“Very well, very well,” cried Dr. Grant, “all the better; I am glad
to hear you have anything so good in the house. But Miss Price and Mr.
Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their chance. We none of us want
to hear the bill of fare. A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner,
is all we have in view. A turkey, or a goose, or a leg of mutton, or
whatever you and your cook chuse to give us.”
The two cousins walked home together; and, except in the immediate
discussion of this engagement, which Edmund spoke of with the warmest
satisfaction, as so particularly desirable for her in the intimacy which
he saw with so much pleasure established, it was a silent walk; for
having finished that subject, he grew thoughtful and indisposed for any
other.
CHAPTER XXIII
“But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?” said Lady Bertram. “How came she
to think of asking Fanny? Fanny never dines there, you know, in this
sort of way. I cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not want to go.
Fanny, you do not want to go, do you?”
“If you put such a question to her,” cried Edmund, preventing his
cousin's speaking, “Fanny will immediately say No; but I am sure, my
dear mother, she would like to go; and I can see no reason why she
should not.”
“I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her? She never
did before. She used to ask your sisters now and then, but she never
asked Fanny.”
“If you cannot do without me, ma'am--” said Fanny, in a self-denying
tone.
“But my mother will have my father with her all the evening.”
“To be sure, so I shall.”
“Suppose you take my father's opinion, ma'am.”
“That's well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas, as
soon as he comes in, whether I can do without her.”
“As you please, ma'am, on that head; but I meant my father's opinion
as to the -propriety- of the invitation's being accepted or not; and
I think he will consider it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by
Fanny, that being the -first- invitation it should be accepted.”
“I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very much surprised that
Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all.”
There was nothing more to be said, or that could be said to any purpose,
till Sir Thomas were present; but the subject involving, as it did,
her own evening's comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in Lady
Bertram's mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking in for a
minute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room, she called
him back again, when he had almost closed the door, with “Sir Thomas,
stop a moment--I have something to say to you.”
Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising her
voice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came back. Her
story began; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear
herself the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more than her
nerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew--more anxious perhaps than
she ought to be--for what was it after all whether she went or staid?
but if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and
with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and
at last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly
submissive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It
began, on Lady Bertram's part, with--“I have something to tell you that
will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner.”
“Well,” said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise.
“Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?”
“She will be late,” said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; “but what is
your difficulty?”
Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his
mother's story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, “So strange!
for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her.”
“But is it not very natural,” observed Edmund, “that Mrs. Grant should
wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?”
“Nothing can be more natural,” said Sir Thomas, after a short
deliberation; “nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything,
in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss
Price, to Lady Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only
surprise I can feel is, that this should be the -first- time of its
being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional
answer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that she
must wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see
no reason why she should be denied the indulgence.”
“But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?”
“Indeed I think you may.”
“She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here.”
“Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us, and
I shall certainly be at home.”
“Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund.”
The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way
to his own.
“Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest
hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go.”
“Thank you, I am -so- glad,” was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when
she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,
“And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing
something there to pain me?”
In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an
engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in
hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined
out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three
people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of
preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor
assistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings and
directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to
anybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence of
an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very ill humour,
and seemed intent only on lessening her niece's pleasure, both present
and future, as much as possible.
“Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention
and indulgence! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for
thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to
look upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that
there is no real occasion for your going into company in this sort of
way, or ever dining out at all; and it is what you must not depend upon
ever being repeated. Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is
meant as any particular compliment to -you-; the compliment is intended
to your uncle and aunt and me. Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due to
-us- to take a little notice of you, or else it would never have come
into her head, and you may be very certain that, if your cousin Julia
had been at home, you would not have been asked at all.”
Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all Mrs. Grant's part of
the favour, that Fanny, who found herself expected to speak, could only
say that she was very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her,
and that she was endeavouring to put her aunt's evening work in such a
state as to prevent her being missed.
“Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you, or you
would not be allowed to go. -I- shall be here, so you may be quite easy
about your aunt. And I hope you will have a very -agreeable- day, and
find it all mighty -delightful-. But I must observe that five is the
very awkwardest of all possible numbers to sit down to table; and I
cannot but be surprised that such an -elegant- lady as Mrs. Grant should
not contrive better! And round their enormous great wide table, too,
which fills up the room so dreadfully! Had the doctor been contented to
take my dining-table when I came away, as anybody in their senses would
have done, instead of having that absurd new one of his own, which is
wider, literally wider than the dinner-table here, how infinitely better
it would have been! and how much more he would have been respected! for
people are never respected when they step out of their proper sphere.
Remember that, Fanny. Five--only five to be sitting round that table.
However, you will have dinner enough on it for ten, I dare say.”
Mrs. Norris fetched breath, and went on again.
“The nonsense and folly of people's stepping out of their rank and
trying to appear above themselves, makes me think it right to give -you-
a hint, Fanny, now that you are going into company without any of us;
and I do beseech and entreat you not to be putting yourself forward, and
talking and giving your opinion as if you were one of your cousins--as
if you were dear Mrs. Rushworth or Julia. -That- will never do, believe
me. Remember, wherever you are, you must be the lowest and last; and
though Miss Crawford is in a manner at home at the Parsonage, you are
not to be taking place of her. And as to coming away at night, you are
to stay just as long as Edmund chuses. Leave him to settle -that-.”
“Yes, ma'am, I should not think of anything else.”
“And if it should rain, which I think exceedingly likely, for I never
saw it more threatening for a wet evening in my life, you must manage as
well as you can, and not be expecting the carriage to be sent for you. I
certainly do not go home to-night, and, therefore, the carriage will not
be out on my account; so you must make up your mind to what may happen,
and take your things accordingly.”
Her niece thought it perfectly reasonable. She rated her own claims
to comfort as low even as Mrs. Norris could; and when Sir Thomas soon
afterwards, just opening the door, said, “Fanny, at what time would you
have the carriage come round?” she felt a degree of astonishment which
made it impossible for her to speak.
“My dear Sir Thomas!” cried Mrs. Norris, red with anger, “Fanny can
walk.”
“Walk!” repeated Sir Thomas, in a tone of most unanswerable dignity, and
coming farther into the room. “My niece walk to a dinner engagement at
this time of the year! Will twenty minutes after four suit you?”
“Yes, sir,” was Fanny's humble answer, given with the feelings almost
of a criminal towards Mrs. Norris; and not bearing to remain with her
in what might seem a state of triumph, she followed her uncle out of
the room, having staid behind him only long enough to hear these words
spoken in angry agitation--
“Quite unnecessary! a great deal too kind! But Edmund goes; true, it is
upon Edmund's account. I observed he was hoarse on Thursday night.”
But this could not impose on Fanny. She felt that the carriage was for
herself, and herself alone: and her uncle's consideration of her, coming
immediately after such representations from her aunt, cost her some
tears of gratitude when she was alone.
The coachman drove round to a minute; another minute brought down the
gentleman; and as the lady had, with a most scrupulous fear of being
late, been many minutes seated in the drawing-room, Sir Thomas saw them
off in as good time as his own correctly punctual habits required.
“Now I must look at you, Fanny,” said Edmund, with the kind smile of an
affectionate brother, “and tell you how I like you; and as well as I can
judge by this light, you look very nicely indeed. What have you got on?”
“The new dress that my uncle was so good as to give me on my cousin's
marriage. I hope it is not too fine; but I thought I ought to wear it as
soon as I could, and that I might not have such another opportunity all
the winter. I hope you do not think me too fine.”
“A woman can never be too fine while she is all in white. No, I see no
finery about you; nothing but what is perfectly proper. Your gown seems
very pretty. I like these glossy spots. Has not Miss Crawford a gown
something the same?”
In approaching the Parsonage they passed close by the stable-yard and
coach-house.
“Heyday!” said Edmund, “here's company, here's a carriage! who have they
got to meet us?” And letting down the side-glass to distinguish, “'Tis
Crawford's, Crawford's barouche, I protest! There are his own two men
pushing it back into its old quarters. He is here, of course. This is
quite a surprise, Fanny. I shall be very glad to see him.”
There was no occasion, there was no time for Fanny to say how very
differently she felt; but the idea of having such another to observe
her was a great increase of the trepidation with which she performed the
very awful ceremony of walking into the drawing-room.
In the drawing-room Mr. Crawford certainly was, having been just long
enough arrived to be ready for dinner; and the smiles and pleased looks
of the three others standing round him, shewed how welcome was his
sudden resolution of coming to them for a few days on leaving Bath.
A very cordial meeting passed between him and Edmund; and with the
exception of Fanny, the pleasure was general; and even to -her- there
might be some advantage in his presence, since every addition to the
party must rather forward her favourite indulgence of being suffered to
sit silent and unattended to. She was soon aware of this herself; for
though she must submit, as her own propriety of mind directed, in spite
of her aunt Norris's opinion, to being the principal lady in company,
and to all the little distinctions consequent thereon, she found, while
they were at table, such a happy flow of conversation prevailing, in
which she was not required to take any part--there was so much to be
said between the brother and sister about Bath, so much between the two
young men about hunting, so much of politics between Mr. Crawford and
Dr. Grant, and of everything and all together between Mr. Crawford
and Mrs. Grant, as to leave her the fairest prospect of having only
to listen in quiet, and of passing a very agreeable day. She could not
compliment the newly arrived gentleman, however, with any appearance of
interest, in a scheme for extending his stay at Mansfield, and sending
for his hunters from Norfolk, which, suggested by Dr. Grant, advised by
Edmund, and warmly urged by the two sisters, was soon in possession of
his mind, and which he seemed to want to be encouraged even by her to
resolve on. Her opinion was sought as to the probable continuance of the
open weather, but her answers were as short and indifferent as civility
allowed. She could not wish him to stay, and would much rather not have
him speak to her.
Her two absent cousins, especially Maria, were much in her thoughts on
seeing him; but no embarrassing remembrance affected -his- spirits.
Here he was again on the same ground where all had passed before, and
apparently as willing to stay and be happy without the Miss Bertrams,
as if he had never known Mansfield in any other state. She heard them
spoken of by him only in a general way, till they were all re-assembled
in the drawing-room, when Edmund, being engaged apart in some matter of
business with Dr. Grant, which seemed entirely to engross them, and
Mrs. Grant occupied at the tea-table, he began talking of them with more
particularity to his other sister. With a significant smile, which made
Fanny quite hate him, he said, “So! Rushworth and his fair bride are at
Brighton, I understand; happy man!”
“Yes, they have been there about a fortnight, Miss Price, have they not?
And Julia is with them.”
“And Mr. Yates, I presume, is not far off.”
“Mr. Yates! Oh! we hear nothing of Mr. Yates. I do not imagine he
figures much in the letters to Mansfield Park; do you, Miss Price? I
think my friend Julia knows better than to entertain her father with Mr.
Yates.”
“Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty speeches!” continued Crawford.
“Nobody can ever forget them. Poor fellow! I see him now--his toil and
his despair. Well, I am much mistaken if his lovely Maria will ever want
him to make two-and-forty speeches to her”; adding, with a momentary
seriousness, “She is too good for him--much too good.” And then changing
his tone again to one of gentle gallantry, and addressing Fanny, he
said, “You were Mr. Rushworth's best friend. Your kindness and patience
can never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience in trying to make it
possible for him to learn his part--in trying to give him a brain
which nature had denied--to mix up an understanding for him out of the
superfluity of your own! -He- might not have sense enough himself to
estimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had honour from
all the rest of the party.”
Fanny coloured, and said nothing.
“It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!” he exclaimed, breaking forth
again, after a few minutes' musing. “I shall always look back on our
theatricals with exquisite pleasure. There was such an interest, such an
animation, such a spirit diffused. Everybody felt it. We were all alive.
There was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every hour of
the day. Always some little objection, some little doubt, some little
anxiety to be got over. I never was happier.”
With silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself, “Never
happier!--never happier than when doing what you must know was not
justifiable!--never happier than when behaving so dishonourably and
unfeelingly! Oh! what a corrupted mind!”
“We were unlucky, Miss Price,” he continued, in a lower tone, to avoid
the possibility of being heard by Edmund, and not at all aware of her
feelings, “we certainly were very unlucky. Another week, only one other
week, would have been enough for us. I think if we had had the disposal
of events--if Mansfield Park had had the government of the winds
just for a week or two, about the equinox, there would have been
a difference. Not that we would have endangered his safety by any
tremendous weather--but only by a steady contrary wind, or a calm. I
think, Miss Price, we would have indulged ourselves with a week's calm
in the Atlantic at that season.”
He seemed determined to be answered; and Fanny, averting her face, said,
with a firmer tone than usual, “As far as -I- am concerned, sir, I would
not have delayed his return for a day. My uncle disapproved it all so
entirely when he did arrive, that in my opinion everything had gone
quite far enough.”
She had never spoken so much at once to him in her life before, and
never so angrily to any one; and when her speech was over, she trembled
and blushed at her own daring. He was surprised; but after a few
moments' silent consideration of her, replied in a calmer, graver tone,
and as if the candid result of conviction, “I believe you are right.
It was more pleasant than prudent. We were getting too noisy.” And
then turning the conversation, he would have engaged her on some other
subject, but her answers were so shy and reluctant that he could not
advance in any.
Miss Crawford, who had been repeatedly eyeing Dr. Grant and Edmund,
now observed, “Those gentlemen must have some very interesting point to
discuss.”
“The most interesting in the world,” replied her brother--“how to make
money; how to turn a good income into a better. Dr. Grant is giving
Bertram instructions about the living he is to step into so soon. I find
he takes orders in a few weeks. They were at it in the dining-parlour. I
am glad to hear Bertram will be so well off. He will have a very pretty
income to make ducks and drakes with, and earned without much trouble. I
apprehend he will not have less than seven hundred a year. Seven hundred
a year is a fine thing for a younger brother; and as of course he will
still live at home, it will be all for his -menus- -plaisirs-; and a
sermon at Christmas and Easter, I suppose, will be the sum total of
sacrifice.”
His sister tried to laugh off her feelings by saying, “Nothing amuses me
more than the easy manner with which everybody settles the abundance of
those who have a great deal less than themselves. You would look rather
blank, Henry, if your -menus- -plaisirs- were to be limited to seven
hundred a year.”
“Perhaps I might; but all -that- you know is entirely comparative.
Birthright and habit must settle the business. Bertram is certainly well
off for a cadet of even a baronet's family. By the time he is four or
five and twenty he will have seven hundred a year, and nothing to do for
it.”
Miss Crawford -could- have said that there would be a something to do
and to suffer for it, which she could not think lightly of; but she
checked herself and let it pass; and tried to look calm and unconcerned
when the two gentlemen shortly afterwards joined them.
“Bertram,” said Henry Crawford, “I shall make a point of coming to
Mansfield to hear you preach your first sermon. I shall come on purpose
to encourage a young beginner. When is it to be? Miss Price, will not
you join me in encouraging your cousin? Will not you engage to attend
with your eyes steadily fixed on him the whole time--as I shall do--not
to lose a word; or only looking off just to note down any sentence
preeminently beautiful? We will provide ourselves with tablets and a
pencil. When will it be? You must preach at Mansfield, you know, that
Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram may hear you.”
“I shall keep clear of you, Crawford, as long as I can,” said Edmund;
“for you would be more likely to disconcert me, and I should be more
sorry to see you trying at it than almost any other man.”
“Will he not feel this?” thought Fanny. “No, he can feel nothing as he
ought.”
The party being now all united, and the chief talkers attracting each
other, she remained in tranquillity; and as a whist-table was formed
after tea--formed really for the amusement of Dr. Grant, by his
attentive wife, though it was not to be supposed so--and Miss Crawford
took her harp, she had nothing to do but to listen; and her tranquillity
remained undisturbed the rest of the evening, except when Mr. Crawford
now and then addressed to her a question or observation, which she could
not avoid answering. Miss Crawford was too much vexed by what had passed
to be in a humour for anything but music. With that she soothed herself
and amused her friend.
The assurance of Edmund's being so soon to take orders, coming upon her
like a blow that had been suspended, and still hoped uncertain and at a
distance, was felt with resentment and mortification. She was very angry
with him. She had thought her influence more. She -had- begun to think
of him; she felt that she had, with great regard, with almost decided
intentions; but she would now meet him with his own cool feelings. It
was plain that he could have no serious views, no true attachment, by
fixing himself in a situation which he must know she would never
stoop to. She would learn to match him in his indifference. She would
henceforth admit his attentions without any idea beyond immediate
amusement. If -he- could so command his affections, -hers- should do her
no harm.
CHAPTER XXIV
Henry Crawford had quite made up his mind by the next morning to give
another fortnight to Mansfield, and having sent for his hunters, and
written a few lines of explanation to the Admiral, he looked round at
his sister as he sealed and threw the letter from him, and seeing the
coast clear of the rest of the family, said, with a smile, “And how do
you think I mean to amuse myself, Mary, on the days that I do not hunt?
I am grown too old to go out more than three times a week; but I have a
plan for the intermediate days, and what do you think it is?”
“To walk and ride with me, to be sure.”
“Not exactly, though I shall be happy to do both, but -that- would be
exercise only to my body, and I must take care of my mind. Besides,
-that- would be all recreation and indulgence, without the wholesome
alloy of labour, and I do not like to eat the bread of idleness. No, my
plan is to make Fanny Price in love with me.”
“Fanny Price! Nonsense! No, no. You ought to be satisfied with her two
cousins.”
“But I cannot be satisfied without Fanny Price, without making a small
hole in Fanny Price's heart. You do not seem properly aware of her
claims to notice. When we talked of her last night, you none of you
seemed sensible of the wonderful improvement that has taken place in her
looks within the last six weeks. You see her every day, and therefore do
not notice it; but I assure you she is quite a different creature from
what she was in the autumn. She was then merely a quiet, modest, not
plain-looking girl, but she is now absolutely pretty. I used to think
she had neither complexion nor countenance; but in that soft skin of
hers, so frequently tinged with a blush as it was yesterday, there is
decided beauty; and from what I observed of her eyes and mouth, I do
not despair of their being capable of expression enough when she
has anything to express. And then, her air, her manner, her -tout-
-ensemble-, is so indescribably improved! She must be grown two inches,
at least, since October.”
“Phoo! phoo! This is only because there were no tall women to compare
her with, and because she has got a new gown, and you never saw her so
well dressed before. She is just what she was in October, believe me.
The truth is, that she was the only girl in company for you to notice,
and you must have a somebody. I have always thought her pretty--not
strikingly pretty--but 'pretty enough,' as people say; a sort of beauty
that grows on one. Her eyes should be darker, but she has a sweet smile;
but as for this wonderful degree of improvement, I am sure it may all
be resolved into a better style of dress, and your having nobody else to
look at; and therefore, if you do set about a flirtation with her, you
never will persuade me that it is in compliment to her beauty, or that
it proceeds from anything but your own idleness and folly.”
Her brother gave only a smile to this accusation, and soon afterwards
said, “I do not quite know what to make of Miss Fanny. I do not
understand her. I could not tell what she would be at yesterday. What is
her character? Is she solemn? Is she queer? Is she prudish? Why did she
draw back and look so grave at me? I could hardly get her to speak. I
never was so long in company with a girl in my life, trying to entertain
her, and succeed so ill! Never met with a girl who looked so grave on
me! I must try to get the better of this. Her looks say, 'I will not
like you, I am determined not to like you'; and I say she shall.”
“Foolish fellow! And so this is her attraction after all! This it is,
her not caring about you, which gives her such a soft skin, and makes
her so much taller, and produces all these charms and graces! I do
desire that you will not be making her really unhappy; a -little- love,
perhaps, may animate and do her good, but I will not have you plunge
her deep, for she is as good a little creature as ever lived, and has a
great deal of feeling.”
“It can be but for a fortnight,” said Henry; “and if a fortnight can
kill her, she must have a constitution which nothing could save. No, I
will not do her any harm, dear little soul! only want her to look kindly
on me, to give me smiles as well as blushes, to keep a chair for me by
herself wherever we are, and be all animation when I take it and talk
to her; to think as I think, be interested in all my possessions and
pleasures, try to keep me longer at Mansfield, and feel when I go away
that she shall be never happy again. I want nothing more.”
“Moderation itself!” said Mary. “I can have no scruples now. Well, you
will have opportunities enough of endeavouring to recommend yourself,
for we are a great deal together.”
And without attempting any farther remonstrance, she left Fanny to
her fate, a fate which, had not Fanny's heart been guarded in a way
unsuspected by Miss Crawford, might have been a little harder than she
deserved; for although there doubtless are such unconquerable young
ladies of eighteen (or one should not read about them) as are never
to be persuaded into love against their judgment by all that talent,
manner, attention, and flattery can do, I have no inclination to
believe Fanny one of them, or to think that with so much tenderness
of disposition, and so much taste as belonged to her, she could have
escaped heart-whole from the courtship (though the courtship only of
a fortnight) of such a man as Crawford, in spite of there being some
previous ill opinion of him to be overcome, had not her affection been
engaged elsewhere. With all the security which love of another and
disesteem of him could give to the peace of mind he was attacking,
his continued attentions--continued, but not obtrusive, and adapting
themselves more and more to the gentleness and delicacy of her
character--obliged her very soon to dislike him less than formerly. She
had by no means forgotten the past, and she thought as ill of him as
ever; but she felt his powers: he was entertaining; and his manners were
so improved, so polite, so seriously and blamelessly polite, that it was
impossible not to be civil to him in return.
A very few days were enough to effect this; and at the end of those few
days, circumstances arose which had a tendency rather to forward his
views of pleasing her, inasmuch as they gave her a degree of happiness
which must dispose her to be pleased with everybody. William, her
brother, the so long absent and dearly loved brother, was in England
again. She had a letter from him herself, a few hurried happy lines,
written as the ship came up Channel, and sent into Portsmouth with
the first boat that left the Antwerp at anchor in Spithead; and when
Crawford walked up with the newspaper in his hand, which he had hoped
would bring the first tidings, he found her trembling with joy over this
letter, and listening with a glowing, grateful countenance to the kind
invitation which her uncle was most collectedly dictating in reply.
It was but the day before that Crawford had made himself thoroughly
master of the subject, or had in fact become at all aware of her having
such a brother, or his being in such a ship, but the interest then
excited had been very properly lively, determining him on his return to
town to apply for information as to the probable period of the Antwerp's
return from the Mediterranean, etc.; and the good luck which attended
his early examination of ship news the next morning seemed the reward of
his ingenuity in finding out such a method of pleasing her, as well as
of his dutiful attention to the Admiral, in having for many years
taken in the paper esteemed to have the earliest naval intelligence. He
proved, however, to be too late. All those fine first feelings, of which
he had hoped to be the exciter, were already given. But his intention,
the kindness of his intention, was thankfully acknowledged: quite
thankfully and warmly, for she was elevated beyond the common timidity
of her mind by the flow of her love for William.
This dear William would soon be amongst them. There could be no doubt
of his obtaining leave of absence immediately, for he was still only a
midshipman; and as his parents, from living on the spot, must already
have seen him, and be seeing him perhaps daily, his direct holidays
might with justice be instantly given to the sister, who had been his
best correspondent through a period of seven years, and the uncle who
had done most for his support and advancement; and accordingly the reply
to her reply, fixing a very early day for his arrival, came as soon as
possible; and scarcely ten days had passed since Fanny had been in
the agitation of her first dinner-visit, when she found herself in an
agitation of a higher nature, watching in the hall, in the lobby, on
the stairs, for the first sound of the carriage which was to bring her a
brother.
It came happily while she was thus waiting; and there being neither
ceremony nor fearfulness to delay the moment of meeting, she was with
him as he entered the house, and the first minutes of exquisite feeling
had no interruption and no witnesses, unless the servants chiefly intent
upon opening the proper doors could be called such. This was exactly
what Sir Thomas and Edmund had been separately conniving at, as each
proved to the other by the sympathetic alacrity with which they both
advised Mrs. Norris's continuing where she was, instead of rushing out
into the hall as soon as the noises of the arrival reached them.
William and Fanny soon shewed themselves; and Sir Thomas had the
pleasure of receiving, in his protege, certainly a very different person
from the one he had equipped seven years ago, but a young man of an
open, pleasant countenance, and frank, unstudied, but feeling and
respectful manners, and such as confirmed him his friend.
It was long before Fanny could recover from the agitating happiness of
such an hour as was formed by the last thirty minutes of expectation,
and the first of fruition; it was some time even before her happiness
could be said to make her happy, before the disappointment inseparable
from the alteration of person had vanished, and she could see in him the
same William as before, and talk to him, as her heart had been yearning
to do through many a past year. That time, however, did gradually come,
forwarded by an affection on his side as warm as her own, and much less
encumbered by refinement or self-distrust. She was the first object
of his love, but it was a love which his stronger spirits, and bolder
temper, made it as natural for him to express as to feel. On the
morrow they were walking about together with true enjoyment, and every
succeeding morrow renewed a -tete-a-tete- which Sir Thomas could not but
observe with complacency, even before Edmund had pointed it out to him.
Excepting the moments of peculiar delight, which any marked or
unlooked-for instance of Edmund's consideration of her in the last few
months had excited, Fanny had never known so much felicity in her life,
as in this unchecked, equal, fearless intercourse with the brother and
friend who was opening all his heart to her, telling her all his hopes
and fears, plans, and solicitudes respecting that long thought of,
dearly earned, and justly valued blessing of promotion; who could give
her direct and minute information of the father and mother, brothers and
sisters, of whom she very seldom heard; who was interested in all the
comforts and all the little hardships of her home at Mansfield; ready to
think of every member of that home as she directed, or differing only
by a less scrupulous opinion, and more noisy abuse of their aunt Norris,
and with whom (perhaps the dearest indulgence of the whole) all the evil
and good of their earliest years could be gone over again, and every
former united pain and pleasure retraced with the fondest recollection.
An advantage this, a strengthener of love, in which even the conjugal
tie is beneath the fraternal. Children of the same family, the same
blood, with the same first associations and habits, have some means of
enjoyment in their power, which no subsequent connexions can supply; and
it must be by a long and unnatural estrangement, by a divorce which
no subsequent connexion can justify, if such precious remains of the
earliest attachments are ever entirely outlived. Too often, alas! it is
so. Fraternal love, sometimes almost everything, is at others worse than
nothing. But with William and Fanny Price it was still a sentiment
in all its prime and freshness, wounded by no opposition of interest,
cooled by no separate attachment, and feeling the influence of time and
absence only in its increase.
An affection so amiable was advancing each in the opinion of all who had
hearts to value anything good. Henry Crawford was as much struck with
it as any. He honoured the warm-hearted, blunt fondness of the young
sailor, which led him to say, with his hands stretched towards Fanny's
head, “Do you know, I begin to like that queer fashion already, though
when I first heard of such things being done in England, I could
not believe it; and when Mrs. Brown, and the other women at the
Commissioner's at Gibraltar, appeared in the same trim, I thought they
were mad; but Fanny can reconcile me to anything”; and saw, with lively
admiration, the glow of Fanny's cheek, the brightness of her eye, the
deep interest, the absorbed attention, while her brother was describing
any of the imminent hazards, or terrific scenes, which such a period at
sea must supply.
It was a picture which Henry Crawford had moral taste enough to value.
Fanny's attractions increased--increased twofold; for the sensibility
which beautified her complexion and illumined her countenance was an
attraction in itself. He was no longer in doubt of the capabilities of
her heart. She had feeling, genuine feeling. It would be something to
be loved by such a girl, to excite the first ardours of her young
unsophisticated mind! She interested him more than he had foreseen. A
fortnight was not enough. His stay became indefinite.
William was often called on by his uncle to be the talker. His recitals
were amusing in themselves to Sir Thomas, but the chief object in
seeking them was to understand the reciter, to know the young man by his
histories; and he listened to his clear, simple, spirited details
with full satisfaction, seeing in them the proof of good principles,
professional knowledge, energy, courage, and cheerfulness, everything
that could deserve or promise well. Young as he was, William had already
seen a great deal. He had been in the Mediterranean; in the West Indies;
in the Mediterranean again; had been often taken on shore by the favour
of his captain, and in the course of seven years had known every variety
of danger which sea and war together could offer. With such means in
his power he had a right to be listened to; and though Mrs. Norris could
fidget about the room, and disturb everybody in quest of two needlefuls
of thread or a second-hand shirt button, in the midst of her nephew's
account of a shipwreck or an engagement, everybody else was attentive;
and even Lady Bertram could not hear of such horrors unmoved, or
without sometimes lifting her eyes from her work to say, “Dear me! how
disagreeable! I wonder anybody can ever go to sea.”
To Henry Crawford they gave a different feeling. He longed to have been
at sea, and seen and done and suffered as much. His heart was warmed,
his fancy fired, and he felt the highest respect for a lad who, before
he was twenty, had gone through such bodily hardships and given such
proofs of mind. The glory of heroism, of usefulness, of exertion, of
endurance, made his own habits of selfish indulgence appear in shameful
contrast; and he wished he had been a William Price, distinguishing
himself and working his way to fortune and consequence with so much
self-respect and happy ardour, instead of what he was!
The wish was rather eager than lasting. He was roused from the reverie
of retrospection and regret produced by it, by some inquiry from Edmund
as to his plans for the next day's hunting; and he found it was as well
to be a man of fortune at once with horses and grooms at his command.
In one respect it was better, as it gave him the means of conferring a
kindness where he wished to oblige. With spirits, courage, and curiosity
up to anything, William expressed an inclination to hunt; and Crawford
could mount him without the slightest inconvenience to himself, and with
only some scruples to obviate in Sir Thomas, who knew better than his
nephew the value of such a loan, and some alarms to reason away in
Fanny. She feared for William; by no means convinced by all that he
could relate of his own horsemanship in various countries, of the
scrambling parties in which he had been engaged, the rough horses and
mules he had ridden, or his many narrow escapes from dreadful falls,
that he was at all equal to the management of a high-fed hunter in an
English fox-chase; nor till he returned safe and well, without accident
or discredit, could she be reconciled to the risk, or feel any of that
obligation to Mr. Crawford for lending the horse which he had fully
intended it should produce. When it was proved, however, to have done
William no harm, she could allow it to be a kindness, and even reward
the owner with a smile when the animal was one minute tendered to his
use again; and the next, with the greatest cordiality, and in a manner
not to be resisted, made over to his use entirely so long as he remained
in Northamptonshire.
[End volume one of this edition.
Printed by T. and A. Constable,
Printers to Her Majesty at
the Edinburgh University Press]
CHAPTER XXV
The intercourse of the two families was at this period more nearly
restored to what it had been in the autumn, than any member of the
old intimacy had thought ever likely to be again. The return of Henry
Crawford, and the arrival of William Price, had much to do with it,
but much was still owing to Sir Thomas's more than toleration of the
neighbourly attempts at the Parsonage. His mind, now disengaged from
the cares which had pressed on him at first, was at leisure to find
the Grants and their young inmates really worth visiting; and though
infinitely above scheming or contriving for any the most advantageous
matrimonial establishment that could be among the apparent possibilities
of any one most dear to him, and disdaining even as a littleness the
being quick-sighted on such points, he could not avoid perceiving, in
a grand and careless way, that Mr. Crawford was somewhat distinguishing
his niece--nor perhaps refrain (though unconsciously) from giving a more
willing assent to invitations on that account.
His readiness, however, in agreeing to dine at the Parsonage, when the
general invitation was at last hazarded, after many debates and many
doubts as to whether it were worth while, “because Sir Thomas seemed
so ill inclined, and Lady Bertram was so indolent!” proceeded from
good-breeding and goodwill alone, and had nothing to do with Mr.
Crawford, but as being one in an agreeable group: for it was in the
course of that very visit that he first began to think that any one in
the habit of such idle observations -would- -have- -thought- that Mr.
Crawford was the admirer of Fanny Price.
The meeting was generally felt to be a pleasant one, being composed in a
good proportion of those who would talk and those who would listen;
and the dinner itself was elegant and plentiful, according to the usual
style of the Grants, and too much according to the usual habits of
all to raise any emotion except in Mrs. Norris, who could never behold
either the wide table or the number of dishes on it with patience, and
who did always contrive to experience some evil from the passing of the
servants behind her chair, and to bring away some fresh conviction of
its being impossible among so many dishes but that some must be cold.
In the evening it was found, according to the predetermination of Mrs.
Grant and her sister, that after making up the whist-table there would
remain sufficient for a round game, and everybody being as perfectly
complying and without a choice as on such occasions they always are,
speculation was decided on almost as soon as whist; and Lady Bertram
soon found herself in the critical situation of being applied to for her
own choice between the games, and being required either to draw a card
for whist or not. She hesitated. Luckily Sir Thomas was at hand.
“What shall I do, Sir Thomas? Whist and speculation; which will amuse me
most?”
Sir Thomas, after a moment's thought, recommended speculation. He was
a whist player himself, and perhaps might feel that it would not much
amuse him to have her for a partner.
“Very well,” was her ladyship's contented answer; “then speculation, if
you please, Mrs. Grant. I know nothing about it, but Fanny must teach
me.”
Here Fanny interposed, however, with anxious protestations of her own
equal ignorance; she had never played the game nor seen it played in
her life; and Lady Bertram felt a moment's indecision again; but upon
everybody's assuring her that nothing could be so easy, that it was the
easiest game on the cards, and Henry Crawford's stepping forward with a
most earnest request to be allowed to sit between her ladyship and Miss
Price, and teach them both, it was so settled; and Sir Thomas, Mrs.
Norris, and Dr. and Mrs. Grant being seated at the table of prime
intellectual state and dignity, the remaining six, under Miss Crawford's
direction, were arranged round the other. It was a fine arrangement
for Henry Crawford, who was close to Fanny, and with his hands full of
business, having two persons' cards to manage as well as his own; for
though it was impossible for Fanny not to feel herself mistress of the
rules of the game in three minutes, he had yet to inspirit her play,
sharpen her avarice, and harden her heart, which, especially in any
competition with William, was a work of some difficulty; and as for Lady
Bertram, he must continue in charge of all her fame and fortune through
the whole evening; and if quick enough to keep her from looking at her
cards when the deal began, must direct her in whatever was to be done
with them to the end of it.
He was in high spirits, doing everything with happy ease, and preeminent
in all the lively turns, quick resources, and playful impudence that
could do honour to the game; and the round table was altogether a very
comfortable contrast to the steady sobriety and orderly silence of the
other.
Twice had Sir Thomas inquired into the enjoyment and success of his
lady, but in vain; no pause was long enough for the time his measured
manner needed; and very little of her state could be known till Mrs.
Grant was able, at the end of the first rubber, to go to her and pay her
compliments.
“I hope your ladyship is pleased with the game.”
“Oh dear, yes! very entertaining indeed. A very odd game. I do not know
what it is all about. I am never to see my cards; and Mr. Crawford does
all the rest.”
“Bertram,” said Crawford, some time afterwards, taking the opportunity
of a little languor in the game, “I have never told you what happened to
me yesterday in my ride home.” They had been hunting together, and were
in the midst of a good run, and at some distance from Mansfield, when
his horse being found to have flung a shoe, Henry Crawford had been
obliged to give up, and make the best of his way back. “I told you I
lost my way after passing that old farmhouse with the yew-trees, because
I can never bear to ask; but I have not told you that, with my usual
luck--for I never do wrong without gaining by it--I found myself in due
time in the very place which I had a curiosity to see. I was suddenly,
upon turning the corner of a steepish downy field, in the midst of
a retired little village between gently rising hills; a small stream
before me to be forded, a church standing on a sort of knoll to my
right--which church was strikingly large and handsome for the place, and
not a gentleman or half a gentleman's house to be seen excepting one--to
be presumed the Parsonage--within a stone's throw of the said knoll and
church. I found myself, in short, in Thornton Lacey.”
“It sounds like it,” said Edmund; “but which way did you turn after
passing Sewell's farm?”
“I answer no such irrelevant and insidious questions; though were I to
answer all that you could put in the course of an hour, you would never
be able to prove that it was -not- Thornton Lacey--for such it certainly
was.”
“You inquired, then?”
“No, I never inquire. But I -told- a man mending a hedge that it was
Thornton Lacey, and he agreed to it.”
“You have a good memory. I had forgotten having ever told you half so
much of the place.”
Thornton Lacey was the name of his impending living, as Miss Crawford
well knew; and her interest in a negotiation for William Price's knave
increased.
“Well,” continued Edmund, “and how did you like what you saw?”
“Very much indeed. You are a lucky fellow. There will be work for five
summers at least before the place is liveable.”
“No, no, not so bad as that. The farmyard must be moved, I grant you;
but I am not aware of anything else. The house is by no means bad, and
when the yard is removed, there may be a very tolerable approach to it.”
“The farmyard must be cleared away entirely, and planted up to shut
out the blacksmith's shop. The house must be turned to front the east
instead of the north--the entrance and principal rooms, I mean, must be
on that side, where the view is really very pretty; I am sure it may be
done. And -there- must be your approach, through what is at present the
garden. You must make a new garden at what is now the back of the house;
which will be giving it the best aspect in the world, sloping to the
south-east. The ground seems precisely formed for it. I rode fifty yards
up the lane, between the church and the house, in order to look about
me; and saw how it might all be. Nothing can be easier. The meadows
beyond what -will- -be- the garden, as well as what now -is-, sweeping
round from the lane I stood in to the north-east, that is, to the
principal road through the village, must be all laid together, of
course; very pretty meadows they are, finely sprinkled with timber. They
belong to the living, I suppose; if not, you must purchase them. Then
the stream--something must be done with the stream; but I could not
quite determine what. I had two or three ideas.”
“And I have two or three ideas also,” said Edmund, “and one of them is,
that very little of your plan for Thornton Lacey will ever be put in
practice. I must be satisfied with rather less ornament and beauty. I
think the house and premises may be made comfortable, and given the air
of a gentleman's residence, without any very heavy expense, and that
must suffice me; and, I hope, may suffice all who care about me.”
Miss Crawford, a little suspicious and resentful of a certain tone of
voice, and a certain half-look attending the last expression of his
hope, made a hasty finish of her dealings with William Price; and
securing his knave at an exorbitant rate, exclaimed, “There, I will
stake my last like a woman of spirit. No cold prudence for me. I am not
born to sit still and do nothing. If I lose the game, it shall not be
from not striving for it.”
The game was hers, and only did not pay her for what she had given
to secure it. Another deal proceeded, and Crawford began again about
Thornton Lacey.
“My plan may not be the best possible: I had not many minutes to form
it in; but you must do a good deal. The place deserves it, and you
will find yourself not satisfied with much less than it is capable of.
(Excuse me, your ladyship must not see your cards. There, let them lie
just before you.) The place deserves it, Bertram. You talk of giving it
the air of a gentleman's residence. -That- will be done by the removal
of the farmyard; for, independent of that terrible nuisance, I never saw
a house of the kind which had in itself so much the air of a
gentleman's residence, so much the look of a something above a mere
parsonage-house--above the expenditure of a few hundreds a year. It is
not a scrambling collection of low single rooms, with as many roofs
as windows; it is not cramped into the vulgar compactness of a square
farmhouse: it is a solid, roomy, mansion-like looking house, such as
one might suppose a respectable old country family had lived in from
generation to generation, through two centuries at least, and were now
spending from two to three thousand a year in.” Miss Crawford listened,
and Edmund agreed to this. “The air of a gentleman's residence,
therefore, you cannot but give it, if you do anything. But it is capable
of much more. (Let me see, Mary; Lady Bertram bids a dozen for that
queen; no, no, a dozen is more than it is worth. Lady Bertram does not
bid a dozen. She will have nothing to say to it. Go on, go on.) By some
such improvements as I have suggested (I do not really require you to
proceed upon my plan, though, by the bye, I doubt anybody's striking out
a better) you may give it a higher character. You may raise it into
a -place-. From being the mere gentleman's residence, it becomes, by
judicious improvement, the residence of a man of education, taste,
modern manners, good connexions. All this may be stamped on it; and that
house receive such an air as to make its owner be set down as the
great landholder of the parish by every creature travelling the road;
especially as there is no real squire's house to dispute the point--a
circumstance, between ourselves, to enhance the value of such a
situation in point of privilege and independence beyond all calculation.
-You- think with me, I hope” (turning with a softened voice to Fanny).
“Have you ever seen the place?”
Fanny gave a quick negative, and tried to hide her interest in the
subject by an eager attention to her brother, who was driving as hard a
bargain, and imposing on her as much as he could; but Crawford pursued
with “No, no, you must not part with the queen. You have bought her too
dearly, and your brother does not offer half her value. No, no, sir,
hands off, hands off. Your sister does not part with the queen. She is
quite determined. The game will be yours,” turning to her again; “it
will certainly be yours.”
“And Fanny had much rather it were William's,” said Edmund, smiling at
her. “Poor Fanny! not allowed to cheat herself as she wishes!”
“Mr. Bertram,” said Miss Crawford, a few minutes afterwards, “you know
Henry to be such a capital improver, that you cannot possibly engage in
anything of the sort at Thornton Lacey without accepting his help. Only
think how useful he was at Sotherton! Only think what grand things were
produced there by our all going with him one hot day in August to drive
about the grounds, and see his genius take fire. There we went, and
there we came home again; and what was done there is not to be told!”
Fanny's eyes were turned on Crawford for a moment with an expression
more than grave--even reproachful; but on catching his, were instantly
withdrawn. With something of consciousness he shook his head at his
sister, and laughingly replied, “I cannot say there was much done at
Sotherton; but it was a hot day, and we were all walking after each
other, and bewildered.” As soon as a general buzz gave him shelter, he
added, in a low voice, directed solely at Fanny, “I should be sorry to
have my powers of -planning- judged of by the day at Sotherton. I see
things very differently now. Do not think of me as I appeared then.”
Sotherton was a word to catch Mrs. Norris, and being just then in the
happy leisure which followed securing the odd trick by Sir Thomas's
capital play and her own against Dr. and Mrs. Grant's great hands,
she called out, in high good-humour, “Sotherton! Yes, that is a place,
indeed, and we had a charming day there. William, you are quite out of
luck; but the next time you come, I hope dear Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth
will be at home, and I am sure I can answer for your being kindly
received by both. Your cousins are not of a sort to forget their
relations, and Mr. Rushworth is a most amiable man. They are at Brighton
now, you know; in one of the best houses there, as Mr. Rushworth's fine
fortune gives them a right to be. I do not exactly know the distance,
but when you get back to Portsmouth, if it is not very far off, you
ought to go over and pay your respects to them; and I could send a
little parcel by you that I want to get conveyed to your cousins.”
“I should be very happy, aunt; but Brighton is almost by Beachey Head;
and if I could get so far, I could not expect to be welcome in such a
smart place as that--poor scrubby midshipman as I am.”
Mrs. Norris was beginning an eager assurance of the affability he might
depend on, when she was stopped by Sir Thomas's saying with authority,
“I do not advise your going to Brighton, William, as I trust you may
soon have more convenient opportunities of meeting; but my daughters
would be happy to see their cousins anywhere; and you will find Mr.
Rushworth most sincerely disposed to regard all the connexions of our
family as his own.”
“I would rather find him private secretary to the First Lord than
anything else,” was William's only answer, in an undervoice, not meant
to reach far, and the subject dropped.
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