Austen, Jane
Mansfield Park
The Novels of Jane Austen. 2nd ed. R. W. Chapman, ed. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1926
1814
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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
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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
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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."
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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 dearSir 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
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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"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
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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
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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 the Island, 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
AusMans19
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
AusMans20
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
AusMans21
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
AusMans22
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.
AusMans23
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
AusMans24
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?"
AusMans25
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."
AusMans26
"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
AusMans27
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
AusMans28
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
AusMans29
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 have been a liberal
AusMans30
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
AusMans31
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 her time, 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
AusMans32
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
AusMans33
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.
AusMans34
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.
AusMans35
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 te--te-a`-te--te 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
AusMans36
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
AusMans37
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
AusMans38
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
AusMans39
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
AusMans40
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
AusMans41
which now obliged her protege=e, 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
AusMans42
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
AusMans43
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."
AusMans44
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
AusMans45
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 at first?"
"And besides, Miss Bertram is engaged. Remember
that, my dear brother. Her choice is made."
"Yes, and I like her the better for it. An engaged
woman is always more agreeable than a disengaged.
She is satisfied with herself. Her cares are over, and she
feels that she may exert all her 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
AusMans46
to suppose she would ever give her hand without her
heart."
"Mary, how shall we manage him?"
"We must leave him to himself I believe. Talking
does no good. He will be taken in at last."
"But I would not have him taken in, I 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
AusMans47
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
AusMans48
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."
AusMans49
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
AusMans50
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
should be,"
said Mr. Bertram, gallantly,
"are doing
a great deal to set them right."
"The error is plain enough,"
said the less courteous
Edmund;
"such girls are ill brought up. They are
given wrong notions from the beginning. They are
always acting upon motives of vanity -- and there is no
more real modesty in their behaviour before they 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 not out, give themselves the same airs and take
the same liberties as if they were, which I have seen done.
That is worse than any thing -- quite disgusting!"
"Yes, that is very inconvenient indeed,"
said Mr. Bertram.
AusMans51
"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."
AusMans52
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.
AusMans53
"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
AusMans54
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
AusMans55
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:
AusMans56
"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."
AusMans57
"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 in hand 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
AusMans58
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,
AusMans59
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,
AusMans60
"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
AusMans61
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
AusMans62
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.
AusMans63
"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
AusMans64
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
AusMans65
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
AusMans66
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
AusMans67
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;
AusMans68
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
AusMans69
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
AusMans70
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.
AusMans71
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.
AusMans72
"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."
AusMans73
"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."
AusMans74
"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.
AusMans75
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
AusMans76
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
AusMans77
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."
AusMans78
"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.
AusMans79
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.
AusMans80
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
AusMans81
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
AusMans82
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
AusMans83
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.
AusMans84
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
AusMans85
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
AusMans86
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
AusMans87
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 at times the difficulty of fixing our
thoughts as we could wish; but if you are supposing it
a frequent thing, that is to say, a weakness grown into
a habit from neglect, what could be expected from the
private devotions of such persons? Do you think the
minds which are suffered, which are indulged in wanderings
in a chapel, would be more collected in a closet?"
AusMans88
"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.
AusMans89
"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
AusMans90
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
AusMans91
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."
AusMans92
"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 not very often, I do think it.
For what is to be done in the church? Men love to
distinguish themselves, and in either of the other lines,
distinction may be gained, but not in the church. A
clergyman 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
AusMans93
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."
AusMans94
"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;
AusMans95
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
AusMans96
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.
AusMans97
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
AusMans98
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
AusMans99
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
AusMans100
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."
AusMans101
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.
AusMans102
"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."
AusMans103
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
AusMans104
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
AusMans105
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
AusMans106
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.
AusMans107
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
AusMans108
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
AusMans109
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
AusMans110
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,
AusMans111
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,
AusMans112
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
AusMans113
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.
AusMans114
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
AusMans115
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
AusMans116
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
AusMans117
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.
AusMans118
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 will
be. -- He is growing extremely particular in his attentions."
Fanny could listen no farther.
Listening and wondering
were all suspended for a time, for Mr. Bertram was in
the room 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
AusMans119
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,
AusMans120
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."
AusMans121
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
AusMans122
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.
AusMans123
"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
AusMans124
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
AusMans125
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
AusMans126
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 to be'd and not to be'd, in this
very
room, for his amusement! And I am sure, my name was
AusMans127
Norval, every evening of my life through one Christmas
holidays."
"It was a very different thing. -- You must see the
difference yourself. My father wished us, as 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
AusMans128
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
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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
AusMans134
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
AusMans135
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
AusMans136
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
AusMans137
beginning to be called the Theatre, and Miss Bertram's
resolving to go down to the Parsonage herself with the
offer of Amelia to Miss Crawford; and Fanny remained
alone.
The first use she made of her solitude was to take up
the volume which had been left on the table, and begin
to acquaint 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.
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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
AusMans139
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
AusMans140
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
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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
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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
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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;
AusMans144
"but I thought I should like the Count best -- though
I do not much relish the finery I am to have."
"You chose very wisely, I am sure,"
replied Miss Crawford,
with a brightened look.
"Anhalt is a heavy
part."
"The Count has two and forty speeches,"
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 that table --
(looking round) --
it certainly will not be taken."
Edmund said no more.
"If any part could tempt you to act, I suppose it
AusMans145
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
AusMans146
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
AusMans147
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
AusMans148
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,"
AusMans147
he added. --
AusMans148
"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" --
AusMans149
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 my own,
before we rehearse together. -- It will be very disagreeable,
and by no means what I expected."
AusMans150
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
AusMans151
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
AusMans152
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
AusMans153
she ought to do; and as she walked round the room her
doubts were increasing.
Was she right in refusing what
was so warmly asked, so strongly wished for? what
might be so essential to a scheme on which some of those
to whom she owed the greatest complaisance, had set
their hearts? Was it not ill-nature -- selfishness -- and
a fear of exposing herself? And would Edmund's
judgment, would his persuasion of Sir Thomas's disapprobation
of the whole, be enough to justify her in a determined
denial in spite of all the rest? It 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
AusMans154
from his being admitted among us in this manner, is
highly objectionable, the more than intimacy -- the
familiarity. I cannot think of it with any patience --
and it does appear to me an evil of such magnitude as
must, if possible, be prevented. Do not you see it in the
same light?"
"Yes, but what can be done? Your brother is so
determined?"
"There is but one thing to be done, Fanny. I must
take Anhalt myself. I am well aware that nothing else
will quiet Tom."
Fanny could not answer him.
"It is not at all what I like,"
he continued.
"No
man can like being driven into the appearance of such
inconsistency. After being known to oppose the scheme
from the beginning, 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,
AusMans155
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.
AusMans156
"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
AusMans157
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.
AusMans158
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, to him on the occasion,
betraying no exultation beyond the lines about the
corners of the mouth, and seemed to think it as great an
escape to be quit of the intrusion of Charles Maddox, as
if they had been forced into admitting him against their
inclination.
"To have it quite in their own family circle
was what they had particularly wished. A stranger
among them would have been the destruction of all their
comfort,"
and when Edmund, pursuing that idea, gave
a hint of his hope as to the limitation of the audience,
they were ready, in the complaisance of the moment, to
promise 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."
AusMans159
"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;
AusMans160
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
AusMans161
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.
AusMans162
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
AusMans163
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.
AusMans164
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
AusMans165
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
AusMans166
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."
AusMans167
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
AusMans168
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
AusMans169
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
AusMans170
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.
AusMans171
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
AusMans172
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."
AusMans175
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."
AusMans176
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
AusMans177
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
AusMans178
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,
AusMans179
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
AusMans180
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
AusMans181
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:
AusMans182
"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
AusMans183
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
AusMans184
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
AusMans185
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
AusMans186
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.
AusMans187
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
AusMans188
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
AusMans189
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
AusMans190
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
AusMans191
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
AusMans192
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.
AusMans193
"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
AusMans194
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
AusMans195
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.
AusMans196
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
AusMans197
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
AusMans198
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
AusMans199
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
AusMans200
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.
AusMans201
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
AusMans202
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
AusMans203
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
AusMans204
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!
AusMans205
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,
AusMans206
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
AusMans207
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
AusMans208
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
AusMans209
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
AusMans210
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 te--te-a`-te--te 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
AusMans211
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,
AusMans212
"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
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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
AusMans214
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.
AusMans215
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
AusMans216
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.
AusMans217
"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
AusMans218
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
AusMans219
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.
AusMans220
"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.
AusMans221
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
AusMans222
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
AusMans223
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
AusMans224
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
AusMans225
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
AusMans226
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
AusMans227
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
AusMans228
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.
AusMans229
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
AusMans230
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
AusMans231
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
AusMans232
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
AusMans233
elevated beyond the common timidity of her mind by
the flow of her love for William.
This dearWilliam 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 prote=ge=,
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
AusMans234
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 te--te-a`-te--te, whichSir 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,
AusMans235
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
AusMans236
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
AusMans237
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.
AusMans238
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 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
AusMans239
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,
AusMans240
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,
AusMans241
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
AusMans242
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 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
AusMans243
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
AusMans244
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;
AusMans245
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;
AusMans246
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
AusMans247
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
AusMans248
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
AusMans249
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."
AusMans250
"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
AusMans251
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.
AusMans252
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
AusMans253
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
AusMans254
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
AusMans255
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
AusMans256
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
AusMans257
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
AusMans258
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
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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
AusMans260
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.
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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.
AusMans262
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
AusMans263
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 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
AusMans264
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
AusMans265
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
AusMans266
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
AusMans267
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 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."
AusMans268
"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
AusMans269
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
AusMans270
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,
AusMans271
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.
AusMans272
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
AusMans273
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
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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
AusMans275
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 her uncle
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
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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
AusMans277
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;
AusMans278
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
AusMans279
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
AusMans280
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,
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"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.
AusMans282
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
AusMans283
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
AusMans284
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.
AusMans285
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
AusMans286
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
AusMans287
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
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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;
AusMans289
-- 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."
AusMans290
"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.
AusMans291
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
AusMans292
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.
AusMans293
"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
AusMans294
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
AusMans295
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
AusMans296
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
AusMans297
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?"
AusMans298
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
AusMans299
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
AusMans300
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 deepest interest, in twofold motives, in views and
wishes more than could be told,
that Fanny could not have
remained insensible of his drift, had she been able to
attend; but her heart was so full and her senses still
so astonished, that she could listen but imperfectly even
to what he told her of William, and saying only when he
paused,
"How kind! how very kind! Oh! Mr. Crawford,
we are infinitely obliged to you. Dearest, dearest
William!"
she jumped up and moved in haste towards
the door, crying out,
"I will go to my uncle. My uncle
ought to know it as soon as possible."
But this could
not be suffered. The opportunity was too fair, and his
AusMans301
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
AusMans302
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
AusMans303
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."
AusMans304
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
AusMans305
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
AusMans306
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."
AusMans307
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
AusMans308
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.
AusMans311
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.
AusMans312
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,
AusMans313
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 has been carried too far in your case.
-- I am aware that there has been sometimes, in some
points, a misplaced distinction; but I think too well of
you, Fanny, to suppose you will ever harbour resentment
on that account. -- You have an understanding, which will
prevent you from receiving things only in part, and judging
partially by the event. -- You will take in the whole
of the past, you will consider times, persons, and probabilities,
and you will feel that they were not least your
friends who were educating and preparing you for that
mediocrity of condition which seemed to be your lot. --
Though their caution may prove eventually unnecessary,
it was kindly meant; and of this you may be assured,
that every advantage of affluence will be doubled by the
little privations and restrictions that may have been
imposed. I am sure you will not disappoint my opinion
of you, by failing at any time to treat your aunt Norris
with the respect and attention that are due to her.
-- But enough of this. Sit down, my dear. I must
speak to you for a few minutes, but I will not detain
you long."
Fanny obeyed, with eyes cast down and colour rising.
-- After a moment's pause, Sir Thomas, trying to suppress
a smile, went on.
"You are not aware, perhaps, that I have had a visitor
this morning. -- I had not been long in my own room, after
breakfast, when Mr. Crawford was shewn in. -- His errand
you may probably conjecture."
Fanny's colour grew deeper and deeper; and her uncle
perceiving that she was embarrassed to a degree that
made either speaking or looking up quite impossible.
AusMans314
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."
AusMans315
"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
AusMans316
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,
AusMans317
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
AusMans318
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
AusMans319
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."
AusMans320
"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,
AusMans321
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
AusMans322
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!"
AusMans323
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
AusMans324
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,
AusMans325
"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.
AusMans326
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.
AusMans327
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,
AusMans328
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
AusMans329
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
AusMans330
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
AusMans331
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
AusMans332
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
AusMans333
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."
AusMans334
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
AusMans335
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
AusMans336
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,
AusMans337
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.
AusMans338
"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
AusMans339
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
AusMans340
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?"
AusMans341
"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
AusMans342
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."
AusMans343
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.
AusMans344
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.
AusMans345
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
AusMans346
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
AusMans347
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
AusMans348
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
AusMans349
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
AusMans350
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,
AusMans351
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
AusMans352
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
AusMans353
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,
AusMans354
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
AusMans355
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.
AusMans356
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
AusMans357
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
AusMans358
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
AusMans359
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."
AusMans360
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
AusMans361
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
AusMans362
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
AusMans363
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."
AusMans364
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
AusMans365
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 te--te a` te--te 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.
AusMans366
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
AusMans367
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.
AusMans368
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
AusMans369
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
AusMans370
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
AusMans371
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.
AusMans372
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.
AusMans373
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
AusMans374
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.
AusMans375
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
AusMans376
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,
AusMans377
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
AusMans378
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
AusMans379
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
AusMans380
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
AusMans381
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.
AusMans382
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.
AusMans383
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
AusMans384
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.
AusMans385
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.
AusMans386
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,
AusMans387
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.
AusMans388
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
AusMans389
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,
AusMans390
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
AusMans391
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
AusMans392
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.
AusMans393
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 seemed very 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
AusMans394
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
AusMans395
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
AusMans396
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
AusMans397
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
AusMans398
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.
AusMans399
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
AusMans400
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
AusMans401
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
AusMans402
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
AusMans403
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 --
AusMans404
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,
AusMans405
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."
AusMans406
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!
AusMans407
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.
AusMans408
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.
AusMans409
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
AusMans410
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,
AusMans411
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.
AusMans412
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
AusMans413
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
AusMans414
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?
AusMans415
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
AusMans416
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
AusMans417
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
AusMans418
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.
AusMans419
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.
AusMans420
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.
AusMans421
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
AusMans422
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
AusMans423
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
AusMans424
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
AusMans425
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."
AusMans426
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
AusMans427
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
AusMans428
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.
AusMans429
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
AusMans430
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
AusMans431
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
AusMans432
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
AusMans433
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
AusMans434
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
AusMans435
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
AusMans436
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.
AusMans437
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."
AusMans438
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
AusMans439
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.
AusMans440
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
AusMans441
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
AusMans442
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
AusMans443
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
AusMans444
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
AusMans445
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
AusMans446
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
AusMans447
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."
AusMans448
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
AusMans449
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,
AusMans450
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 at least, 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
AusMans451
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.
AusMans452
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
AusMans453
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
AusMans454
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
AusMans455
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
AusMans456
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
AusMans457
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
AusMans458
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
AusMans459
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
AusMans460
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.
AusMans461
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
AusMans462
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
AusMans463
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,
AusMans464
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
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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
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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
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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
AusMans468
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
AusMans469
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.
AusMans470
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.
AusMans471
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 whichSir 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
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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
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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.