that Edmund will
occupy his own house at Thornton Lacey. Edmund, am I saying too
much?"
Edmund, on this appeal, had first to hear what was going on;
but, on understanding the question, was at no loss for an answer.
"Certainly, sir, I have no idea but of residence.
But, Crawford, though I refuse you as a tenant,
come to me as a friend. Consider the house as half
your own every winter, and we will add to the stables
on your own improved plan, and with all the improvements
of your improved plan that may occur to you this spring."
"We shall be the losers," continued Sir Thomas.
"His going, though only eight miles, will be an unwelcome
contraction of our family circle; but I should have been
deeply mortified if any son of mine could reconcile
himself to doing less. It is perfectly natural that you
should not have thought much on the subject, Mr. Crawford.
But a parish has wants and claims which can be known
only by a clergyman constantly resident, and which no
proxy can be capable of satisfying to the same extent.
Edmund might, in the common phrase, do the duty of Thornton,
that is, he might read prayers and preach, without giving
up Mansfield Park: he might ride over every Sunday, to a
house nominally inhabited, and go through divine service;
he might be the clergyman of Thornton Lacey every seventh day,
for three or four hours, if that would content him.
But it will not. He knows that human nature needs more
lessons than a weekly sermon can convey; and that if he
does not live among his parishioners, and prove himself,
by constant attention, their well-wisher and friend, he does
very little either for their good or his own."
Mr. Crawford bowed his acquiescence.
"I repeat again," added Sir Thomas, "that Thornton Lacey
is the only house in the neighbourhood in which I should
_not_ be happy to wait on Mr. Crawford as occupier."
Mr. Crawford bowed his thanks.
"Sir Thomas," said Edmund, "undoubtedly understands
the duty of a parish priest. We must hope his son
may prove that _he_ knows it too."
Whatever effect Sir Thomas's little harangue might really
produce on Mr. Crawford, it raised some awkward sensations
in two of the others, two of his most attentive listeners--
Miss Crawford and Fanny. One of whom, having never before
understood that Thornton was so soon and so completely
to be his home, was pondering with downcast eyes on what it
would be _not_ to see Edmund every day; and the other,
startled from the agreeable fancies she had been previously
indulging on the strength of her brother's description,
no longer able, in the picture she had been forming of a
future Thornton, to shut out the church, sink the clergyman,
and see only the respectable, elegant, modernised,
and occasional residence of a man of independent fortune,
was considering Sir Thomas, with decided ill-will,
as the destroyer of all this, and suffering the more
from that involuntary forbearance which his character
and manner commanded, and from not daring to relieve
herself by a single attempt at throwing ridicule on his cause.
All the agreeable of _her_ speculation was over for that hour.
It was time to have done with cards, if sermons prevailed;
and she was glad to find it necessary to come to a conclusion,
and be able to refresh her spirits by a change of place
and neighbour.
The chief of the party were now collected irregularly
round the fire, and waiting the final break-up. William
and Fanny were the most detached. They remained
together at the otherwise deserted card-table, talking
very comfortably, and not thinking of the rest, till some
of the rest began to think of them. Henry Crawford's
chair was the first to be given a direction towards them,
and he sat silently observing them for a few minutes;
himself, in the meanwhile, observed by Sir Thomas,
who was standing in chat with Dr. Grant.
"This is the assembly night," said William. "If I were
at Portsmouth I should be at it, perhaps."
"But you do not wish yourself at Portsmouth, William?"
"No, Fanny, that I do not. I shall have enough of Portsmouth
and of dancing too, when I cannot have you. And I do not
know that there would be any good in going to the assembly,
for I might not get a partner. The Portsmouth girls turn
up their noses at anybody who has not a commission.
One might as well be nothing as a midshipman.
One _is_ nothing, indeed. You remember the Gregorys;
they are grown up amazing fine girls, but they will hardly
speak to _me_, because Lucy is courted by a lieutenant."
"Oh! shame, shame! But never mind it, William" (her own
cheeks in a glow of indignation as she spoke). "It is not
worth minding. It is no reflection on _you_; it is no
more than what the greatest admirals have all experienced,
more or less, in their time. You must think of that,
you must try to make up your mind to it as one of the
hardships which fall to every sailor's share, like bad
weather and hard living, only with this advantage,
that there will be an end to it, that there will come
a time when you will have nothing of that sort to endure.
When you are a lieutenant! only think, William, when you
are a lieutenant, how little you will care for any nonsense
of this kind."
"I begin to think I shall never be a lieutenant, Fanny.
Everybody gets made but me."
"Oh! my dear William, do not talk so; do not be so desponding.
My uncle says nothing, but I am sure he will do everything
in his power to get you made. He knows, as well as you do,
of what consequence it is."
She was checked by the sight of her uncle much nearer
to them than she had any suspicion of, and each found
it necessary to talk of something else.
"Are you fond of dancing, Fanny?"
"Yes, very; only I am soon tired."
"I should like to go to a ball with you and see
you dance. Have you never any balls at Northampton?
I should like to see you dance, and I'd dance with you
if you _would_, for nobody would know who I was here,
and I should like to be your partner once more.
We used to jump about together many a time, did not we?
when the hand-organ was in the street? I am a pretty
good dancer in my way, but I dare say you are a better."
And turning to his uncle, who was now close to them,
"Is not Fanny a very good dancer, sir?"
Fanny, in dismay at such an unprecedented question,
did not know which way to look, or how to be prepared
for the answer. Some very grave reproof, or at least
the coldest expression of indifference, must be coming
to distress her brother, and sink her to the ground.
But, on the contrary, it was no worse than, "I am sorry
to say that I am unable to answer your question.
I have never seen Fanny dance since she was a little girl;
but I trust we shall both think she acquits herself like
a gentlewoman when we do see her, which, perhaps, we may
have an opportunity of doing ere long."
"I have had the pleasure of seeing your sister dance,
Mr. Price," said Henry Crawford, leaning forward,
"and will engage to answer every inquiry which you can
make on the subject, to your entire satisfaction.
But I believe" (seeing Fanny looked distressed) "it must
be at some other time. There is _one_ person in company
who does not like to have Miss Price spoken of."
True enough, he had once seen Fanny dance; and it was
equally true that he would now have answered for her gliding
about with quiet, light elegance, and in admirable time;
but, in fact, he could not for the life of him recall
what her dancing had been, and rather took it for granted
that she had been present than remembered anything about her.
He passed, however, for an admirer of her dancing;
and Sir Thomas, by no means displeased, prolonged the
conversation on dancing in general, and was so well
engaged in describing the balls of Antigua, and listening
to what his nephew could relate of the different modes
of dancing which had fallen within his observation,
that he had not heard his carriage announced, and was first
called to the knowledge of it by the bustle of Mrs. Norris.
"Come, Fanny, Fanny, what are you about? We are going.
Do not you see your aunt is going? Quick, quick! I cannot
bear to keep good old Wilcox waiting. You should always
remember the coachman and horses. My dear Sir Thomas,
we have settled it that the carriage should come back for you,
and Edmund and William."
Sir Thomas could not dissent, as it had been his
own arrangement, previously communicated to his wife
and sister; but _that_ seemed forgotten by Mrs. Norris,
who must fancy that she settled it all herself.
Fanny's last feeling in the visit was disappointment:
for the shawl which Edmund was quietly taking from the
servant to bring and put round her shoulders was seized
by Mr. Crawford's quicker hand, and she was obliged to be
indebted to his more prominent attention.
CHAPTER XXVI
William's desire of seeing Fanny dance made more than a
momentary impression on his uncle. The hope of an opportunity,
which Sir Thomas had then given, was not given to be thought
of no more. He remained steadily inclined to gratify
so amiable a feeling; to gratify anybody else who might
wish to see Fanny dance, and to give pleasure to the young
people in general; and having thought the matter over,
and taken his resolution in quiet independence,
the result of it appeared the next morning at breakfast,
when, after recalling and commending what his nephew
had said, he added, "I do not like, William, that you
should leave Northamptonshire without this indulgence.
It would give me pleasure to see you both dance.
You spoke of the balls at Northampton. Your cousins have
occasionally attended them; but they would not altogether
suit us now. The fatigue would be too much for your aunt.
I believe we must not think of a Northampton ball.
A dance at home would be more eligible; and if--"
"Ah, my dear Sir Thomas!" interrupted Mrs. Norris, "I knew
what was coming. I knew what you were going to say. If dear
Julia were at home, or dearest Mrs. Rushworth at Sotherton,
to afford a reason, an occasion for such a thing, you would
be tempted to give the young people a dance at Mansfield.
I know you would. If _they_ were at home to grace
the ball, a ball you would have this very Christmas.
Thank your uncle, William, thank your uncle!"
"My daughters," replied Sir Thomas, gravely interposing,
"have their pleasures at Brighton, and I hope are very happy;
but the dance which I think of giving at Mansfield
will be for their cousins. Could we be all assembled,
our satisfaction would undoubtedly be more complete,
but the absence of some is not to debar the others
of amusement."
Mrs. Norris had not another word to say. She saw decision
in his looks, and her surprise and vexation required
some minutes' silence to be settled into composure.
A ball at such a time! His daughters absent and herself
not consulted! There was comfort, however, soon at hand.
_She_ must be the doer of everything: Lady Bertram
would of course be spared all thought and exertion,
and it would all fall upon _her_. She should have to do
the honours of the evening; and this reflection quickly
restored so much of her good-humour as enabled her to join
in with the others, before their happiness and thanks were
all expressed.
Edmund, William, and Fanny did, in their different ways,
look and speak as much grateful pleasure in the promised
ball as Sir Thomas could desire. Edmund's feelings
were for the other two. His father had never conferred
a favour or shewn a kindness more to his satisfaction.
Lady Bertram was perfectly quiescent and contented,
and had no objections to make. Sir Thomas engaged
for its giving her very little trouble; and she assured
him "that she was not at all afraid of the trouble;
indeed, she could not imagine there would be any."
Mrs. Norris was ready with her suggestions as to the rooms he
would think fittest to be used, but found it all prearranged;
and when she would have conjectured and hinted about
the day, it appeared that the day was settled too.
Sir Thomas had been amusing himself with shaping a very
complete outline of the business; and as soon as she
would listen quietly, could read his list of the families
to be invited, from whom he calculated, with all necessary
allowance for the shortness of the notice, to collect
young people enough to form twelve or fourteen couple:
and could detail the considerations which had induced
him to fix on the 22nd as the most eligible day.
William was required to be at Portsmouth on the 24th;
the 22nd would therefore be the last day of his visit;
but where the days were so few it would be unwise to fix
on any earlier. Mrs. Norris was obliged to be satisfied
with thinking just the same, and with having been on the
point of proposing the 22nd herself, as by far the best day
for the purpose.
The ball was now a settled thing, and before the evening
a proclaimed thing to all whom it concerned. Invitations were
sent with despatch, and many a young lady went to bed that
night with her head full of happy cares as well as Fanny.
To her the cares were sometimes almost beyond the happiness;
for young and inexperienced, with small means of choice
and no confidence in her own taste, the "how she
should be dressed" was a point of painful solicitude;
and the almost solitary ornament in her possession,
a very pretty amber cross which William had brought
her from Sicily, was the greatest distress of all,
for she had nothing but a bit of ribbon to fasten it to;
and though she had worn it in that manner once, would it
be allowable at such a time in the midst of all the rich
ornaments which she supposed all the other young ladies
would appear in? And yet not to wear it! William had
wanted to buy her a gold chain too, but the purchase had
been beyond his means, and therefore not to wear the cross
might be mortifying him. These were anxious considerations;
enough to sober her spirits even under the prospect
of a ball given principally for her gratification.
The preparations meanwhile went on, and Lady Bertram continued
to sit on her sofa without any inconvenience from them.
She had some extra visits from the housekeeper, and her
maid was rather hurried in making up a new dress for her:
Sir Thomas gave orders, and Mrs. Norris ran about;
but all this gave _her_ no trouble, and as she had foreseen,
"there was, in fact, no trouble in the business."
Edmund was at this time particularly full of cares:
his mind being deeply occupied in the consideration of two
important events now at hand, which were to fix his fate
in life--ordination and matrimony--events of such a serious
character as to make the ball, which would be very quickly
followed by one of them, appear of less moment in his
eyes than in those of any other person in the house.
On the 23rd he was going to a friend near Peterborough,
in the same situation as himself, and they were to
receive ordination in the course of the Christmas week.
Half his destiny would then be determined, but the other
half might not be so very smoothly wooed. His duties would
be established, but the wife who was to share, and animate,
and reward those duties, might yet be unattainable.
He knew his own mind, but he was not always perfectly assured
of knowing Miss Crawford's. There were points on which they
did not quite agree; there were moments in which she did
not seem propitious; and though trusting altogether to
her affection, so far as to be resolved--almost resolved--
on bringing it to a decision within a very short time,
as soon as the variety of business before him were arranged,
and he knew what he had to offer her, he had many
anxious feelings, many doubting hours as to the result.
His conviction of her regard for him was sometimes very strong;
he could look back on a long course of encouragement,
and she was as perfect in disinterested attachment as
in everything else. But at other times doubt and alarm
intermingled with his hopes; and when he thought of her
acknowledged disinclination for privacy and retirement,
her decided preference of a London life, what could he expect
but a determined rejection? unless it were an acceptance
even more to be deprecated, demanding such sacrifices
of situation and employment on his side as conscience
must forbid.
The issue of all depended on one question. Did she
love him well enough to forego what had used to be
essential points? Did she love him well enough to make
them no longer essential? And this question, which he
was continually repeating to himself, though oftenest
answered with a "Yes," had sometimes its "No."
Miss Crawford was soon to leave Mansfield, and on this
circumstance the "no" and the "yes" had been very recently
in alternation. He had seen her eyes sparkle as she spoke
of the dear friend's letter, which claimed a long visit from
her in London, and of the kindness of Henry, in engaging
to remain where he was till January, that he might convey
her thither; he had heard her speak of the pleasure of such
a journey with an animation which had "no" in every tone.
But this had occurred on the first day of its being settled,
within the first hour of the burst of such enjoyment,
when nothing but the friends she was to visit was before her.
He had since heard her express herself differently,
with other feelings, more chequered feelings: he had heard
her tell Mrs. Grant that she should leave her with regret;
that she began to believe neither the friends nor
the pleasures she was going to were worth those she
left behind; and that though she felt she must go,
and knew she should enjoy herself when once away, she was
already looking forward to being at Mansfield again.
Was there not a "yes" in all this?
With such matters to ponder over, and arrange, and re-arrange,
Edmund could not, on his own account, think very much
of the evening which the rest of the family were looking
forward to with a more equal degree of strong interest.
Independent of his two cousins' enjoyment in it,
the evening was to him of no higher value than any
other appointed meeting of the two families might be.
In every meeting there was a hope of receiving farther
confirmation of Miss Crawford's attachment; but the whirl
of a ballroom, perhaps, was not particularly favourable
to the excitement or expression of serious feelings.
To engage her early for the two first dances was all the
command of individual happiness which he felt in his power,
and the only preparation for the ball which he could
enter into, in spite of all that was passing around him
on the subject, from morning till night.
Thursday was the day of the ball; and on Wednesday
morning Fanny, still unable to satisfy herself as to what
she ought to wear, determined to seek the counsel of the
more enlightened, and apply to Mrs. Grant and her sister,
whose acknowledged taste would certainly bear her blameless;
and as Edmund and William were gone to Northampton,
and she had reason to think Mr. Crawford likewise out,
she walked down to the Parsonage without much fear of wanting
an opportunity for private discussion; and the privacy of
such a discussion was a most important part of it to Fanny,
being more than half-ashamed of her own solicitude.
She met Miss Crawford within a few yards of the Parsonage,
just setting out to call on her, and as it seemed to her
that her friend, though obliged to insist on turning back,
was unwilling to lose her walk, she explained her business
at once, and observed, that if she would be so kind
as to give her opinion, it might be all talked over as
well without doors as within. Miss Crawford appeared
gratified by the application, and after a moment's thought,
urged Fanny's returning with her in a much more cordial
manner than before, and proposed their going up into
her room, where they might have a comfortable coze,
without disturbing Dr. and Mrs. Grant, who were together
in the drawing-room. It was just the plan to suit Fanny;
and with a great deal of gratitude on her side for such ready
and kind attention, they proceeded indoors, and upstairs,
and were soon deep in the interesting subject. Miss Crawford,
pleased with the appeal, gave her all her best judgment
and taste, made everything easy by her suggestions,
and tried to make everything agreeable by her encouragement.
The dress being settled in all its grander parts--
"But what shall you have by way of necklace?" said Miss
Crawford. "Shall not you wear your brother's cross?"
And as she spoke she was undoing a small parcel,
which Fanny had observed in her hand when they met.
Fanny acknowledged her wishes and doubts on this point:
she did not know how either to wear the cross, or to
refrain from wearing it. She was answered by having
a small trinket-box placed before her, and being requested
to chuse from among several gold chains and necklaces.
Such had been the parcel with which Miss Crawford
was provided, and such the object of her intended visit:
and in the kindest manner she now urged Fanny's taking one
for the cross and to keep for her sake, saying everything
she could think of to obviate the scruples which were
making Fanny start back at first with a look of horror at
the proposal.
"You see what a collection I have," said she; "more by half
than I ever use or think of. I do not offer them as new.
I offer nothing but an old necklace. You must forgive
the liberty, and oblige me."
Fanny still resisted, and from her heart. The gift was
too valuable. But Miss Crawford persevered, and argued
the case with so much affectionate earnestness through
all the heads of William and the cross, and the ball,
and herself, as to be finally successful. Fanny found
herself obliged to yield, that she might not be accused
of pride or indifference, or some other littleness;
and having with modest reluctance given her consent,
proceeded to make the selection. She looked and looked,
longing to know which might be least valuable; and was
determined in her choice at last, by fancying there was
one necklace more frequently placed before her eyes than
the rest. It was of gold, prettily worked; and though Fanny
would have preferred a longer and a plainer chain as more
adapted for her purpose, she hoped, in fixing on this,
to be chusing what Miss Crawford least wished to keep.
Miss Crawford smiled her perfect approbation; and hastened
to complete the gift by putting the necklace round her,
and making her see how well it looked. Fanny had not a
word to say against its becomingness, and, excepting what
remained of her scruples, was exceedingly pleased with an
acquisition so very apropos. She would rather, perhaps,
have been obliged to some other person. But this was
an unworthy feeling. Miss Crawford had anticipated her
wants with a kindness which proved her a real friend.
"When I wear this necklace I shall always think of you,"
said she, "and feel how very kind you were."
"You must think of somebody else too, when you wear
that necklace," replied Miss Crawford. "You must think
of Henry, for it was his choice in the first place.
He gave it to me, and with the necklace I make over
to you all the duty of remembering the original giver.
It is to be a family remembrancer. The sister is not to be
in your mind without bringing the brother too."
Fanny, in great astonishment and confusion, would have
returned the present instantly. To take what had
been the gift of another person, of a brother too,
impossible! it must not be! and with an eagerness and
embarrassment quite diverting to her companion, she laid
down the necklace again on its cotton, and seemed resolved
either to take another or none at all. Miss Crawford
thought she had never seen a prettier consciousness.
"My dear child," said she, laughing, "what are you afraid of?
Do you think Henry will claim the necklace as mine,
and fancy you did not come honestly by it? or are you
imagining he would be too much flattered by seeing
round your lovely throat an ornament which his money
purchased three years ago, before he knew there was such
a throat in the world? or perhaps"--looking archly--
"you suspect a confederacy between us, and that what
I am now doing is with his knowledge and at his desire?"
With the deepest blushes Fanny protested against such
a thought.
"Well, then," replied Miss Crawford more seriously,
but without at all believing her, "to convince me that you
suspect no trick, and are as unsuspicious of compliment
as I have always found you, take the necklace and say
no more about it. Its being a gift of my brother's need
not make the smallest difference in your accepting it,
as I assure you it makes none in my willingness to part
with it. He is always giving me something or other.
I have such innumerable presents from him that it is quite
impossible for me to value or for him to remember half.
And as for this necklace, I do not suppose I have worn it
six times: it is very pretty, but I never think of it;
and though you would be most heartily welcome to any
other in my trinket-box, you have happened to fix on
the very one which, if I have a choice, I would rather
part with and see in your possession than any other.
Say no more against it, I entreat you. Such a trifle is
not worth half so many words."
Fanny dared not make any farther opposition; and with
renewed but less happy thanks accepted the necklace again,
for there was an expression in Miss Crawford's eyes
which she could not be satisfied with.
It was impossible for her to be insensible of Mr. Crawford's
change of manners. She had long seen it. He evidently
tried to please her: he was gallant, he was attentive,
he was something like what he had been to her cousins:
he wanted, she supposed, to cheat her of her tranquillity
as he had cheated them; and whether he might not have some
concern in this necklace--she could not be convinced that
he had not, for Miss Crawford, complaisant as a sister,
was careless as a woman and a friend.
Reflecting and doubting, and feeling that the possession
of what she had so much wished for did not bring much
satisfaction, she now walked home again, with a change rather
than a diminution of cares since her treading that path before
CHAPTER XXVII
On reaching home Fanny went immediately upstairs to
deposit this unexpected acquisition, this doubtful good
of a necklace, in some favourite box in the East room,
which held all her smaller treasures; but on opening
the door, what was her surprise to find her cousin Edmund
there writing at the table! Such a sight having never
occurred before, was almost as wonderful as it was welcome.
"Fanny," said he directly, leaving his seat and his pen,
and meeting her with something in his hand, "I beg
your pardon for being here. I came to look for you,
and after waiting a little while in hope of your coming in,
was making use of your inkstand to explain my errand.
You will find the beginning of a note to yourself;
but I can now speak my business, which is merely to beg
your acceptance of this little trifle--a chain for
William's cross. You ought to have had it a week ago,
but there has been a delay from my brother's not
being in town by several days so soon as I expected;
and I have only just now received it at Northampton.
I hope you will like the chain itself, Fanny. I endeavoured
to consult the simplicity of your taste; but, at any rate,
I know you will be kind to my intentions, and consider it,
as it really is, a token of the love of one of your
oldest friends."
And so saying, he was hurrying away, before Fanny,
overpowered by a thousand feelings of pain and pleasure,
could attempt to speak; but quickened by one sovereign wish,
she then called out, "Oh! cousin, stop a moment,
pray stop!"
He turned back.
"I cannot attempt to thank you," she continued, in a
very agitated manner; "thanks are out of the question.
I feel much more than I can possibly express.
Your goodness in thinking of me in such a way is beyond--
"
"If that is all you have to say, Fanny" smiling and turning
away again.
"No, no, it is not. I want to consult you."
Almost unconsciously she had now undone the parcel he
had just put into her hand, and seeing before her,
in all the niceness of jewellers' packing, a plain
gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she could not help
bursting forth again, "Oh, this is beautiful indeed!
This is the very thing, precisely what I wished for!
This is the only ornament I have ever had a desire to possess.
It will exactly suit my cross. They must and shall be
worn together. It comes, too, in such an acceptable moment.
Oh, cousin, you do not know how acceptable it is."
"My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too much.
I am most happy that you like the chain, and that it
should be here in time for to-morrow; but your thanks are
far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I have no pleasure
in the world superior to that of contributing to yours.
No, I can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete,
so unalloyed. It is without a drawback."
Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have
lived an hour without saying another word; but Edmund,
after waiting a moment, obliged her to bring down her
mind from its heavenly flight by saying, "But what is it
that you want to consult me about?"
It was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly
longing to return, and hoped to obtain his approbation
of her doing. She gave the history of her recent visit,
and now her raptures might well be over; for Edmund was so
struck with the circumstance, so delighted with what Miss
Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidence
of conduct between them, that Fanny could not but admit
the superior power of one pleasure over his own mind,
though it might have its drawback. It was some time
before she could get his attention to her plan, or any
answer to her demand of his opinion: he was in a reverie
of fond reflection, uttering only now and then a few
half-sentences of praise; but when he did awake and understand,
he was very decided in opposing what she wished.
"Return the necklace! No, my dear Fanny, upon no account.
It would be mortifying her severely. There can hardly
be a more unpleasant sensation than the having anything
returned on our hands which we have given with a reasonable
hope of its contributing to the comfort of a friend.
Why should she lose a pleasure which she has shewn herself
so deserving of?"
"If it had been given to me in the first instance,"
said Fanny, "I should not have thought of returning it;
but being her brother's present, is not it fair to suppose
that she would rather not part with it, when it is
not wanted?"
"She must not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable,
at least: and its having been originally her brother's
gift makes no difference; for as she was not prevented
from offering, nor you from taking it on that account,
it ought not to prevent you from keeping it. No doubt it
is handsomer than mine, and fitter for a ballroom."
"No, it is not handsomer, not at all handsomer
in its way, and, for my purpose, not half so fit.
The chain will agree with William's cross beyond
all comparison better than the necklace."
"For one night, Fanny, for only one night, if it _be_
a sacrifice; I am sure you will, upon consideration,
make that sacrifice rather than give pain to one who has been
so studious of your comfort. Miss Crawford's attentions
to you have been--not more than you were justly entitled to--
I am the last person to think that _could_ _be_,
but they have been invariable; and to be returning them
with what must have something the _air_ of ingratitude,
though I know it could never have the _meaning_, is not
in your nature, I am sure. Wear the necklace, as you
are engaged to do, to-morrow evening, and let the chain,
which was not ordered with any reference to the ball,
be kept for commoner occasions. This is my advice.
I would not have the shadow of a coolness between the two whose
intimacy I have been observing with the greatest pleasure,
and in whose characters there is so much general resemblance
in true generosity and natural delicacy as to make the few
slight differences, resulting principally from situation,
no reasonable hindrance to a perfect friendship. I would
not have the shadow of a coolness arise," he repeated,
his voice sinking a little, "between the two dearest objects
I have on earth."
He was gone as he spoke; and Fanny remained to tranquillise
herself as she could. She was one of his two dearest--
that must support her. But the other: the first!
She had never heard him speak so openly before, and though
it told her no more than what she had long perceived,
it was a stab, for it told of his own convictions and views.
They were decided. He would marry Miss Crawford.
It was a stab, in spite of every long-standing expectation;
and she was obliged to repeat again and again, that she
was one of his two dearest, before the words gave
her any sensation. Could she believe Miss Crawford to
deserve him, it would be--oh, how different would it be--
how far more tolerable! But he was deceived in her:
he gave her merits which she had not; her faults were
what they had ever been, but he saw them no longer.
Till she had shed many tears over this deception,
Fanny could not subdue her agitation; and the dejection
which followed could only be relieved by the influence of
fervent prayers for his happiness.
It was her intention, as she felt it to be her duty,
to try to overcome all that was excessive, all that
bordered on selfishness, in her affection for Edmund.
To call or to fancy it a loss, a disappointment, would be
a presumption for which she had not words strong enough to
satisfy her own humility. To think of him as Miss Crawford
might be justified in thinking, would in her be insanity.
To her he could be nothing under any circumstances;
nothing dearer than a friend. Why did such an idea occur
to her even enough to be reprobated and forbidden? It ought
not to have touched on the confines of her imagination.
She would endeavour to be rational, and to deserve
the right of judging of Miss Crawford's character,
and the privilege of true solicitude for him by a sound
intellect and an honest heart.
She had all the heroism of principle, and was determined
to do her duty; but having also many of the feelings of youth
and nature, let her not be much wondered at, if, after making
all these good resolutions on the side of self-government,
she seized the scrap of paper on which Edmund had begun
writing to her, as a treasure beyond all her hopes,
and reading with the tenderest emotion these words,
"My very dear Fanny, you must do me the favour to accept"
locked it up with the chain, as the dearest part of the gift.
It was the only thing approaching to a letter which she
had ever received from him; she might never receive another;
it was impossible that she ever should receive another
so perfectly gratifying in the occasion and the style.
Two lines more prized had never fallen from the pen
of the most distinguished author--never more completely
blessed the researches of the fondest biographer.
The enthusiasm of a woman's love is even beyond
the biographer's. To her, the handwriting itself,
independent of anything it may convey, is a blessedness.
Never were such characters cut by any other human being
as Edmund's commonest handwriting gave! This specimen,
written in haste as it was, had not a fault; and there
was a felicity in the flow of the first four words,
in the arrangement of "My very dear Fanny," which she
could have looked at for ever.
Having regulated her thoughts and comforted her feelings
by this happy mixture of reason and weakness, she was able
in due time to go down and resume her usual employments
near her aunt Bertram, and pay her the usual observances
without any apparent want of spirits.
Thursday, predestined to hope and enjoyment, came; and opened
with more kindness to Fanny than such self-willed,
unmanageable days often volunteer, for soon after breakfast
a very friendly note was brought from Mr. Crawford
to William, stating that as he found himself obliged
to go to London on the morrow for a few days, he could
not help trying to procure a companion; and therefore
hoped that if William could make up his mind to leave
Mansfield half a day earlier than had been proposed,
he would accept a place in his carriage. Mr. Crawford meant
to be in town by his uncle's accustomary late dinner-hour,
and William was invited to dine with him at the Admiral's.
The proposal was a very pleasant one to William himself,
who enjoyed the idea of travelling post with four horses,
and such a good-humoured, agreeable friend; and, in likening
it to going up with despatches, was saying at once everything
in favour of its happiness and dignity which his imagination
could suggest; and Fanny, from a different motive,
was exceedingly pleased; for the original plan was that
William should go up by the mail from Northampton the
following night, which would not have allowed him an hour's
rest before he must have got into a Portsmouth coach;
and though this offer of Mr. Crawford's would rob her
of many hours of his company, she was too happy in having
William spared from the fatigue of such a journey,
to think of anything else. Sir Thomas approved of it
for another reason. His nephew's introduction to Admiral
Crawford might be of service. The Admiral, he believed,
had interest. Upon the whole, it was a very joyous note.
Fanny's spirits lived on it half the morning, deriving
some accession of pleasure from its writer being himself to go
away.
As for the ball, so near at hand, she had too many
agitations and fears to have half the enjoyment in
anticipation which she ought to have had, or must have
been supposed to have by the many young ladies looking
forward to the same event in situations more at ease,
but under circumstances of less novelty, less interest,
less peculiar gratification, than would be attributed
to her. Miss Price, known only by name to half the
people invited, was now to make her first appearance,
and must be regarded as the queen of the evening.
Who could be happier than Miss Price? But Miss Price
had not been brought up to the trade of _coming_ _out_;
and had she known in what light this ball was, in general,
considered respecting her, it would very much have lessened
her comfort by increasing the fears she already had of doing
wrong and being looked at. To dance without much observation
or any extraordinary fatigue, to have strength and partners
for about half the evening, to dance a little with Edmund,
and not a great deal with Mr. Crawford, to see William
enjoy himself, and be able to keep away from her aunt Norris,
was the height of her ambition, and seemed to comprehend
her greatest possibility of happiness. As these were
the best of her hopes, they could not always prevail;
and in the course of a long morning, spent principally
with her two aunts, she was often under the influence
of much less sanguine views. William, determined to
make this last day a day of thorough enjoyment,
was out snipe-shooting; Edmund, she had too much reason
to suppose, was at the Parsonage; and left alone to bear
the worrying of Mrs. Norris, who was cross because the
housekeeper would have her own way with the supper,
and whom _she_ could not avoid though the housekeeper might,
Fanny was worn down at last to think everything an evil
belonging to the ball, and when sent off with a parting worry
to dress, moved as languidly towards her own room, and felt
as incapable of happiness as if she had been allowed no share in
it.
As she walked slowly upstairs she thought of yesterday;
it had been about the same hour that she had returned
from the Parsonage, and found Edmund in the East room.
"Suppose I were to find him there again to-day!" said she
to herself, in a fond indulgence of fancy.
"Fanny," said a voice at that moment near her.
Starting and looking up, she saw, across the lobby she
had just reached, Edmund himself, standing at the head
of a different staircase. He came towards her. "You look
tired and fagged, Fanny. You have been walking too far."
"No, I have not been out at all."
"Then you have had fatigues within doors, which are worse.
You had better have gone out."
Fanny, not liking to complain, found it easiest to make
no answer; and though he looked at her with his usual kindness,
she believed he had soon ceased to think of her countenance.
He did not appear in spirits: something unconnected with
her was probably amiss. They proceeded upstairs together,
their rooms being on the same floor above.
"I come from Dr. Grant's," said Edmund presently.
"You may guess my errand there, Fanny." And he looked
so conscious, that Fanny could think but of one errand,
which turned her too sick for speech. "I wished to
engage Miss Crawford for the two first dances," was the
explanation that followed, and brought Fanny to life again,
enabling her, as she found she was expected to speak,
to utter something like an inquiry as to the result.
"Yes," he answered, "she is engaged to me; but" (with a smile
that did not sit easy) "she says it is to be the last time
that she ever will dance with me. She is not serious.
I think, I hope, I am sure she is not serious; but I would
rather not hear it. She never has danced with a clergyman,
she says, and she never _will_. For my own sake, I could
wish there had been no ball just at--I mean not this
very week, this very day; to-morrow I leave home."
Fanny struggled for speech, and said, "I am very sorry
that anything has occurred to distress you. This ought
to be a day of pleasure. My uncle meant it so."
"Oh yes, yes! and it will be a day of pleasure.
It will all end right. I am only vexed for a moment.
In fact, it is not that I consider the ball as ill-timed;
what does it signify? But, Fanny," stopping her,
by taking her hand, and speaking low and seriously,
"you know what all this means. You see how it is;
and could tell me, perhaps better than I could tell you,
how and why I am vexed. Let me talk to you a little.
You are a kind, kind listener. I have been pained
by her manner this morning, and cannot get the better
of it. I know her disposition to be as sweet and
faultless as your own, but the influence of her former
companions makes her seem--gives to her conversation,
to her professed opinions, sometimes a tinge of wrong.
She does not _think_ evil, but she speaks it, speaks it
in playfulness; and though I know it to be playfulness,
it grieves me to the soul."
"The effect of education," said Fanny gently.
Edmund could not but agree to it. "Yes, that uncle and aunt!
They have injured the finest mind; for sometimes,
Fanny, I own to you, it does appear more than manner:
it appears as if the mind itself was tainted."
Fanny imagined this to be an appeal to her judgment,
and therefore, after a moment's consideration, said, "If you
only want me as a listener, cousin, I will be as useful
as I can; but I am not qualified for an adviser.
Do not ask advice of _me_. I am not competent."
"You are right, Fanny, to protest against such an office,
but you need not be afraid. It is a subject on which I
should never ask advice; it is the sort of subject on
which it had better never be asked; and few, I imagine,
do ask it, but when they want to be influenced against
their conscience. I only want to talk to you."
"One thing more. Excuse the liberty; but take care
_how_ you talk to me. Do not tell me anything now,
which hereafter you may be sorry for. The time may come--"
The colour rushed into her cheeks as she spoke.
"Dearest Fanny!" cried Edmund, pressing her hand to
his lips with almost as much warmth as if it had been
Miss Crawford's, "you are all considerate thought!
But it is unnecessary here. The time will never come.
No such time as you allude to will ever come. I begin to
think it most improbable: the chances grow less and less;
and even if it should, there will be nothing to be
remembered by either you or me that we need be afraid of,
for I can never be ashamed of my own scruples; and if they
are removed, it must be by changes that will only raise
her character the more by the recollection of the faults
she once had. You are the only being upon earth to whom
I should say what I have said; but you have always known
my opinion of her; you can bear me witness, Fanny, that I
have never been blinded. How many a time have we
talked over her little errors! You need not fear me;
I have almost given up every serious idea of her;
but I must be a blockhead indeed, if, whatever befell me,
I could think of your kindness and sympathy without the
sincerest gratitude."
He had said enough to shake the experience of eighteen.
He had said enough to give Fanny some happier feelings
than she had lately known, and with a brighter look,
she answered, "Yes, cousin, I am convinced that _you_
would be incapable of anything else, though perhaps some
might not. I cannot be afraid of hearing anything you
wish to say. Do not check yourself. Tell me whatever
you like."
They were now on the second floor, and the appearance
of a housemaid prevented any farther conversation.
For Fanny's present comfort it was concluded, perhaps,
at the happiest moment: had he been able to talk another
five minutes, there is no saying that he might not have talked
away all Miss Crawford's faults and his own despondence.
But as it was, they parted with looks on his side of
grateful affection, and with some very precious sensations
on hers. She had felt nothing like it for hours.
Since the first joy from Mr. Crawford's note to William had
worn away, she had been in a state absolutely the reverse;
there had been no comfort around, no hope within her.
Now everything was smiling. William's good fortune
returned again upon her mind, and seemed of greater
value than at first. The ball, too--such an evening
of pleasure before her! It was now a real animation;
and she began to dress for it with much of the happy
flutter which belongs to a ball. All went well:
she did not dislike her own looks; and when she came
to the necklaces again, her good fortune seemed complete,
for upon trial the one given her by Miss Crawford would
by no means go through the ring of the cross. She had,
to oblige Edmund, resolved to wear it; but it was too
large for the purpose. His, therefore, must be worn;
and having, with delightful feelings, joined the chain
and the cross--those memorials of the two most beloved
of her heart, those dearest tokens so formed for each
other by everything real and imaginary--and put them
round her neck, and seen and felt how full of William
and Edmund they were, she was able, without an effort,
to resolve on wearing Miss Crawford's necklace too.
She acknowledged it to be right. Miss Crawford had a claim;
and when it was no longer to encroach on, to interfere
with the stronger claims, the truer kindness of another,
she could do her justice even with pleasure to herself.
The necklace really looked very well; and Fanny left her
room at last, comfortably satisfied with herself and all
about her.
Her aunt Bertram had recollected her on this occasion with
an unusual degree of wakefulness. It had really occurred
to her, unprompted, that Fanny, preparing for a ball,
might be glad of better help than the upper housemaid's,
and when dressed herself, she actually sent her own maid
to assist her; too late, of course, to be of any use.
Mrs. Chapman had just reached the attic floor, when Miss
Price came out of her room completely dressed, and only
civilities were necessary; but Fanny felt her aunt's
attention almost as much as Lady Bertram or Mrs. Chapman
could do themselves.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Her uncle and both her aunts were in the drawing-room
when Fanny went down. To the former she was an interesting
object, and he saw with pleasure the general elegance
of her appearance, and her being in remarkably good looks.
The neatness and propriety of her dress was all that
he would allow himself to commend in her presence,
but upon her leaving the room again soon afterwards,
he spoke of her beauty with very decided praise.
"Yes," said Lady Bertram, "she looks very well.
I sent Chapman to her."
"Look well! Oh, yes!" cried Mrs. Norris, "she has
good reason to look well with all her advantages:
brought up in this family as she has been, with all
the benefit of her cousins' manners before her.
Only think, my dear Sir Thomas, what extraordinary
advantages you and I have been the means of giving her.
The very gown you have been taking notice of is your own
generous present to her when dear Mrs. Rushworth married.
What would she have been if we had not taken her by
the hand?"
Sir Thomas said no more; but when they sat down to table
the eyes of the two young men assured him that the subject
might be gently touched again, when the ladies withdrew,
with more success. Fanny saw that she was approved;
and the consciousness of looking well made her look
still better. From a variety of causes she was happy,
and she was soon made still happier; for in following her
aunts out of the room, Edmund, who was holding open the door,
said, as she passed him, "You must dance with me, Fanny;
you must keep two dances for me; any two that you like,
except the first." She had nothing more to wish for.
She had hardly ever been in a state so nearly approaching
high spirits in her life. Her cousins' former gaiety
on the day of a ball was no longer surprising to her;
she felt it to be indeed very charming, and was actually
practising her steps about the drawing-room as long as she
could be safe from the notice of her aunt Norris, who was
entirely taken up at first in fresh arranging and injuring
the noble fire which the butler had prepared.
Half an hour followed that would have been at least languid
under any other circumstances, but Fanny's happiness
still prevailed. It was but to think of her conversation
with Edmund, and what was the restlessness of Mrs. Norris?
What were the yawns of Lady Bertram?
The gentlemen joined them; and soon after began the sweet
expectation of a carriage, when a general spirit of ease
and enjoyment seemed diffused, and they all stood about
and talked and laughed, and every moment had its pleasure
and its hope. Fanny felt that there must be a struggle
in Edmund's cheerfulness, but it was delightful to see
the effort so successfully made.
When the carriages were really heard, when the guests began
really to assemble, her own gaiety of heart was much subdued:
the sight of so many strangers threw her back into herself;
and besides the gravity and formality of the first great circle,
which the manners of neither Sir Thomas nor Lady Bertram
were of a kind to do away, she found herself occasionally
called on to endure something worse. She was introduced
here and there by her uncle, and forced to be spoken to,
and to curtsey, and speak again. This was a hard duty,
and she was never summoned to it without looking at William,
as he walked about at his ease in the background of the scene,
and longing to be with him.
The entrance of the Grants and Crawfords was a favourable epoch.
The stiffness of the meeting soon gave way before their
popular manners and more diffused intimacies: little groups
were formed, and everybody grew comfortable. Fanny felt
the advantage; and, drawing back from the toils of civility,
would have been again most happy, could she have kept
her eyes from wandering between Edmund and Mary Crawford.
_She_ looked all loveliness--and what might not be
the end of it? Her own musings were brought to an end
on perceiving Mr. Crawford before her, and her thoughts
were put into another channel by his engaging her almost
instantly for the first two dances. Her happiness on this
occasion was very much _a_ _la_ _mortal_, finely chequered.
To be secure of a partner at first was a most essential good--
for the moment of beginning was now growing seriously near;
and she so little understood her own claims as to think
that if Mr. Crawford had not asked her, she must have been
the last to be sought after, and should have received
a partner only through a series of inquiry, and bustle,
and interference, which would have been terrible; but at
the same time there was a pointedness in his manner of asking
her which she did not like, and she saw his eye glancing
for a moment at her necklace, with a smile--she thought
there was a smile--which made her blush and feel wretched.
And though there was no second glance to disturb her,
though his object seemed then to be only quietly agreeable,
she could not get the better of her embarrassment,
heightened as it was by the idea of his perceiving it,
and had no composure till he turned away to some one else.
Then she could gradually rise up to the genuine satisfaction
of having a partner, a voluntary partner, secured against
the dancing began.
When the company were moving into the ballroom, she found
herself for the first time near Miss Crawford, whose eyes
and smiles were immediately and more unequivocally directed
as her brother's had been, and who was beginning to speak
on the subject, when Fanny, anxious to get the story over,
hastened to give the explanation of the second necklace:
the real chain. Miss Crawford listened; and all her intended
compliments and insinuations to Fanny were forgotten:
she felt only one thing; and her eyes, bright as they
had been before, shewing they could yet be brighter,
she exclaimed with eager pleasure, "Did he? Did Edmund?
That was like himself. No other man would have thought of it.
I honour him beyond expression." And she looked around
as if longing to tell him so. He was not near, he was
attending a party of ladies out of the room; and Mrs. Grant
coming up to the two girls, and taking an arm of each,
they followed with the rest.
Fanny's heart sunk, but there was no leisure for
thinking long even of Miss Crawford's feelings.
They were in the ballroom, the violins were playing,
and her mind was in a flutter that forbade its fixing on
anything serious. She must watch the general arrangements,
and see how everything was done.
In a few minutes Sir Thomas came to her, and asked if
she were engaged; and the "Yes, sir; to Mr. Crawford,"
was exactly what he had intended to hear. Mr. Crawford
was not far off; Sir Thomas brought him to her,
saying something which discovered to Fanny, that _she_
was to lead the way and open the ball; an idea that had
never occurred to her before. Whenever she had thought
of the minutiae of the evening, it had been as a matter
of course that Edmund would begin with Miss Crawford;
and the impression was so strong, that though _her_ _uncle_
spoke the contrary, she could not help an exclamation
of surprise, a hint of her unfitness, an entreaty even to
be excused. To be urging her opinion against Sir Thomas's
was a proof of the extremity of the case; but such was her
horror at the first suggestion, that she could actually
look him in the face and say that she hoped it might be
settled otherwise; in vain, however: Sir Thomas smiled,
tried to encourage her, and then looked too serious,
and said too decidedly, "It must be so, my dear," for her
to hazard another word; and she found herself the next
moment conducted by Mr. Crawford to the top of the room,
and standing there to be joined by the rest of the dancers,
couple after couple, as they were formed.
She could hardly believe it. To be placed above so many
elegant young women! The distinction was too great.
It was treating her like her cousins! And her thoughts
flew to those absent cousins with most unfeigned and truly
tender regret, that they were not at home to take their
own place in the room, and have their share of a pleasure
which would have been so very delightful to them.
So often as she had heard them wish for a ball at home
as the greatest of all felicities! And to have them away
when it was given--and for _her_ to be opening the ball--
and with Mr. Crawford too! She hoped they would not envy
her that distinction _now_; but when she looked back
to the state of things in the autumn, to what they had all
been to each other when once dancing in that house before,
the present arrangement was almost more than she could
understand herself.
The ball began. It was rather honour than happiness
to Fanny, for the first dance at least: her partner was
in excellent spirits, and tried to impart them to her;
but she was a great deal too much frightened to have
any enjoyment till she could suppose herself no longer
looked at. Young, pretty, and gentle, however, she had
no awkwardnesses that were not as good as graces,
and there were few persons present that were not disposed
to praise her. She was attractive, she was modest,
she was Sir Thomas's niece, and she was soon said
to be admired by Mr. Crawford. It was enough to give
her general favour. Sir Thomas himself was watching
her progress down the dance with much complacency;
he was proud of his niece; and without attributing
all her personal beauty, as Mrs. Norris seemed to do,
to her transplantation to Mansfield, he was pleased
with himself for having supplied everything else:
education and manners she owed to him.
Miss Crawford saw much of Sir Thomas's thoughts as he stood,
and having, in spite of all his wrongs towards her,
a general prevailing desire of recommending herself to him,
took an opportunity of stepping aside to say something
agreeable of Fanny. Her praise was warm, and he received
it as she could wish, joining in it as far as discretion,
and politeness, and slowness of speech would allow,
and certainly appearing to greater advantage on the subject
than his lady did soon afterwards, when Mary, perceiving her
on a sofa very near, turned round before she began to dance,
to compliment her on Miss Price's looks.
"Yes, she does look very well," was Lady Bertram's placid reply.
"Chapman helped her to dress. I sent Chapman to her."
Not but that she was really pleased to have Fanny admired;
but she was so much more struck with her own kindness
in sending Chapman to her, that she could not get it out
of her head.
Miss Crawford knew Mrs. Norris too well to think of
gratifying _her_ by commendation of Fanny; to her, it was
as the occasion offered--"Ah! ma'am, how much we want dear
Mrs. Rushworth and Julia to-night!" and Mrs. Norris paid
her with as many smiles and courteous words as she had
time for, amid so much occupation as she found for herself
in making up card-tables, giving hints to Sir Thomas,
and trying to move all the chaperons to a better part of the room.
Miss Crawford blundered most towards Fanny herself in her
intentions to please. She meant to be giving her little
heart a happy flutter, and filling her with sensations
of delightful self-consequence; and, misinterpreting Fanny's
blushes, still thought she must be doing so when she
went to her after the two first dances, and said, with a
significant look, "Perhaps _you_ can tell me why my brother
goes to town to-morrow? He says he has business there,
but will not tell me what. The first time he ever denied
me his confidence! But this is what we all come to.
All are supplanted sooner or later. Now, I must apply
to you for information. Pray, what is Henry going for?"
Fanny p