And what an
acquaintance
has it been!
Austen - Mansfield Park
She had not spirits to notice her in more
than a few repulsive looks, but she felt her as a spy, and an intruder,
and an indigent niece, and everything most odious. By her other aunt,
Susan was received with quiet kindness. Lady Bertram could not give her
much time, or many words, but she felt her, as Fanny’s sister, to have
a claim at Mansfield, and was ready to kiss and like her; and Susan
was more than satisfied, for she came perfectly aware that nothing but
ill-humour was to be expected from aunt Norris; and was so provided
with happiness, so strong in that best of blessings, an escape from
many certain evils, that she could have stood against a great deal more
indifference than she met with from the others.
She was now left a good deal to herself, to get acquainted with the
house and grounds as she could, and spent her days very happily in so
doing, while those who might otherwise have attended to her were shut
up, or wholly occupied each with the person quite dependent on them, at
this time, for everything like comfort; Edmund trying to bury his own
feelings in exertions for the relief of his brother’s, and Fanny devoted
to her aunt Bertram, returning to every former office with more than
former zeal, and thinking she could never do enough for one who seemed
so much to want her.
To talk over the dreadful business with Fanny, talk and lament, was all
Lady Bertram’s consolation. To be listened to and borne with, and hear
the voice of kindness and sympathy in return, was everything that could
be done for her. To be otherwise comforted was out of the question. The
case admitted of no comfort. Lady Bertram did not think deeply, but,
guided by Sir Thomas, she thought justly on all important points; and
she saw, therefore, in all its enormity, what had happened, and neither
endeavoured herself, nor required Fanny to advise her, to think little
of guilt and infamy.
Her affections were not acute, nor was her mind tenacious. After a time,
Fanny found it not impossible to direct her thoughts to other subjects,
and revive some interest in the usual occupations; but whenever Lady
Bertram _was_ fixed on the event, she could see it only in one light, as
comprehending the loss of a daughter, and a disgrace never to be wiped
off.
Fanny learnt from her all the particulars which had yet transpired. Her
aunt was no very methodical narrator, but with the help of some letters
to and from Sir Thomas, and what she already knew herself, and could
reasonably combine, she was soon able to understand quite as much as she
wished of the circumstances attending the story.
Mrs. Rushworth had gone, for the Easter holidays, to Twickenham, with
a family whom she had just grown intimate with: a family of lively,
agreeable manners, and probably of morals and discretion to suit, for to
_their_ house Mr. Crawford had constant access at all times. His having
been in the same neighbourhood Fanny already knew. Mr. Rushworth had
been gone at this time to Bath, to pass a few days with his mother, and
bring her back to town, and Maria was with these friends without any
restraint, without even Julia; for Julia had removed from Wimpole Street
two or three weeks before, on a visit to some relations of Sir Thomas;
a removal which her father and mother were now disposed to attribute
to some view of convenience on Mr. Yates’s account. Very soon after the
Rushworths’ return to Wimpole Street, Sir Thomas had received a letter
from an old and most particular friend in London, who hearing and
witnessing a good deal to alarm him in that quarter, wrote to recommend
Sir Thomas’s coming to London himself, and using his influence with his
daughter to put an end to the intimacy which was already exposing her to
unpleasant remarks, and evidently making Mr. Rushworth uneasy.
Sir Thomas was preparing to act upon this letter, without communicating
its contents to any creature at Mansfield, when it was followed by
another, sent express from the same friend, to break to him the almost
desperate situation in which affairs then stood with the young people.
Mrs. Rushworth had left her husband’s house: Mr. Rushworth had been
in great anger and distress to _him_ (Mr. Harding) for his advice; Mr.
Harding feared there had been _at_ _least_ very flagrant indiscretion.
The maidservant of Mrs. Rushworth, senior, threatened alarmingly. He
was doing all in his power to quiet everything, with the hope of Mrs.
Rushworth’s return, but was so much counteracted in Wimpole Street by
the influence of Mr. Rushworth’s mother, that the worst consequences
might be apprehended.
This dreadful communication could not be kept from the rest of the
family. Sir Thomas set off, Edmund would go with him, and the others had
been left in a state of wretchedness, inferior only to what followed
the receipt of the next letters from London. Everything was by that time
public beyond a hope. The servant of Mrs. Rushworth, the mother, had
exposure in her power, and supported by her mistress, was not to be
silenced. The two ladies, even in the short time they had been
together, had disagreed; and the bitterness of the elder against her
daughter-in-law might perhaps arise almost as much from the personal
disrespect with which she had herself been treated as from sensibility
for her son.
However that might be, she was unmanageable. But had she been less
obstinate, or of less weight with her son, who was always guided by the
last speaker, by the person who could get hold of and shut him up, the
case would still have been hopeless, for Mrs. Rushworth did not appear
again, and there was every reason to conclude her to be concealed
somewhere with Mr. Crawford, who had quitted his uncle’s house, as for a
journey, on the very day of her absenting herself.
Sir Thomas, however, remained yet a little longer in town, in the hope
of discovering and snatching her from farther vice, though all was lost
on the side of character.
_His_ present state Fanny could hardly bear to think of. There was but
one of his children who was not at this time a source of misery to
him. Tom’s complaints had been greatly heightened by the shock of his
sister’s conduct, and his recovery so much thrown back by it, that even
Lady Bertram had been struck by the difference, and all her alarms were
regularly sent off to her husband; and Julia’s elopement, the additional
blow which had met him on his arrival in London, though its force had
been deadened at the moment, must, she knew, be sorely felt. She saw
that it was. His letters expressed how much he deplored it. Under any
circumstances it would have been an unwelcome alliance; but to have it
so clandestinely formed, and such a period chosen for its completion,
placed Julia’s feelings in a most unfavourable light, and severely
aggravated the folly of her choice. He called it a bad thing, done in
the worst manner, and at the worst time; and though Julia was yet as
more pardonable than Maria as folly than vice, he could not but
regard the step she had taken as opening the worst probabilities of a
conclusion hereafter like her sister’s. Such was his opinion of the set
into which she had thrown herself.
Fanny felt for him most acutely. He could have no comfort but in Edmund.
Every other child must be racking his heart. His displeasure against
herself she trusted, reasoning differently from Mrs. Norris, would now
be done away. _She_ should be justified. Mr. Crawford would have fully
acquitted her conduct in refusing him; but this, though most material
to herself, would be poor consolation to Sir Thomas. Her uncle’s
displeasure was terrible to her; but what could her justification or her
gratitude and attachment do for him? His stay must be on Edmund alone.
She was mistaken, however, in supposing that Edmund gave his father no
present pain. It was of a much less poignant nature than what the others
excited; but Sir Thomas was considering his happiness as very deeply
involved in the offence of his sister and friend; cut off by it, as
he must be, from the woman whom he had been pursuing with undoubted
attachment and strong probability of success; and who, in everything but
this despicable brother, would have been so eligible a connexion. He was
aware of what Edmund must be suffering on his own behalf, in addition
to all the rest, when they were in town: he had seen or conjectured
his feelings; and, having reason to think that one interview with Miss
Crawford had taken place, from which Edmund derived only increased
distress, had been as anxious on that account as on others to get him
out of town, and had engaged him in taking Fanny home to her aunt, with
a view to his relief and benefit, no less than theirs. Fanny was not in
the secret of her uncle’s feelings, Sir Thomas not in the secret of Miss
Crawford’s character. Had he been privy to her conversation with his
son, he would not have wished her to belong to him, though her twenty
thousand pounds had been forty.
That Edmund must be for ever divided from Miss Crawford did not admit
of a doubt with Fanny; and yet, till she knew that he felt the same, her
own conviction was insufficient. She thought he did, but she wanted to
be assured of it. If he would now speak to her with the unreserve which
had sometimes been too much for her before, it would be most consoling;
but _that_ she found was not to be. She seldom saw him: never alone. He
probably avoided being alone with her. What was to be inferred? That
his judgment submitted to all his own peculiar and bitter share of this
family affliction, but that it was too keenly felt to be a subject of
the slightest communication. This must be his state. He yielded, but it
was with agonies which did not admit of speech. Long, long would it be
ere Miss Crawford’s name passed his lips again, or she could hope for a
renewal of such confidential intercourse as had been.
It _was_ long. They reached Mansfield on Thursday, and it was not till
Sunday evening that Edmund began to talk to her on the subject. Sitting
with her on Sunday evening--a wet Sunday evening--the very time of
all others when, if a friend is at hand, the heart must be opened, and
everything told; no one else in the room, except his mother, who,
after hearing an affecting sermon, had cried herself to sleep, it was
impossible not to speak; and so, with the usual beginnings, hardly to
be traced as to what came first, and the usual declaration that if she
would listen to him for a few minutes, he should be very brief, and
certainly never tax her kindness in the same way again; she need not
fear a repetition; it would be a subject prohibited entirely: he entered
upon the luxury of relating circumstances and sensations of the first
interest to himself, to one of whose affectionate sympathy he was quite
convinced.
How Fanny listened, with what curiosity and concern, what pain and what
delight, how the agitation of his voice was watched, and how carefully
her own eyes were fixed on any object but himself, may be imagined. The
opening was alarming. He had seen Miss Crawford. He had been invited to
see her. He had received a note from Lady Stornaway to beg him to call;
and regarding it as what was meant to be the last, last interview
of friendship, and investing her with all the feelings of shame and
wretchedness which Crawford’s sister ought to have known, he had gone to
her in such a state of mind, so softened, so devoted, as made it for a
few moments impossible to Fanny’s fears that it should be the last. But
as he proceeded in his story, these fears were over. She had met him,
he said, with a serious--certainly a serious--even an agitated air;
but before he had been able to speak one intelligible sentence, she had
introduced the subject in a manner which he owned had shocked him. “‘I
heard you were in town,’ said she; ‘I wanted to see you. Let us talk
over this sad business. What can equal the folly of our two relations? ’
I could not answer, but I believe my looks spoke. She felt reproved.
Sometimes how quick to feel! With a graver look and voice she then
added, ‘I do not mean to defend Henry at your sister’s expense. ’ So
she began, but how she went on, Fanny, is not fit, is hardly fit to be
repeated to you. I cannot recall all her words. I would not dwell upon
them if I could. Their substance was great anger at the _folly_ of each.
She reprobated her brother’s folly in being drawn on by a woman whom he
had never cared for, to do what must lose him the woman he adored; but
still more the folly of poor Maria, in sacrificing such a situation,
plunging into such difficulties, under the idea of being really loved
by a man who had long ago made his indifference clear. Guess what I must
have felt. To hear the woman whom--no harsher name than folly given!
So voluntarily, so freely, so coolly to canvass it! No reluctance, no
horror, no feminine, shall I say, no modest loathings? This is what the
world does. For where, Fanny, shall we find a woman whom nature had so
richly endowed? Spoilt, spoilt! ”
After a little reflection, he went on with a sort of desperate calmness.
“I will tell you everything, and then have done for ever. She saw it
only as folly, and that folly stamped only by exposure. The want of
common discretion, of caution: his going down to Richmond for the whole
time of her being at Twickenham; her putting herself in the power of
a servant; it was the detection, in short--oh, Fanny! it was the
detection, not the offence, which she reprobated. It was the imprudence
which had brought things to extremity, and obliged her brother to give
up every dearer plan in order to fly with her. ”
He stopt. “And what,” said Fanny (believing herself required to speak),
“what could you say? ”
“Nothing, nothing to be understood. I was like a man stunned. She
went on, began to talk of you; yes, then she began to talk of you,
regretting, as well she might, the loss of such a--. There she spoke
very rationally. But she has always done justice to you. ‘He has thrown
away,’ said she, ‘such a woman as he will never see again. She would
have fixed him; she would have made him happy for ever. ’ My dearest
Fanny, I am giving you, I hope, more pleasure than pain by this
retrospect of what might have been--but what never can be now. You do
not wish me to be silent? If you do, give me but a look, a word, and I
have done. ”
No look or word was given.
“Thank God,” said he. “We were all disposed to wonder, but it seems to
have been the merciful appointment of Providence that the heart which
knew no guile should not suffer. She spoke of you with high praise and
warm affection; yet, even here, there was alloy, a dash of evil; for in
the midst of it she could exclaim, ‘Why would not she have him? It is
all her fault. Simple girl! I shall never forgive her. Had she accepted
him as she ought, they might now have been on the point of marriage, and
Henry would have been too happy and too busy to want any other object.
He would have taken no pains to be on terms with Mrs. Rushworth again.
It would have all ended in a regular standing flirtation, in yearly
meetings at Sotherton and Everingham. ’ Could you have believed it
possible? But the charm is broken. My eyes are opened. ”
“Cruel! ” said Fanny, “quite cruel. At such a moment to give way to
gaiety, to speak with lightness, and to you! Absolute cruelty. ”
“Cruelty, do you call it? We differ there. No, hers is not a cruel
nature. I do not consider her as meaning to wound my feelings. The evil
lies yet deeper: in her total ignorance, unsuspiciousness of there being
such feelings; in a perversion of mind which made it natural to her to
treat the subject as she did. She was speaking only as she had been used
to hear others speak, as she imagined everybody else would speak. Hers
are not faults of temper. She would not voluntarily give unnecessary
pain to any one, and though I may deceive myself, I cannot but think
that for me, for my feelings, she would--Hers are faults of principle,
Fanny; of blunted delicacy and a corrupted, vitiated mind. Perhaps it
is best for me, since it leaves me so little to regret. Not so, however.
Gladly would I submit to all the increased pain of losing her, rather
than have to think of her as I do. I told her so. ”
“Did you? ”
“Yes; when I left her I told her so. ”
“How long were you together? ”
“Five-and-twenty minutes. Well, she went on to say that what remained
now to be done was to bring about a marriage between them. She spoke of
it, Fanny, with a steadier voice than I can. ” He was obliged to pause
more than once as he continued. “‘We must persuade Henry to marry
her,’ said she; ‘and what with honour, and the certainty of having shut
himself out for ever from Fanny, I do not despair of it. Fanny he must
give up. I do not think that even _he_ could now hope to succeed with
one of her stamp, and therefore I hope we may find no insuperable
difficulty. My influence, which is not small shall all go that way; and
when once married, and properly supported by her own family, people of
respectability as they are, she may recover her footing in society to a
certain degree. In some circles, we know, she would never be admitted,
but with good dinners, and large parties, there will always be those
who will be glad of her acquaintance; and there is, undoubtedly, more
liberality and candour on those points than formerly. What I advise
is, that your father be quiet. Do not let him injure his own cause by
interference. Persuade him to let things take their course. If by any
officious exertions of his, she is induced to leave Henry’s protection,
there will be much less chance of his marrying her than if she remain
with him. I know how he is likely to be influenced. Let Sir Thomas trust
to his honour and compassion, and it may all end well; but if he get his
daughter away, it will be destroying the chief hold. ’”
After repeating this, Edmund was so much affected that Fanny, watching
him with silent, but most tender concern, was almost sorry that the
subject had been entered on at all. It was long before he could speak
again. At last, “Now, Fanny,” said he, “I shall soon have done. I have
told you the substance of all that she said. As soon as I could speak,
I replied that I had not supposed it possible, coming in such a state of
mind into that house as I had done, that anything could occur to make
me suffer more, but that she had been inflicting deeper wounds in almost
every sentence. That though I had, in the course of our acquaintance,
been often sensible of some difference in our opinions, on points,
too, of some moment, it had not entered my imagination to conceive the
difference could be such as she had now proved it. That the manner in
which she treated the dreadful crime committed by her brother and my
sister (with whom lay the greater seduction I pretended not to say),
but the manner in which she spoke of the crime itself, giving it every
reproach but the right; considering its ill consequences only as they
were to be braved or overborne by a defiance of decency and impudence in
wrong; and last of all, and above all, recommending to us a compliance,
a compromise, an acquiescence in the continuance of the sin, on the
chance of a marriage which, thinking as I now thought of her brother,
should rather be prevented than sought; all this together most
grievously convinced me that I had never understood her before, and
that, as far as related to mind, it had been the creature of my own
imagination, not Miss Crawford, that I had been too apt to dwell on
for many months past. That, perhaps, it was best for me; I had less to
regret in sacrificing a friendship, feelings, hopes which must, at any
rate, have been torn from me now. And yet, that I must and would confess
that, could I have restored her to what she had appeared to me before,
I would infinitely prefer any increase of the pain of parting, for the
sake of carrying with me the right of tenderness and esteem. This is
what I said, the purport of it; but, as you may imagine, not spoken
so collectedly or methodically as I have repeated it to you. She was
astonished, exceedingly astonished--more than astonished. I saw her
change countenance. She turned extremely red. I imagined I saw a
mixture of many feelings: a great, though short struggle; half a wish of
yielding to truths, half a sense of shame, but habit, habit carried
it. She would have laughed if she could. It was a sort of laugh, as she
answered, ‘A pretty good lecture, upon my word. Was it part of your last
sermon? At this rate you will soon reform everybody at Mansfield and
Thornton Lacey; and when I hear of you next, it may be as a celebrated
preacher in some great society of Methodists, or as a missionary into
foreign parts. ’ She tried to speak carelessly, but she was not so
careless as she wanted to appear. I only said in reply, that from my
heart I wished her well, and earnestly hoped that she might soon learn
to think more justly, and not owe the most valuable knowledge we could
any of us acquire, the knowledge of ourselves and of our duty, to the
lessons of affliction, and immediately left the room. I had gone a few
steps, Fanny, when I heard the door open behind me. ‘Mr. Bertram,’ said
she. I looked back. ‘Mr. Bertram,’ said she, with a smile; but it was
a smile ill-suited to the conversation that had passed, a saucy playful
smile, seeming to invite in order to subdue me; at least it appeared so
to me. I resisted; it was the impulse of the moment to resist, and still
walked on. I have since, sometimes, for a moment, regretted that I did
not go back, but I know I was right, and such has been the end of our
acquaintance.
And what an acquaintance has it been! How have I been
deceived! Equally in brother and sister deceived! I thank you for your
patience, Fanny. This has been the greatest relief, and now we will have
done. ”
And such was Fanny’s dependence on his words, that for five minutes
she thought they _had_ done. Then, however, it all came on again, or
something very like it, and nothing less than Lady Bertram’s rousing
thoroughly up could really close such a conversation. Till that
happened, they continued to talk of Miss Crawford alone, and how she had
attached him, and how delightful nature had made her, and how excellent
she would have been, had she fallen into good hands earlier. Fanny, now
at liberty to speak openly, felt more than justified in adding to
his knowledge of her real character, by some hint of what share his
brother’s state of health might be supposed to have in her wish for a
complete reconciliation. This was not an agreeable intimation. Nature
resisted it for a while. It would have been a vast deal pleasanter to
have had her more disinterested in her attachment; but his vanity was
not of a strength to fight long against reason. He submitted to believe
that Tom’s illness had influenced her, only reserving for himself this
consoling thought, that considering the many counteractions of opposing
habits, she had certainly been _more_ attached to him than could have
been expected, and for his sake been more near doing right. Fanny
thought exactly the same; and they were also quite agreed in their
opinion of the lasting effect, the indelible impression, which such
a disappointment must make on his mind. Time would undoubtedly abate
somewhat of his sufferings, but still it was a sort of thing which he
never could get entirely the better of; and as to his ever meeting with
any other woman who could--it was too impossible to be named but with
indignation. Fanny’s friendship was all that he had to cling to.
CHAPTER XLVIII
Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery. I quit such odious subjects
as soon as I can, impatient to restore everybody, not greatly in fault
themselves, to tolerable comfort, and to have done with all the rest.
My Fanny, indeed, at this very time, I have the satisfaction of knowing,
must have been happy in spite of everything. She must have been a happy
creature in spite of all that she felt, or thought she felt, for the
distress of those around her. She had sources of delight that must force
their way. She was returned to Mansfield Park, she was useful, she was
beloved; she was safe from Mr. Crawford; and when Sir Thomas came back
she had every proof that could be given in his then melancholy state of
spirits, of his perfect approbation and increased regard; and happy as
all this must make her, she would still have been happy without any of
it, for Edmund was no longer the dupe of Miss Crawford.
It is true that Edmund was very far from happy himself. He was suffering
from disappointment and regret, grieving over what was, and wishing for
what could never be. She knew it was so, and was sorry; but it was with
a sorrow so founded on satisfaction, so tending to ease, and so much in
harmony with every dearest sensation, that there are few who might not
have been glad to exchange their greatest gaiety for it.
Sir Thomas, poor Sir Thomas, a parent, and conscious of errors in his
own conduct as a parent, was the longest to suffer. He felt that he
ought not to have allowed the marriage; that his daughter’s sentiments
had been sufficiently known to him to render him culpable in authorising
it; that in so doing he had sacrificed the right to the expedient, and
been governed by motives of selfishness and worldly wisdom. These were
reflections that required some time to soften; but time will do almost
everything; and though little comfort arose on Mrs. Rushworth’s side for
the misery she had occasioned, comfort was to be found greater than
he had supposed in his other children. Julia’s match became a less
desperate business than he had considered it at first. She was humble,
and wishing to be forgiven; and Mr. Yates, desirous of being really
received into the family, was disposed to look up to him and be guided.
He was not very solid; but there was a hope of his becoming less
trifling, of his being at least tolerably domestic and quiet; and at any
rate, there was comfort in finding his estate rather more, and his debts
much less, than he had feared, and in being consulted and treated as
the friend best worth attending to. There was comfort also in Tom, who
gradually regained his health, without regaining the thoughtlessness and
selfishness of his previous habits. He was the better for ever for his
illness. He had suffered, and he had learned to think: two advantages
that he had never known before; and the self-reproach arising from the
deplorable event in Wimpole Street, to which he felt himself accessory
by all the dangerous intimacy of his unjustifiable theatre, made an
impression on his mind which, at the age of six-and-twenty, with no want
of sense or good companions, was durable in its happy effects. He became
what he ought to be: useful to his father, steady and quiet, and not
living merely for himself.
Here was comfort indeed! and quite as soon as Sir Thomas could place
dependence on such sources of good, Edmund was contributing to his
father’s ease by improvement in the only point in which he had given
him pain before--improvement in his spirits. After wandering about and
sitting under trees with Fanny all the summer evenings, he had so well
talked his mind into submission as to be very tolerably cheerful again.
These were the circumstances and the hopes which gradually brought their
alleviation to Sir Thomas, deadening his sense of what was lost, and
in part reconciling him to himself; though the anguish arising from the
conviction of his own errors in the education of his daughters was never
to be entirely done away.
Too late he became aware how unfavourable to the character of any young
people must be the totally opposite treatment which Maria and Julia had
been always experiencing at home, where the excessive indulgence and
flattery of their aunt had been continually contrasted with his own
severity. He saw how ill he had judged, in expecting to counteract what
was wrong in Mrs. Norris by its reverse in himself; clearly saw that he
had but increased the evil by teaching them to repress their spirits in
his presence so as to make their real disposition unknown to him, and
sending them for all their indulgences to a person who had been able to
attach them only by the blindness of her affection, and the excess of
her praise.
Here had been grievous mismanagement; but, bad as it was, he gradually
grew to feel that it had not been the most direful mistake in his plan
of education. Something must have been wanting _within_, or time would
have worn away much of its ill effect. He feared that principle, active
principle, had been wanting; that they had never been properly taught
to govern their inclinations and tempers by that sense of duty which can
alone suffice. They had been instructed theoretically in their religion,
but never required to bring it into daily practice. To be distinguished
for elegance and accomplishments, the authorised object of their youth,
could have had no useful influence that way, no moral effect on the
mind. He had meant them to be good, but his cares had been directed to
the understanding and manners, not the disposition; and of the necessity
of self-denial and humility, he feared they had never heard from any
lips that could profit them.
Bitterly did he deplore a deficiency which now he could scarcely
comprehend to have been possible. Wretchedly did he feel, that with all
the cost and care of an anxious and expensive education, he had brought
up his daughters without their understanding their first duties, or his
being acquainted with their character and temper.
The high spirit and strong passions of Mrs. Rushworth, especially, were
made known to him only in their sad result. She was not to be prevailed
on to leave Mr. Crawford. She hoped to marry him, and they continued
together till she was obliged to be convinced that such hope was vain,
and till the disappointment and wretchedness arising from the conviction
rendered her temper so bad, and her feelings for him so like hatred,
as to make them for a while each other’s punishment, and then induce a
voluntary separation.
She had lived with him to be reproached as the ruin of all his happiness
in Fanny, and carried away no better consolation in leaving him than
that she _had_ divided them. What can exceed the misery of such a mind
in such a situation?
Mr. Rushworth had no difficulty in procuring a divorce; and so ended a
marriage contracted under such circumstances as to make any better end
the effect of good luck not to be reckoned on. She had despised him,
and loved another; and he had been very much aware that it was so. The
indignities of stupidity, and the disappointments of selfish passion,
can excite little pity. His punishment followed his conduct, as did a
deeper punishment the deeper guilt of his wife. _He_ was released from
the engagement to be mortified and unhappy, till some other pretty girl
could attract him into matrimony again, and he might set forward on a
second, and, it is to be hoped, more prosperous trial of the state: if
duped, to be duped at least with good humour and good luck; while she
must withdraw with infinitely stronger feelings to a retirement and
reproach which could allow no second spring of hope or character.
Where she could be placed became a subject of most melancholy and
momentous consultation. Mrs. Norris, whose attachment seemed to augment
with the demerits of her niece, would have had her received at home
and countenanced by them all. Sir Thomas would not hear of it; and Mrs.
Norris’s anger against Fanny was so much the greater, from considering
_her_ residence there as the motive. She persisted in placing his
scruples to _her_ account, though Sir Thomas very solemnly assured her
that, had there been no young woman in question, had there been no young
person of either sex belonging to him, to be endangered by the society
or hurt by the character of Mrs. Rushworth, he would never have offered
so great an insult to the neighbourhood as to expect it to notice her.
As a daughter, he hoped a penitent one, she should be protected by him,
and secured in every comfort, and supported by every encouragement to do
right, which their relative situations admitted; but farther than _that_
he could not go. Maria had destroyed her own character, and he would
not, by a vain attempt to restore what never could be restored, by
affording his sanction to vice, or in seeking to lessen its disgrace, be
anywise accessory to introducing such misery in another man’s family as
he had known himself.
It ended in Mrs. Norris’s resolving to quit Mansfield and devote herself
to her unfortunate Maria, and in an establishment being formed for them
in another country, remote and private, where, shut up together with
little society, on one side no affection, on the other no judgment,
it may be reasonably supposed that their tempers became their mutual
punishment.
Mrs. Norris’s removal from Mansfield was the great supplementary comfort
of Sir Thomas’s life. His opinion of her had been sinking from the day
of his return from Antigua: in every transaction together from that
period, in their daily intercourse, in business, or in chat, she had
been regularly losing ground in his esteem, and convincing him that
either time had done her much disservice, or that he had considerably
over-rated her sense, and wonderfully borne with her manners before. He
had felt her as an hourly evil, which was so much the worse, as there
seemed no chance of its ceasing but with life; she seemed a part of
himself that must be borne for ever. To be relieved from her, therefore,
was so great a felicity that, had she not left bitter remembrances
behind her, there might have been danger of his learning almost to
approve the evil which produced such a good.
She was regretted by no one at Mansfield. She had never been able to
attach even those she loved best; and since Mrs. Rushworth’s elopement,
her temper had been in a state of such irritation as to make her
everywhere tormenting. Not even Fanny had tears for aunt Norris, not
even when she was gone for ever.
That Julia escaped better than Maria was owing, in some measure, to a
favourable difference of disposition and circumstance, but in a greater
to her having been less the darling of that very aunt, less flattered
and less spoilt. Her beauty and acquirements had held but a second
place. She had been always used to think herself a little inferior to
Maria. Her temper was naturally the easiest of the two; her feelings,
though quick, were more controllable, and education had not given her so
very hurtful a degree of self-consequence.
She had submitted the best to the disappointment in Henry Crawford.
After the first bitterness of the conviction of being slighted was over,
she had been tolerably soon in a fair way of not thinking of him again;
and when the acquaintance was renewed in town, and Mr. Rushworth’s house
became Crawford’s object, she had had the merit of withdrawing herself
from it, and of chusing that time to pay a visit to her other friends,
in order to secure herself from being again too much attracted. This had
been her motive in going to her cousin’s. Mr. Yates’s convenience had
had nothing to do with it. She had been allowing his attentions some
time, but with very little idea of ever accepting him; and had not her
sister’s conduct burst forth as it did, and her increased dread of her
father and of home, on that event, imagining its certain consequence
to herself would be greater severity and restraint, made her hastily
resolve on avoiding such immediate horrors at all risks, it is probable
that Mr. Yates would never have succeeded. She had not eloped with any
worse feelings than those of selfish alarm. It had appeared to her the
only thing to be done. Maria’s guilt had induced Julia’s folly.
Henry Crawford, ruined by early independence and bad domestic example,
indulged in the freaks of a cold-blooded vanity a little too long. Once
it had, by an opening undesigned and unmerited, led him into the way of
happiness. Could he have been satisfied with the conquest of one
amiable woman’s affections, could he have found sufficient exultation
in overcoming the reluctance, in working himself into the esteem and
tenderness of Fanny Price, there would have been every probability of
success and felicity for him. His affection had already done something.
Her influence over him had already given him some influence over her.
Would he have deserved more, there can be no doubt that more would have
been obtained, especially when that marriage had taken place, which
would have given him the assistance of her conscience in subduing her
first inclination, and brought them very often together. Would he have
persevered, and uprightly, Fanny must have been his reward, and a reward
very voluntarily bestowed, within a reasonable period from Edmund’s
marrying Mary.
Had he done as he intended, and as he knew he ought, by going down to
Everingham after his return from Portsmouth, he might have been deciding
his own happy destiny. But he was pressed to stay for Mrs. Fraser’s
party; his staying was made of flattering consequence, and he was to
meet Mrs. Rushworth there. Curiosity and vanity were both engaged, and
the temptation of immediate pleasure was too strong for a mind unused to
make any sacrifice to right: he resolved to defer his Norfolk journey,
resolved that writing should answer the purpose of it, or that its
purpose was unimportant, and staid. He saw Mrs. Rushworth, was received
by her with a coldness which ought to have been repulsive, and have
established apparent indifference between them for ever; but he was
mortified, he could not bear to be thrown off by the woman whose smiles
had been so wholly at his command: he must exert himself to subdue so
proud a display of resentment; it was anger on Fanny’s account; he must
get the better of it, and make Mrs. Rushworth Maria Bertram again in her
treatment of himself.
In this spirit he began the attack, and by animated perseverance had
soon re-established the sort of familiar intercourse, of gallantry,
of flirtation, which bounded his views; but in triumphing over the
discretion which, though beginning in anger, might have saved them both,
he had put himself in the power of feelings on her side more strong
than he had supposed. She loved him; there was no withdrawing attentions
avowedly dear to her. He was entangled by his own vanity, with as little
excuse of love as possible, and without the smallest inconstancy of mind
towards her cousin. To keep Fanny and the Bertrams from a knowledge of
what was passing became his first object. Secrecy could not have been
more desirable for Mrs. Rushworth’s credit than he felt it for his own.
When he returned from Richmond, he would have been glad to see Mrs.
Rushworth no more. All that followed was the result of her imprudence;
and he went off with her at last, because he could not help it,
regretting Fanny even at the moment, but regretting her infinitely more
when all the bustle of the intrigue was over, and a very few months had
taught him, by the force of contrast, to place a yet higher value on the
sweetness of her temper, the purity of her mind, and the excellence of
her principles.
That punishment, the public punishment of disgrace, should in a just
measure attend _his_ share of the offence is, we know, not one of the
barriers which society gives to virtue. In this world the penalty is
less equal than could be wished; but without presuming to look forward
to a juster appointment hereafter, we may fairly consider a man of
sense, like Henry Crawford, to be providing for himself no small
portion of vexation and regret: vexation that must rise sometimes
to self-reproach, and regret to wretchedness, in having so requited
hospitality, so injured family peace, so forfeited his best, most
estimable, and endeared acquaintance, and so lost the woman whom he had
rationally as well as passionately loved.
After what had passed to wound and alienate the two families, the
continuance of the Bertrams and Grants in such close neighbourhood would
have been most distressing; but the absence of the latter, for some
months purposely lengthened, ended very fortunately in the necessity, or
at least the practicability, of a permanent removal. Dr. Grant, through
an interest on which he had almost ceased to form hopes, succeeded to
a stall in Westminster, which, as affording an occasion for leaving
Mansfield, an excuse for residence in London, and an increase of income
to answer the expenses of the change, was highly acceptable to those who
went and those who staid.
Mrs. Grant, with a temper to love and be loved, must have gone with some
regret from the scenes and people she had been used to; but the same
happiness of disposition must in any place, and any society, secure her
a great deal to enjoy, and she had again a home to offer Mary; and Mary
had had enough of her own friends, enough of vanity, ambition, love, and
disappointment in the course of the last half-year, to be in need of the
true kindness of her sister’s heart, and the rational tranquillity
of her ways. They lived together; and when Dr. Grant had brought on
apoplexy and death, by three great institutionary dinners in one week,
they still lived together; for Mary, though perfectly resolved against
ever attaching herself to a younger brother again, was long in finding
among the dashing representatives, or idle heir-apparents, who were at
the command of her beauty, and her £20,000, any one who could satisfy the
better taste she had acquired at Mansfield, whose character and manners
could authorise a hope of the domestic happiness she had there learned
to estimate, or put Edmund Bertram sufficiently out of her head.
Edmund had greatly the advantage of her in this respect. He had not to
wait and wish with vacant affections for an object worthy to succeed her
in them. Scarcely had he done regretting Mary Crawford, and observing to
Fanny how impossible it was that he should ever meet with such another
woman, before it began to strike him whether a very different kind of
woman might not do just as well, or a great deal better: whether Fanny
herself were not growing as dear, as important to him in all her smiles
and all her ways, as Mary Crawford had ever been; and whether it might
not be a possible, an hopeful undertaking to persuade her that her warm
and sisterly regard for him would be foundation enough for wedded love.
I purposely abstain from dates on this occasion, that every one may
be at liberty to fix their own, aware that the cure of unconquerable
passions, and the transfer of unchanging attachments, must vary much as
to time in different people. I only entreat everybody to believe that
exactly at the time when it was quite natural that it should be so, and
not a week earlier, Edmund did cease to care about Miss Crawford, and
became as anxious to marry Fanny as Fanny herself could desire.
With such a regard for her, indeed, as his had long been, a regard
founded on the most endearing claims of innocence and helplessness, and
completed by every recommendation of growing worth, what could be more
natural than the change? Loving, guiding, protecting her, as he had been
doing ever since her being ten years old, her mind in so great a degree
formed by his care, and her comfort depending on his kindness, an
object to him of such close and peculiar interest, dearer by all his own
importance with her than any one else at Mansfield, what was there now
to add, but that he should learn to prefer soft light eyes to sparkling
dark ones. And being always with her, and always talking confidentially,
and his feelings exactly in that favourable state which a recent
disappointment gives, those soft light eyes could not be very long in
obtaining the pre-eminence.
Having once set out, and felt that he had done so on this road to
happiness, there was nothing on the side of prudence to stop him or make
his progress slow; no doubts of her deserving, no fears of opposition of
taste, no need of drawing new hopes of happiness from dissimilarity
of temper. Her mind, disposition, opinions, and habits wanted no
half-concealment, no self-deception on the present, no reliance on
future improvement. Even in the midst of his late infatuation, he had
acknowledged Fanny’s mental superiority. What must be his sense of it
now, therefore? She was of course only too good for him; but as nobody
minds having what is too good for them, he was very steadily earnest in
the pursuit of the blessing, and it was not possible that encouragement
from her should be long wanting. Timid, anxious, doubting as she was, it
was still impossible that such tenderness as hers should not, at times,
hold out the strongest hope of success, though it remained for a later
period to tell him the whole delightful and astonishing truth. His
happiness in knowing himself to have been so long the beloved of such a
heart, must have been great enough to warrant any strength of language
in which he could clothe it to her or to himself; it must have been
a delightful happiness. But there was happiness elsewhere which no
description can reach. Let no one presume to give the feelings of a
young woman on receiving the assurance of that affection of which she
has scarcely allowed herself to entertain a hope.
Their own inclinations ascertained, there were no difficulties behind,
no drawback of poverty or parent. It was a match which Sir Thomas’s
wishes had even forestalled. Sick of ambitious and mercenary connexions,
prizing more and more the sterling good of principle and temper, and
chiefly anxious to bind by the strongest securities all that remained to
him of domestic felicity, he had pondered with genuine satisfaction on
the more than possibility of the two young friends finding their natural
consolation in each other for all that had occurred of disappointment to
either; and the joyful consent which met Edmund’s application, the high
sense of having realised a great acquisition in the promise of Fanny for
a daughter, formed just such a contrast with his early opinion on the
subject when the poor little girl’s coming had been first agitated, as
time is for ever producing between the plans and decisions of mortals,
for their own instruction, and their neighbours’ entertainment.
Fanny was indeed the daughter that he wanted. His charitable kindness
had been rearing a prime comfort for himself. His liberality had a rich
repayment, and the general goodness of his intentions by her deserved
it. He might have made her childhood happier; but it had been an error
of judgment only which had given him the appearance of harshness, and
deprived him of her early love; and now, on really knowing each other,
their mutual attachment became very strong. After settling her at
Thornton Lacey with every kind attention to her comfort, the object of
almost every day was to see her there, or to get her away from it.
Selfishly dear as she had long been to Lady Bertram, she could not be
parted with willingly by _her_. No happiness of son or niece could make
her wish the marriage. But it was possible to part with her, because
Susan remained to supply her place. Susan became the stationary niece,
delighted to be so; and equally well adapted for it by a readiness of
mind, and an inclination for usefulness, as Fanny had been by sweetness
of temper, and strong feelings of gratitude. Susan could never be
spared. First as a comfort to Fanny, then as an auxiliary, and last as
her substitute, she was established at Mansfield, with every appearance
of equal permanency. Her more fearless disposition and happier nerves
made everything easy to her there. With quickness in understanding
the tempers of those she had to deal with, and no natural timidity to
restrain any consequent wishes, she was soon welcome and useful to all;
and after Fanny’s removal succeeded so naturally to her influence over
the hourly comfort of her aunt, as gradually to become, perhaps, the
most beloved of the two. In _her_ usefulness, in Fanny’s excellence,
in William’s continued good conduct and rising fame, and in the general
well-doing and success of the other members of the family, all assisting
to advance each other, and doing credit to his countenance and aid, Sir
Thomas saw repeated, and for ever repeated, reason to rejoice in what he
had done for them all, and acknowledge the advantages of early hardship
and discipline, and the consciousness of being born to struggle and
endure.
With so much true merit and true love, and no want of fortune and
friends, the happiness of the married cousins must appear as secure as
earthly happiness can be. Equally formed for domestic life, and attached
to country pleasures, their home was the home of affection and comfort;
and to complete the picture of good, the acquisition of Mansfield
living, by the death of Dr. Grant, occurred just after they had been
married long enough to begin to want an increase of income, and feel
their distance from the paternal abode an inconvenience.
On that event they removed to Mansfield; and the Parsonage there,
which, under each of its two former owners, Fanny had never been able
to approach but with some painful sensation of restraint or alarm, soon
grew as dear to her heart, and as thoroughly perfect in her eyes, as
everything else within the view and patronage of Mansfield Park had long
been.
THE END
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than a few repulsive looks, but she felt her as a spy, and an intruder,
and an indigent niece, and everything most odious. By her other aunt,
Susan was received with quiet kindness. Lady Bertram could not give her
much time, or many words, but she felt her, as Fanny’s sister, to have
a claim at Mansfield, and was ready to kiss and like her; and Susan
was more than satisfied, for she came perfectly aware that nothing but
ill-humour was to be expected from aunt Norris; and was so provided
with happiness, so strong in that best of blessings, an escape from
many certain evils, that she could have stood against a great deal more
indifference than she met with from the others.
She was now left a good deal to herself, to get acquainted with the
house and grounds as she could, and spent her days very happily in so
doing, while those who might otherwise have attended to her were shut
up, or wholly occupied each with the person quite dependent on them, at
this time, for everything like comfort; Edmund trying to bury his own
feelings in exertions for the relief of his brother’s, and Fanny devoted
to her aunt Bertram, returning to every former office with more than
former zeal, and thinking she could never do enough for one who seemed
so much to want her.
To talk over the dreadful business with Fanny, talk and lament, was all
Lady Bertram’s consolation. To be listened to and borne with, and hear
the voice of kindness and sympathy in return, was everything that could
be done for her. To be otherwise comforted was out of the question. The
case admitted of no comfort. Lady Bertram did not think deeply, but,
guided by Sir Thomas, she thought justly on all important points; and
she saw, therefore, in all its enormity, what had happened, and neither
endeavoured herself, nor required Fanny to advise her, to think little
of guilt and infamy.
Her affections were not acute, nor was her mind tenacious. After a time,
Fanny found it not impossible to direct her thoughts to other subjects,
and revive some interest in the usual occupations; but whenever Lady
Bertram _was_ fixed on the event, she could see it only in one light, as
comprehending the loss of a daughter, and a disgrace never to be wiped
off.
Fanny learnt from her all the particulars which had yet transpired. Her
aunt was no very methodical narrator, but with the help of some letters
to and from Sir Thomas, and what she already knew herself, and could
reasonably combine, she was soon able to understand quite as much as she
wished of the circumstances attending the story.
Mrs. Rushworth had gone, for the Easter holidays, to Twickenham, with
a family whom she had just grown intimate with: a family of lively,
agreeable manners, and probably of morals and discretion to suit, for to
_their_ house Mr. Crawford had constant access at all times. His having
been in the same neighbourhood Fanny already knew. Mr. Rushworth had
been gone at this time to Bath, to pass a few days with his mother, and
bring her back to town, and Maria was with these friends without any
restraint, without even Julia; for Julia had removed from Wimpole Street
two or three weeks before, on a visit to some relations of Sir Thomas;
a removal which her father and mother were now disposed to attribute
to some view of convenience on Mr. Yates’s account. Very soon after the
Rushworths’ return to Wimpole Street, Sir Thomas had received a letter
from an old and most particular friend in London, who hearing and
witnessing a good deal to alarm him in that quarter, wrote to recommend
Sir Thomas’s coming to London himself, and using his influence with his
daughter to put an end to the intimacy which was already exposing her to
unpleasant remarks, and evidently making Mr. Rushworth uneasy.
Sir Thomas was preparing to act upon this letter, without communicating
its contents to any creature at Mansfield, when it was followed by
another, sent express from the same friend, to break to him the almost
desperate situation in which affairs then stood with the young people.
Mrs. Rushworth had left her husband’s house: Mr. Rushworth had been
in great anger and distress to _him_ (Mr. Harding) for his advice; Mr.
Harding feared there had been _at_ _least_ very flagrant indiscretion.
The maidservant of Mrs. Rushworth, senior, threatened alarmingly. He
was doing all in his power to quiet everything, with the hope of Mrs.
Rushworth’s return, but was so much counteracted in Wimpole Street by
the influence of Mr. Rushworth’s mother, that the worst consequences
might be apprehended.
This dreadful communication could not be kept from the rest of the
family. Sir Thomas set off, Edmund would go with him, and the others had
been left in a state of wretchedness, inferior only to what followed
the receipt of the next letters from London. Everything was by that time
public beyond a hope. The servant of Mrs. Rushworth, the mother, had
exposure in her power, and supported by her mistress, was not to be
silenced. The two ladies, even in the short time they had been
together, had disagreed; and the bitterness of the elder against her
daughter-in-law might perhaps arise almost as much from the personal
disrespect with which she had herself been treated as from sensibility
for her son.
However that might be, she was unmanageable. But had she been less
obstinate, or of less weight with her son, who was always guided by the
last speaker, by the person who could get hold of and shut him up, the
case would still have been hopeless, for Mrs. Rushworth did not appear
again, and there was every reason to conclude her to be concealed
somewhere with Mr. Crawford, who had quitted his uncle’s house, as for a
journey, on the very day of her absenting herself.
Sir Thomas, however, remained yet a little longer in town, in the hope
of discovering and snatching her from farther vice, though all was lost
on the side of character.
_His_ present state Fanny could hardly bear to think of. There was but
one of his children who was not at this time a source of misery to
him. Tom’s complaints had been greatly heightened by the shock of his
sister’s conduct, and his recovery so much thrown back by it, that even
Lady Bertram had been struck by the difference, and all her alarms were
regularly sent off to her husband; and Julia’s elopement, the additional
blow which had met him on his arrival in London, though its force had
been deadened at the moment, must, she knew, be sorely felt. She saw
that it was. His letters expressed how much he deplored it. Under any
circumstances it would have been an unwelcome alliance; but to have it
so clandestinely formed, and such a period chosen for its completion,
placed Julia’s feelings in a most unfavourable light, and severely
aggravated the folly of her choice. He called it a bad thing, done in
the worst manner, and at the worst time; and though Julia was yet as
more pardonable than Maria as folly than vice, he could not but
regard the step she had taken as opening the worst probabilities of a
conclusion hereafter like her sister’s. Such was his opinion of the set
into which she had thrown herself.
Fanny felt for him most acutely. He could have no comfort but in Edmund.
Every other child must be racking his heart. His displeasure against
herself she trusted, reasoning differently from Mrs. Norris, would now
be done away. _She_ should be justified. Mr. Crawford would have fully
acquitted her conduct in refusing him; but this, though most material
to herself, would be poor consolation to Sir Thomas. Her uncle’s
displeasure was terrible to her; but what could her justification or her
gratitude and attachment do for him? His stay must be on Edmund alone.
She was mistaken, however, in supposing that Edmund gave his father no
present pain. It was of a much less poignant nature than what the others
excited; but Sir Thomas was considering his happiness as very deeply
involved in the offence of his sister and friend; cut off by it, as
he must be, from the woman whom he had been pursuing with undoubted
attachment and strong probability of success; and who, in everything but
this despicable brother, would have been so eligible a connexion. He was
aware of what Edmund must be suffering on his own behalf, in addition
to all the rest, when they were in town: he had seen or conjectured
his feelings; and, having reason to think that one interview with Miss
Crawford had taken place, from which Edmund derived only increased
distress, had been as anxious on that account as on others to get him
out of town, and had engaged him in taking Fanny home to her aunt, with
a view to his relief and benefit, no less than theirs. Fanny was not in
the secret of her uncle’s feelings, Sir Thomas not in the secret of Miss
Crawford’s character. Had he been privy to her conversation with his
son, he would not have wished her to belong to him, though her twenty
thousand pounds had been forty.
That Edmund must be for ever divided from Miss Crawford did not admit
of a doubt with Fanny; and yet, till she knew that he felt the same, her
own conviction was insufficient. She thought he did, but she wanted to
be assured of it. If he would now speak to her with the unreserve which
had sometimes been too much for her before, it would be most consoling;
but _that_ she found was not to be. She seldom saw him: never alone. He
probably avoided being alone with her. What was to be inferred? That
his judgment submitted to all his own peculiar and bitter share of this
family affliction, but that it was too keenly felt to be a subject of
the slightest communication. This must be his state. He yielded, but it
was with agonies which did not admit of speech. Long, long would it be
ere Miss Crawford’s name passed his lips again, or she could hope for a
renewal of such confidential intercourse as had been.
It _was_ long. They reached Mansfield on Thursday, and it was not till
Sunday evening that Edmund began to talk to her on the subject. Sitting
with her on Sunday evening--a wet Sunday evening--the very time of
all others when, if a friend is at hand, the heart must be opened, and
everything told; no one else in the room, except his mother, who,
after hearing an affecting sermon, had cried herself to sleep, it was
impossible not to speak; and so, with the usual beginnings, hardly to
be traced as to what came first, and the usual declaration that if she
would listen to him for a few minutes, he should be very brief, and
certainly never tax her kindness in the same way again; she need not
fear a repetition; it would be a subject prohibited entirely: he entered
upon the luxury of relating circumstances and sensations of the first
interest to himself, to one of whose affectionate sympathy he was quite
convinced.
How Fanny listened, with what curiosity and concern, what pain and what
delight, how the agitation of his voice was watched, and how carefully
her own eyes were fixed on any object but himself, may be imagined. The
opening was alarming. He had seen Miss Crawford. He had been invited to
see her. He had received a note from Lady Stornaway to beg him to call;
and regarding it as what was meant to be the last, last interview
of friendship, and investing her with all the feelings of shame and
wretchedness which Crawford’s sister ought to have known, he had gone to
her in such a state of mind, so softened, so devoted, as made it for a
few moments impossible to Fanny’s fears that it should be the last. But
as he proceeded in his story, these fears were over. She had met him,
he said, with a serious--certainly a serious--even an agitated air;
but before he had been able to speak one intelligible sentence, she had
introduced the subject in a manner which he owned had shocked him. “‘I
heard you were in town,’ said she; ‘I wanted to see you. Let us talk
over this sad business. What can equal the folly of our two relations? ’
I could not answer, but I believe my looks spoke. She felt reproved.
Sometimes how quick to feel! With a graver look and voice she then
added, ‘I do not mean to defend Henry at your sister’s expense. ’ So
she began, but how she went on, Fanny, is not fit, is hardly fit to be
repeated to you. I cannot recall all her words. I would not dwell upon
them if I could. Their substance was great anger at the _folly_ of each.
She reprobated her brother’s folly in being drawn on by a woman whom he
had never cared for, to do what must lose him the woman he adored; but
still more the folly of poor Maria, in sacrificing such a situation,
plunging into such difficulties, under the idea of being really loved
by a man who had long ago made his indifference clear. Guess what I must
have felt. To hear the woman whom--no harsher name than folly given!
So voluntarily, so freely, so coolly to canvass it! No reluctance, no
horror, no feminine, shall I say, no modest loathings? This is what the
world does. For where, Fanny, shall we find a woman whom nature had so
richly endowed? Spoilt, spoilt! ”
After a little reflection, he went on with a sort of desperate calmness.
“I will tell you everything, and then have done for ever. She saw it
only as folly, and that folly stamped only by exposure. The want of
common discretion, of caution: his going down to Richmond for the whole
time of her being at Twickenham; her putting herself in the power of
a servant; it was the detection, in short--oh, Fanny! it was the
detection, not the offence, which she reprobated. It was the imprudence
which had brought things to extremity, and obliged her brother to give
up every dearer plan in order to fly with her. ”
He stopt. “And what,” said Fanny (believing herself required to speak),
“what could you say? ”
“Nothing, nothing to be understood. I was like a man stunned. She
went on, began to talk of you; yes, then she began to talk of you,
regretting, as well she might, the loss of such a--. There she spoke
very rationally. But she has always done justice to you. ‘He has thrown
away,’ said she, ‘such a woman as he will never see again. She would
have fixed him; she would have made him happy for ever. ’ My dearest
Fanny, I am giving you, I hope, more pleasure than pain by this
retrospect of what might have been--but what never can be now. You do
not wish me to be silent? If you do, give me but a look, a word, and I
have done. ”
No look or word was given.
“Thank God,” said he. “We were all disposed to wonder, but it seems to
have been the merciful appointment of Providence that the heart which
knew no guile should not suffer. She spoke of you with high praise and
warm affection; yet, even here, there was alloy, a dash of evil; for in
the midst of it she could exclaim, ‘Why would not she have him? It is
all her fault. Simple girl! I shall never forgive her. Had she accepted
him as she ought, they might now have been on the point of marriage, and
Henry would have been too happy and too busy to want any other object.
He would have taken no pains to be on terms with Mrs. Rushworth again.
It would have all ended in a regular standing flirtation, in yearly
meetings at Sotherton and Everingham. ’ Could you have believed it
possible? But the charm is broken. My eyes are opened. ”
“Cruel! ” said Fanny, “quite cruel. At such a moment to give way to
gaiety, to speak with lightness, and to you! Absolute cruelty. ”
“Cruelty, do you call it? We differ there. No, hers is not a cruel
nature. I do not consider her as meaning to wound my feelings. The evil
lies yet deeper: in her total ignorance, unsuspiciousness of there being
such feelings; in a perversion of mind which made it natural to her to
treat the subject as she did. She was speaking only as she had been used
to hear others speak, as she imagined everybody else would speak. Hers
are not faults of temper. She would not voluntarily give unnecessary
pain to any one, and though I may deceive myself, I cannot but think
that for me, for my feelings, she would--Hers are faults of principle,
Fanny; of blunted delicacy and a corrupted, vitiated mind. Perhaps it
is best for me, since it leaves me so little to regret. Not so, however.
Gladly would I submit to all the increased pain of losing her, rather
than have to think of her as I do. I told her so. ”
“Did you? ”
“Yes; when I left her I told her so. ”
“How long were you together? ”
“Five-and-twenty minutes. Well, she went on to say that what remained
now to be done was to bring about a marriage between them. She spoke of
it, Fanny, with a steadier voice than I can. ” He was obliged to pause
more than once as he continued. “‘We must persuade Henry to marry
her,’ said she; ‘and what with honour, and the certainty of having shut
himself out for ever from Fanny, I do not despair of it. Fanny he must
give up. I do not think that even _he_ could now hope to succeed with
one of her stamp, and therefore I hope we may find no insuperable
difficulty. My influence, which is not small shall all go that way; and
when once married, and properly supported by her own family, people of
respectability as they are, she may recover her footing in society to a
certain degree. In some circles, we know, she would never be admitted,
but with good dinners, and large parties, there will always be those
who will be glad of her acquaintance; and there is, undoubtedly, more
liberality and candour on those points than formerly. What I advise
is, that your father be quiet. Do not let him injure his own cause by
interference. Persuade him to let things take their course. If by any
officious exertions of his, she is induced to leave Henry’s protection,
there will be much less chance of his marrying her than if she remain
with him. I know how he is likely to be influenced. Let Sir Thomas trust
to his honour and compassion, and it may all end well; but if he get his
daughter away, it will be destroying the chief hold. ’”
After repeating this, Edmund was so much affected that Fanny, watching
him with silent, but most tender concern, was almost sorry that the
subject had been entered on at all. It was long before he could speak
again. At last, “Now, Fanny,” said he, “I shall soon have done. I have
told you the substance of all that she said. As soon as I could speak,
I replied that I had not supposed it possible, coming in such a state of
mind into that house as I had done, that anything could occur to make
me suffer more, but that she had been inflicting deeper wounds in almost
every sentence. That though I had, in the course of our acquaintance,
been often sensible of some difference in our opinions, on points,
too, of some moment, it had not entered my imagination to conceive the
difference could be such as she had now proved it. That the manner in
which she treated the dreadful crime committed by her brother and my
sister (with whom lay the greater seduction I pretended not to say),
but the manner in which she spoke of the crime itself, giving it every
reproach but the right; considering its ill consequences only as they
were to be braved or overborne by a defiance of decency and impudence in
wrong; and last of all, and above all, recommending to us a compliance,
a compromise, an acquiescence in the continuance of the sin, on the
chance of a marriage which, thinking as I now thought of her brother,
should rather be prevented than sought; all this together most
grievously convinced me that I had never understood her before, and
that, as far as related to mind, it had been the creature of my own
imagination, not Miss Crawford, that I had been too apt to dwell on
for many months past. That, perhaps, it was best for me; I had less to
regret in sacrificing a friendship, feelings, hopes which must, at any
rate, have been torn from me now. And yet, that I must and would confess
that, could I have restored her to what she had appeared to me before,
I would infinitely prefer any increase of the pain of parting, for the
sake of carrying with me the right of tenderness and esteem. This is
what I said, the purport of it; but, as you may imagine, not spoken
so collectedly or methodically as I have repeated it to you. She was
astonished, exceedingly astonished--more than astonished. I saw her
change countenance. She turned extremely red. I imagined I saw a
mixture of many feelings: a great, though short struggle; half a wish of
yielding to truths, half a sense of shame, but habit, habit carried
it. She would have laughed if she could. It was a sort of laugh, as she
answered, ‘A pretty good lecture, upon my word. Was it part of your last
sermon? At this rate you will soon reform everybody at Mansfield and
Thornton Lacey; and when I hear of you next, it may be as a celebrated
preacher in some great society of Methodists, or as a missionary into
foreign parts. ’ She tried to speak carelessly, but she was not so
careless as she wanted to appear. I only said in reply, that from my
heart I wished her well, and earnestly hoped that she might soon learn
to think more justly, and not owe the most valuable knowledge we could
any of us acquire, the knowledge of ourselves and of our duty, to the
lessons of affliction, and immediately left the room. I had gone a few
steps, Fanny, when I heard the door open behind me. ‘Mr. Bertram,’ said
she. I looked back. ‘Mr. Bertram,’ said she, with a smile; but it was
a smile ill-suited to the conversation that had passed, a saucy playful
smile, seeming to invite in order to subdue me; at least it appeared so
to me. I resisted; it was the impulse of the moment to resist, and still
walked on. I have since, sometimes, for a moment, regretted that I did
not go back, but I know I was right, and such has been the end of our
acquaintance.
And what an acquaintance has it been! How have I been
deceived! Equally in brother and sister deceived! I thank you for your
patience, Fanny. This has been the greatest relief, and now we will have
done. ”
And such was Fanny’s dependence on his words, that for five minutes
she thought they _had_ done. Then, however, it all came on again, or
something very like it, and nothing less than Lady Bertram’s rousing
thoroughly up could really close such a conversation. Till that
happened, they continued to talk of Miss Crawford alone, and how she had
attached him, and how delightful nature had made her, and how excellent
she would have been, had she fallen into good hands earlier. Fanny, now
at liberty to speak openly, felt more than justified in adding to
his knowledge of her real character, by some hint of what share his
brother’s state of health might be supposed to have in her wish for a
complete reconciliation. This was not an agreeable intimation. Nature
resisted it for a while. It would have been a vast deal pleasanter to
have had her more disinterested in her attachment; but his vanity was
not of a strength to fight long against reason. He submitted to believe
that Tom’s illness had influenced her, only reserving for himself this
consoling thought, that considering the many counteractions of opposing
habits, she had certainly been _more_ attached to him than could have
been expected, and for his sake been more near doing right. Fanny
thought exactly the same; and they were also quite agreed in their
opinion of the lasting effect, the indelible impression, which such
a disappointment must make on his mind. Time would undoubtedly abate
somewhat of his sufferings, but still it was a sort of thing which he
never could get entirely the better of; and as to his ever meeting with
any other woman who could--it was too impossible to be named but with
indignation. Fanny’s friendship was all that he had to cling to.
CHAPTER XLVIII
Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery. I quit such odious subjects
as soon as I can, impatient to restore everybody, not greatly in fault
themselves, to tolerable comfort, and to have done with all the rest.
My Fanny, indeed, at this very time, I have the satisfaction of knowing,
must have been happy in spite of everything. She must have been a happy
creature in spite of all that she felt, or thought she felt, for the
distress of those around her. She had sources of delight that must force
their way. She was returned to Mansfield Park, she was useful, she was
beloved; she was safe from Mr. Crawford; and when Sir Thomas came back
she had every proof that could be given in his then melancholy state of
spirits, of his perfect approbation and increased regard; and happy as
all this must make her, she would still have been happy without any of
it, for Edmund was no longer the dupe of Miss Crawford.
It is true that Edmund was very far from happy himself. He was suffering
from disappointment and regret, grieving over what was, and wishing for
what could never be. She knew it was so, and was sorry; but it was with
a sorrow so founded on satisfaction, so tending to ease, and so much in
harmony with every dearest sensation, that there are few who might not
have been glad to exchange their greatest gaiety for it.
Sir Thomas, poor Sir Thomas, a parent, and conscious of errors in his
own conduct as a parent, was the longest to suffer. He felt that he
ought not to have allowed the marriage; that his daughter’s sentiments
had been sufficiently known to him to render him culpable in authorising
it; that in so doing he had sacrificed the right to the expedient, and
been governed by motives of selfishness and worldly wisdom. These were
reflections that required some time to soften; but time will do almost
everything; and though little comfort arose on Mrs. Rushworth’s side for
the misery she had occasioned, comfort was to be found greater than
he had supposed in his other children. Julia’s match became a less
desperate business than he had considered it at first. She was humble,
and wishing to be forgiven; and Mr. Yates, desirous of being really
received into the family, was disposed to look up to him and be guided.
He was not very solid; but there was a hope of his becoming less
trifling, of his being at least tolerably domestic and quiet; and at any
rate, there was comfort in finding his estate rather more, and his debts
much less, than he had feared, and in being consulted and treated as
the friend best worth attending to. There was comfort also in Tom, who
gradually regained his health, without regaining the thoughtlessness and
selfishness of his previous habits. He was the better for ever for his
illness. He had suffered, and he had learned to think: two advantages
that he had never known before; and the self-reproach arising from the
deplorable event in Wimpole Street, to which he felt himself accessory
by all the dangerous intimacy of his unjustifiable theatre, made an
impression on his mind which, at the age of six-and-twenty, with no want
of sense or good companions, was durable in its happy effects. He became
what he ought to be: useful to his father, steady and quiet, and not
living merely for himself.
Here was comfort indeed! and quite as soon as Sir Thomas could place
dependence on such sources of good, Edmund was contributing to his
father’s ease by improvement in the only point in which he had given
him pain before--improvement in his spirits. After wandering about and
sitting under trees with Fanny all the summer evenings, he had so well
talked his mind into submission as to be very tolerably cheerful again.
These were the circumstances and the hopes which gradually brought their
alleviation to Sir Thomas, deadening his sense of what was lost, and
in part reconciling him to himself; though the anguish arising from the
conviction of his own errors in the education of his daughters was never
to be entirely done away.
Too late he became aware how unfavourable to the character of any young
people must be the totally opposite treatment which Maria and Julia had
been always experiencing at home, where the excessive indulgence and
flattery of their aunt had been continually contrasted with his own
severity. He saw how ill he had judged, in expecting to counteract what
was wrong in Mrs. Norris by its reverse in himself; clearly saw that he
had but increased the evil by teaching them to repress their spirits in
his presence so as to make their real disposition unknown to him, and
sending them for all their indulgences to a person who had been able to
attach them only by the blindness of her affection, and the excess of
her praise.
Here had been grievous mismanagement; but, bad as it was, he gradually
grew to feel that it had not been the most direful mistake in his plan
of education. Something must have been wanting _within_, or time would
have worn away much of its ill effect. He feared that principle, active
principle, had been wanting; that they had never been properly taught
to govern their inclinations and tempers by that sense of duty which can
alone suffice. They had been instructed theoretically in their religion,
but never required to bring it into daily practice. To be distinguished
for elegance and accomplishments, the authorised object of their youth,
could have had no useful influence that way, no moral effect on the
mind. He had meant them to be good, but his cares had been directed to
the understanding and manners, not the disposition; and of the necessity
of self-denial and humility, he feared they had never heard from any
lips that could profit them.
Bitterly did he deplore a deficiency which now he could scarcely
comprehend to have been possible. Wretchedly did he feel, that with all
the cost and care of an anxious and expensive education, he had brought
up his daughters without their understanding their first duties, or his
being acquainted with their character and temper.
The high spirit and strong passions of Mrs. Rushworth, especially, were
made known to him only in their sad result. She was not to be prevailed
on to leave Mr. Crawford. She hoped to marry him, and they continued
together till she was obliged to be convinced that such hope was vain,
and till the disappointment and wretchedness arising from the conviction
rendered her temper so bad, and her feelings for him so like hatred,
as to make them for a while each other’s punishment, and then induce a
voluntary separation.
She had lived with him to be reproached as the ruin of all his happiness
in Fanny, and carried away no better consolation in leaving him than
that she _had_ divided them. What can exceed the misery of such a mind
in such a situation?
Mr. Rushworth had no difficulty in procuring a divorce; and so ended a
marriage contracted under such circumstances as to make any better end
the effect of good luck not to be reckoned on. She had despised him,
and loved another; and he had been very much aware that it was so. The
indignities of stupidity, and the disappointments of selfish passion,
can excite little pity. His punishment followed his conduct, as did a
deeper punishment the deeper guilt of his wife. _He_ was released from
the engagement to be mortified and unhappy, till some other pretty girl
could attract him into matrimony again, and he might set forward on a
second, and, it is to be hoped, more prosperous trial of the state: if
duped, to be duped at least with good humour and good luck; while she
must withdraw with infinitely stronger feelings to a retirement and
reproach which could allow no second spring of hope or character.
Where she could be placed became a subject of most melancholy and
momentous consultation. Mrs. Norris, whose attachment seemed to augment
with the demerits of her niece, would have had her received at home
and countenanced by them all. Sir Thomas would not hear of it; and Mrs.
Norris’s anger against Fanny was so much the greater, from considering
_her_ residence there as the motive. She persisted in placing his
scruples to _her_ account, though Sir Thomas very solemnly assured her
that, had there been no young woman in question, had there been no young
person of either sex belonging to him, to be endangered by the society
or hurt by the character of Mrs. Rushworth, he would never have offered
so great an insult to the neighbourhood as to expect it to notice her.
As a daughter, he hoped a penitent one, she should be protected by him,
and secured in every comfort, and supported by every encouragement to do
right, which their relative situations admitted; but farther than _that_
he could not go. Maria had destroyed her own character, and he would
not, by a vain attempt to restore what never could be restored, by
affording his sanction to vice, or in seeking to lessen its disgrace, be
anywise accessory to introducing such misery in another man’s family as
he had known himself.
It ended in Mrs. Norris’s resolving to quit Mansfield and devote herself
to her unfortunate Maria, and in an establishment being formed for them
in another country, remote and private, where, shut up together with
little society, on one side no affection, on the other no judgment,
it may be reasonably supposed that their tempers became their mutual
punishment.
Mrs. Norris’s removal from Mansfield was the great supplementary comfort
of Sir Thomas’s life. His opinion of her had been sinking from the day
of his return from Antigua: in every transaction together from that
period, in their daily intercourse, in business, or in chat, she had
been regularly losing ground in his esteem, and convincing him that
either time had done her much disservice, or that he had considerably
over-rated her sense, and wonderfully borne with her manners before. He
had felt her as an hourly evil, which was so much the worse, as there
seemed no chance of its ceasing but with life; she seemed a part of
himself that must be borne for ever. To be relieved from her, therefore,
was so great a felicity that, had she not left bitter remembrances
behind her, there might have been danger of his learning almost to
approve the evil which produced such a good.
She was regretted by no one at Mansfield. She had never been able to
attach even those she loved best; and since Mrs. Rushworth’s elopement,
her temper had been in a state of such irritation as to make her
everywhere tormenting. Not even Fanny had tears for aunt Norris, not
even when she was gone for ever.
That Julia escaped better than Maria was owing, in some measure, to a
favourable difference of disposition and circumstance, but in a greater
to her having been less the darling of that very aunt, less flattered
and less spoilt. Her beauty and acquirements had held but a second
place. She had been always used to think herself a little inferior to
Maria. Her temper was naturally the easiest of the two; her feelings,
though quick, were more controllable, and education had not given her so
very hurtful a degree of self-consequence.
She had submitted the best to the disappointment in Henry Crawford.
After the first bitterness of the conviction of being slighted was over,
she had been tolerably soon in a fair way of not thinking of him again;
and when the acquaintance was renewed in town, and Mr. Rushworth’s house
became Crawford’s object, she had had the merit of withdrawing herself
from it, and of chusing that time to pay a visit to her other friends,
in order to secure herself from being again too much attracted. This had
been her motive in going to her cousin’s. Mr. Yates’s convenience had
had nothing to do with it. She had been allowing his attentions some
time, but with very little idea of ever accepting him; and had not her
sister’s conduct burst forth as it did, and her increased dread of her
father and of home, on that event, imagining its certain consequence
to herself would be greater severity and restraint, made her hastily
resolve on avoiding such immediate horrors at all risks, it is probable
that Mr. Yates would never have succeeded. She had not eloped with any
worse feelings than those of selfish alarm. It had appeared to her the
only thing to be done. Maria’s guilt had induced Julia’s folly.
Henry Crawford, ruined by early independence and bad domestic example,
indulged in the freaks of a cold-blooded vanity a little too long. Once
it had, by an opening undesigned and unmerited, led him into the way of
happiness. Could he have been satisfied with the conquest of one
amiable woman’s affections, could he have found sufficient exultation
in overcoming the reluctance, in working himself into the esteem and
tenderness of Fanny Price, there would have been every probability of
success and felicity for him. His affection had already done something.
Her influence over him had already given him some influence over her.
Would he have deserved more, there can be no doubt that more would have
been obtained, especially when that marriage had taken place, which
would have given him the assistance of her conscience in subduing her
first inclination, and brought them very often together. Would he have
persevered, and uprightly, Fanny must have been his reward, and a reward
very voluntarily bestowed, within a reasonable period from Edmund’s
marrying Mary.
Had he done as he intended, and as he knew he ought, by going down to
Everingham after his return from Portsmouth, he might have been deciding
his own happy destiny. But he was pressed to stay for Mrs. Fraser’s
party; his staying was made of flattering consequence, and he was to
meet Mrs. Rushworth there. Curiosity and vanity were both engaged, and
the temptation of immediate pleasure was too strong for a mind unused to
make any sacrifice to right: he resolved to defer his Norfolk journey,
resolved that writing should answer the purpose of it, or that its
purpose was unimportant, and staid. He saw Mrs. Rushworth, was received
by her with a coldness which ought to have been repulsive, and have
established apparent indifference between them for ever; but he was
mortified, he could not bear to be thrown off by the woman whose smiles
had been so wholly at his command: he must exert himself to subdue so
proud a display of resentment; it was anger on Fanny’s account; he must
get the better of it, and make Mrs. Rushworth Maria Bertram again in her
treatment of himself.
In this spirit he began the attack, and by animated perseverance had
soon re-established the sort of familiar intercourse, of gallantry,
of flirtation, which bounded his views; but in triumphing over the
discretion which, though beginning in anger, might have saved them both,
he had put himself in the power of feelings on her side more strong
than he had supposed. She loved him; there was no withdrawing attentions
avowedly dear to her. He was entangled by his own vanity, with as little
excuse of love as possible, and without the smallest inconstancy of mind
towards her cousin. To keep Fanny and the Bertrams from a knowledge of
what was passing became his first object. Secrecy could not have been
more desirable for Mrs. Rushworth’s credit than he felt it for his own.
When he returned from Richmond, he would have been glad to see Mrs.
Rushworth no more. All that followed was the result of her imprudence;
and he went off with her at last, because he could not help it,
regretting Fanny even at the moment, but regretting her infinitely more
when all the bustle of the intrigue was over, and a very few months had
taught him, by the force of contrast, to place a yet higher value on the
sweetness of her temper, the purity of her mind, and the excellence of
her principles.
That punishment, the public punishment of disgrace, should in a just
measure attend _his_ share of the offence is, we know, not one of the
barriers which society gives to virtue. In this world the penalty is
less equal than could be wished; but without presuming to look forward
to a juster appointment hereafter, we may fairly consider a man of
sense, like Henry Crawford, to be providing for himself no small
portion of vexation and regret: vexation that must rise sometimes
to self-reproach, and regret to wretchedness, in having so requited
hospitality, so injured family peace, so forfeited his best, most
estimable, and endeared acquaintance, and so lost the woman whom he had
rationally as well as passionately loved.
After what had passed to wound and alienate the two families, the
continuance of the Bertrams and Grants in such close neighbourhood would
have been most distressing; but the absence of the latter, for some
months purposely lengthened, ended very fortunately in the necessity, or
at least the practicability, of a permanent removal. Dr. Grant, through
an interest on which he had almost ceased to form hopes, succeeded to
a stall in Westminster, which, as affording an occasion for leaving
Mansfield, an excuse for residence in London, and an increase of income
to answer the expenses of the change, was highly acceptable to those who
went and those who staid.
Mrs. Grant, with a temper to love and be loved, must have gone with some
regret from the scenes and people she had been used to; but the same
happiness of disposition must in any place, and any society, secure her
a great deal to enjoy, and she had again a home to offer Mary; and Mary
had had enough of her own friends, enough of vanity, ambition, love, and
disappointment in the course of the last half-year, to be in need of the
true kindness of her sister’s heart, and the rational tranquillity
of her ways. They lived together; and when Dr. Grant had brought on
apoplexy and death, by three great institutionary dinners in one week,
they still lived together; for Mary, though perfectly resolved against
ever attaching herself to a younger brother again, was long in finding
among the dashing representatives, or idle heir-apparents, who were at
the command of her beauty, and her £20,000, any one who could satisfy the
better taste she had acquired at Mansfield, whose character and manners
could authorise a hope of the domestic happiness she had there learned
to estimate, or put Edmund Bertram sufficiently out of her head.
Edmund had greatly the advantage of her in this respect. He had not to
wait and wish with vacant affections for an object worthy to succeed her
in them. Scarcely had he done regretting Mary Crawford, and observing to
Fanny how impossible it was that he should ever meet with such another
woman, before it began to strike him whether a very different kind of
woman might not do just as well, or a great deal better: whether Fanny
herself were not growing as dear, as important to him in all her smiles
and all her ways, as Mary Crawford had ever been; and whether it might
not be a possible, an hopeful undertaking to persuade her that her warm
and sisterly regard for him would be foundation enough for wedded love.
I purposely abstain from dates on this occasion, that every one may
be at liberty to fix their own, aware that the cure of unconquerable
passions, and the transfer of unchanging attachments, must vary much as
to time in different people. I only entreat everybody to believe that
exactly at the time when it was quite natural that it should be so, and
not a week earlier, Edmund did cease to care about Miss Crawford, and
became as anxious to marry Fanny as Fanny herself could desire.
With such a regard for her, indeed, as his had long been, a regard
founded on the most endearing claims of innocence and helplessness, and
completed by every recommendation of growing worth, what could be more
natural than the change? Loving, guiding, protecting her, as he had been
doing ever since her being ten years old, her mind in so great a degree
formed by his care, and her comfort depending on his kindness, an
object to him of such close and peculiar interest, dearer by all his own
importance with her than any one else at Mansfield, what was there now
to add, but that he should learn to prefer soft light eyes to sparkling
dark ones. And being always with her, and always talking confidentially,
and his feelings exactly in that favourable state which a recent
disappointment gives, those soft light eyes could not be very long in
obtaining the pre-eminence.
Having once set out, and felt that he had done so on this road to
happiness, there was nothing on the side of prudence to stop him or make
his progress slow; no doubts of her deserving, no fears of opposition of
taste, no need of drawing new hopes of happiness from dissimilarity
of temper. Her mind, disposition, opinions, and habits wanted no
half-concealment, no self-deception on the present, no reliance on
future improvement. Even in the midst of his late infatuation, he had
acknowledged Fanny’s mental superiority. What must be his sense of it
now, therefore? She was of course only too good for him; but as nobody
minds having what is too good for them, he was very steadily earnest in
the pursuit of the blessing, and it was not possible that encouragement
from her should be long wanting. Timid, anxious, doubting as she was, it
was still impossible that such tenderness as hers should not, at times,
hold out the strongest hope of success, though it remained for a later
period to tell him the whole delightful and astonishing truth. His
happiness in knowing himself to have been so long the beloved of such a
heart, must have been great enough to warrant any strength of language
in which he could clothe it to her or to himself; it must have been
a delightful happiness. But there was happiness elsewhere which no
description can reach. Let no one presume to give the feelings of a
young woman on receiving the assurance of that affection of which she
has scarcely allowed herself to entertain a hope.
Their own inclinations ascertained, there were no difficulties behind,
no drawback of poverty or parent. It was a match which Sir Thomas’s
wishes had even forestalled. Sick of ambitious and mercenary connexions,
prizing more and more the sterling good of principle and temper, and
chiefly anxious to bind by the strongest securities all that remained to
him of domestic felicity, he had pondered with genuine satisfaction on
the more than possibility of the two young friends finding their natural
consolation in each other for all that had occurred of disappointment to
either; and the joyful consent which met Edmund’s application, the high
sense of having realised a great acquisition in the promise of Fanny for
a daughter, formed just such a contrast with his early opinion on the
subject when the poor little girl’s coming had been first agitated, as
time is for ever producing between the plans and decisions of mortals,
for their own instruction, and their neighbours’ entertainment.
Fanny was indeed the daughter that he wanted. His charitable kindness
had been rearing a prime comfort for himself. His liberality had a rich
repayment, and the general goodness of his intentions by her deserved
it. He might have made her childhood happier; but it had been an error
of judgment only which had given him the appearance of harshness, and
deprived him of her early love; and now, on really knowing each other,
their mutual attachment became very strong. After settling her at
Thornton Lacey with every kind attention to her comfort, the object of
almost every day was to see her there, or to get her away from it.
Selfishly dear as she had long been to Lady Bertram, she could not be
parted with willingly by _her_. No happiness of son or niece could make
her wish the marriage. But it was possible to part with her, because
Susan remained to supply her place. Susan became the stationary niece,
delighted to be so; and equally well adapted for it by a readiness of
mind, and an inclination for usefulness, as Fanny had been by sweetness
of temper, and strong feelings of gratitude. Susan could never be
spared. First as a comfort to Fanny, then as an auxiliary, and last as
her substitute, she was established at Mansfield, with every appearance
of equal permanency. Her more fearless disposition and happier nerves
made everything easy to her there. With quickness in understanding
the tempers of those she had to deal with, and no natural timidity to
restrain any consequent wishes, she was soon welcome and useful to all;
and after Fanny’s removal succeeded so naturally to her influence over
the hourly comfort of her aunt, as gradually to become, perhaps, the
most beloved of the two. In _her_ usefulness, in Fanny’s excellence,
in William’s continued good conduct and rising fame, and in the general
well-doing and success of the other members of the family, all assisting
to advance each other, and doing credit to his countenance and aid, Sir
Thomas saw repeated, and for ever repeated, reason to rejoice in what he
had done for them all, and acknowledge the advantages of early hardship
and discipline, and the consciousness of being born to struggle and
endure.
With so much true merit and true love, and no want of fortune and
friends, the happiness of the married cousins must appear as secure as
earthly happiness can be. Equally formed for domestic life, and attached
to country pleasures, their home was the home of affection and comfort;
and to complete the picture of good, the acquisition of Mansfield
living, by the death of Dr. Grant, occurred just after they had been
married long enough to begin to want an increase of income, and feel
their distance from the paternal abode an inconvenience.
On that event they removed to Mansfield; and the Parsonage there,
which, under each of its two former owners, Fanny had never been able
to approach but with some painful sensation of restraint or alarm, soon
grew as dear to her heart, and as thoroughly perfect in her eyes, as
everything else within the view and patronage of Mansfield Park had long
been.
THE END
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