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