This is a sort of talking which is very
unpleasant
to me.
Austen - Mansfield Park
But
I dare say you know exactly--I always imagine you are--perhaps you do
not think him likely to marry at all--or not at present. ”
“No, I do not,” said Fanny softly, hoping she did not err either in the
belief or the acknowledgment of it.
Her companion looked at her keenly; and gathering greater spirit from
the blush soon produced from such a look, only said, “He is best off as
he is,” and turned the subject.
CHAPTER XXX
Miss Crawford’s uneasiness was much lightened by this conversation, and
she walked home again in spirits which might have defied almost another
week of the same small party in the same bad weather, had they been put
to the proof; but as that very evening brought her brother down from
London again in quite, or more than quite, his usual cheerfulness, she
had nothing farther to try her own. His still refusing to tell her what
he had gone for was but the promotion of gaiety; a day before it might
have irritated, but now it was a pleasant joke--suspected only of
concealing something planned as a pleasant surprise to herself. And the
next day _did_ bring a surprise to her. Henry had said he should just
go and ask the Bertrams how they did, and be back in ten minutes, but
he was gone above an hour; and when his sister, who had been waiting for
him to walk with her in the garden, met him at last most impatiently in
the sweep, and cried out, “My dear Henry, where can you have been
all this time? ” he had only to say that he had been sitting with Lady
Bertram and Fanny.
“Sitting with them an hour and a half! ” exclaimed Mary.
But this was only the beginning of her surprise.
“Yes, Mary,” said he, drawing her arm within his, and walking along
the sweep as if not knowing where he was: “I could not get away sooner;
Fanny looked so lovely! I am quite determined, Mary. My mind is entirely
made up. Will it astonish you? No: you must be aware that I am quite
determined to marry Fanny Price. ”
The surprise was now complete; for, in spite of whatever his
consciousness might suggest, a suspicion of his having any such views
had never entered his sister’s imagination; and she looked so truly the
astonishment she felt, that he was obliged to repeat what he had said,
and more fully and more solemnly. The conviction of his determination
once admitted, it was not unwelcome. There was even pleasure with the
surprise. Mary was in a state of mind to rejoice in a connexion with the
Bertram family, and to be not displeased with her brother’s marrying a
little beneath him.
“Yes, Mary,” was Henry’s concluding assurance. “I am fairly caught.
You know with what idle designs I began; but this is the end of them.
I have, I flatter myself, made no inconsiderable progress in her
affections; but my own are entirely fixed. ”
“Lucky, lucky girl! ” cried Mary, as soon as she could speak; “what a
match for her! My dearest Henry, this must be my _first_ feeling; but
my _second_, which you shall have as sincerely, is, that I approve your
choice from my soul, and foresee your happiness as heartily as I wish
and desire it. You will have a sweet little wife; all gratitude and
devotion. Exactly what you deserve. What an amazing match for her! Mrs.
Norris often talks of her luck; what will she say now? The delight
of all the family, indeed! And she has some _true_ friends in it! How
_they_ will rejoice! But tell me all about it! Talk to me for ever. When
did you begin to think seriously about her? ”
Nothing could be more impossible than to answer such a question, though
nothing could be more agreeable than to have it asked. “How the pleasing
plague had stolen on him” he could not say; and before he had expressed
the same sentiment with a little variation of words three times over,
his sister eagerly interrupted him with, “Ah, my dear Henry, and this
is what took you to London! This was your business! You chose to consult
the Admiral before you made up your mind. ”
But this he stoutly denied. He knew his uncle too well to consult him on
any matrimonial scheme. The Admiral hated marriage, and thought it never
pardonable in a young man of independent fortune.
“When Fanny is known to him,” continued Henry, “he will doat on her.
She is exactly the woman to do away every prejudice of such a man as
the Admiral, for she he would describe, if indeed he has now delicacy
of language enough to embody his own ideas. But till it is absolutely
settled--settled beyond all interference, he shall know nothing of the
matter. No, Mary, you are quite mistaken. You have not discovered my
business yet. ”
“Well, well, I am satisfied. I know now to whom it must relate, and am
in no hurry for the rest. Fanny Price! wonderful, quite wonderful! That
Mansfield should have done so much for--that _you_ should have found
your fate in Mansfield! But you are quite right; you could not have
chosen better. There is not a better girl in the world, and you do not
want for fortune; and as to her connexions, they are more than good. The
Bertrams are undoubtedly some of the first people in this country. She
is niece to Sir Thomas Bertram; that will be enough for the world. But
go on, go on. Tell me more. What are your plans? Does she know her own
happiness? ”
“No. ”
“What are you waiting for? ”
“For--for very little more than opportunity. Mary, she is not like her
cousins; but I think I shall not ask in vain. ”
“Oh no! you cannot. Were you even less pleasing--supposing her not to
love you already (of which, however, I can have little doubt)--you would
be safe. The gentleness and gratitude of her disposition would secure
her all your own immediately. From my soul I do not think she would
marry you _without_ love; that is, if there is a girl in the world
capable of being uninfluenced by ambition, I can suppose it her; but ask
her to love you, and she will never have the heart to refuse. ”
As soon as her eagerness could rest in silence, he was as happy to tell
as she could be to listen; and a conversation followed almost as deeply
interesting to her as to himself, though he had in fact nothing to
relate but his own sensations, nothing to dwell on but Fanny’s charms.
Fanny’s beauty of face and figure, Fanny’s graces of manner and goodness
of heart, were the exhaustless theme. The gentleness, modesty, and
sweetness of her character were warmly expatiated on; that sweetness
which makes so essential a part of every woman’s worth in the judgment
of man, that though he sometimes loves where it is not, he can never
believe it absent. Her temper he had good reason to depend on and
to praise. He had often seen it tried. Was there one of the family,
excepting Edmund, who had not in some way or other continually exercised
her patience and forbearance? Her affections were evidently strong. To
see her with her brother! What could more delightfully prove that the
warmth of her heart was equal to its gentleness? What could be more
encouraging to a man who had her love in view? Then, her understanding
was beyond every suspicion, quick and clear; and her manners were the
mirror of her own modest and elegant mind. Nor was this all. Henry
Crawford had too much sense not to feel the worth of good principles
in a wife, though he was too little accustomed to serious reflection to
know them by their proper name; but when he talked of her having such a
steadiness and regularity of conduct, such a high notion of honour, and
such an observance of decorum as might warrant any man in the fullest
dependence on her faith and integrity, he expressed what was inspired by
the knowledge of her being well principled and religious.
“I could so wholly and absolutely confide in her,” said he; “and _that_
is what I want. ”
Well might his sister, believing as she really did that his opinion of
Fanny Price was scarcely beyond her merits, rejoice in her prospects.
“The more I think of it,” she cried, “the more am I convinced that you
are doing quite right; and though I should never have selected Fanny
Price as the girl most likely to attach you, I am now persuaded she is
the very one to make you happy. Your wicked project upon her peace turns
out a clever thought indeed. You will both find your good in it. ”
“It was bad, very bad in me against such a creature; but I did not know
her then; and she shall have no reason to lament the hour that first put
it into my head. I will make her very happy, Mary; happier than she has
ever yet been herself, or ever seen anybody else. I will not take her
from Northamptonshire. I shall let Everingham, and rent a place in this
neighbourhood; perhaps Stanwix Lodge. I shall let a seven years’ lease
of Everingham. I am sure of an excellent tenant at half a word. I could
name three people now, who would give me my own terms and thank me. ”
“Ha! ” cried Mary; “settle in Northamptonshire! That is pleasant! Then we
shall be all together. ”
When she had spoken it, she recollected herself, and wished it unsaid;
but there was no need of confusion; for her brother saw her only as the
supposed inmate of Mansfield parsonage, and replied but to invite her in
the kindest manner to his own house, and to claim the best right in her.
“You must give us more than half your time,” said he. “I cannot admit
Mrs. Grant to have an equal claim with Fanny and myself, for we shall
both have a right in you. Fanny will be so truly your sister! ”
Mary had only to be grateful and give general assurances; but she was
now very fully purposed to be the guest of neither brother nor sister
many months longer.
“You will divide your year between London and Northamptonshire? ”
“Yes. ”
“That’s right; and in London, of course, a house of your own: no longer
with the Admiral. My dearest Henry, the advantage to you of getting away
from the Admiral before your manners are hurt by the contagion of his,
before you have contracted any of his foolish opinions, or learned to
sit over your dinner as if it were the best blessing of life! _You_ are
not sensible of the gain, for your regard for him has blinded you; but,
in my estimation, your marrying early may be the saving of you. To have
seen you grow like the Admiral in word or deed, look or gesture, would
have broken my heart. ”
“Well, well, we do not think quite alike here. The Admiral has his
faults, but he is a very good man, and has been more than a father to
me. Few fathers would have let me have my own way half so much. You must
not prejudice Fanny against him. I must have them love one another. ”
Mary refrained from saying what she felt, that there could not be two
persons in existence whose characters and manners were less accordant:
time would discover it to him; but she could not help _this_ reflection
on the Admiral. “Henry, I think so highly of Fanny Price, that if I
could suppose the next Mrs. Crawford would have half the reason which
my poor ill-used aunt had to abhor the very name, I would prevent the
marriage, if possible; but I know you: I know that a wife you _loved_
would be the happiest of women, and that even when you ceased to
love, she would yet find in you the liberality and good-breeding of a
gentleman. ”
The impossibility of not doing everything in the world to make Fanny
Price happy, or of ceasing to love Fanny Price, was of course the
groundwork of his eloquent answer.
“Had you seen her this morning, Mary,” he continued, “attending with
such ineffable sweetness and patience to all the demands of her aunt’s
stupidity, working with her, and for her, her colour beautifully
heightened as she leant over the work, then returning to her seat to
finish a note which she was previously engaged in writing for that
stupid woman’s service, and all this with such unpretending gentleness,
so much as if it were a matter of course that she was not to have a
moment at her own command, her hair arranged as neatly as it always is,
and one little curl falling forward as she wrote, which she now and then
shook back, and in the midst of all this, still speaking at intervals to
_me_, or listening, and as if she liked to listen, to what I said. Had
you seen her so, Mary, you would not have implied the possibility of her
power over my heart ever ceasing. ”
“My dearest Henry,” cried Mary, stopping short, and smiling in his face,
“how glad I am to see you so much in love! It quite delights me. But
what will Mrs. Rushworth and Julia say? ”
“I care neither what they say nor what they feel. They will now see what
sort of woman it is that can attach me, that can attach a man of sense.
I wish the discovery may do them any good. And they will now see their
cousin treated as she ought to be, and I wish they may be heartily
ashamed of their own abominable neglect and unkindness. They will be
angry,” he added, after a moment’s silence, and in a cooler tone; “Mrs.
Rushworth will be very angry. It will be a bitter pill to her; that is,
like other bitter pills, it will have two moments’ ill flavour, and then
be swallowed and forgotten; for I am not such a coxcomb as to suppose
her feelings more lasting than other women’s, though _I_ was the object
of them. Yes, Mary, my Fanny will feel a difference indeed: a daily,
hourly difference, in the behaviour of every being who approaches her;
and it will be the completion of my happiness to know that I am the doer
of it, that I am the person to give the consequence so justly her due.
Now she is dependent, helpless, friendless, neglected, forgotten. ”
“Nay, Henry, not by all; not forgotten by all; not friendless or
forgotten. Her cousin Edmund never forgets her. ”
“Edmund! True, I believe he is, generally speaking, kind to her, and
so is Sir Thomas in his way; but it is the way of a rich, superior,
long-worded, arbitrary uncle. What can Sir Thomas and Edmund together
do, what do they _do_ for her happiness, comfort, honour, and dignity in
the world, to what I _shall_ do? ”
CHAPTER XXXI
Henry Crawford was at Mansfield Park again the next morning, and at an
earlier hour than common visiting warrants. The two ladies were together
in the breakfast-room, and, fortunately for him, Lady Bertram was on the
very point of quitting it as he entered. She was almost at the door, and
not chusing by any means to take so much trouble in vain, she still went
on, after a civil reception, a short sentence about being waited for,
and a “Let Sir Thomas know” to the servant.
Henry, overjoyed to have her go, bowed and watched her off, and without
losing another moment, turned instantly to Fanny, and, taking out some
letters, said, with a most animated look, “I must acknowledge myself
infinitely obliged to any creature who gives me such an opportunity
of seeing you alone: I have been wishing it more than you can have any
idea. Knowing as I do what your feelings as a sister are, I could hardly
have borne that any one in the house should share with you in the
first knowledge of the news I now bring. He is made. Your brother is a
lieutenant. I have the infinite satisfaction of congratulating you on
your brother’s promotion. Here are the letters which announce it, this
moment come to hand. You will, perhaps, like to see them. ”
Fanny could not speak, but he did not want her to speak. To see the
expression of her eyes, the change of her complexion, the progress of
her feelings, their doubt, confusion, and felicity, was enough. She took
the letters as he gave them. The first was from the Admiral to inform
his nephew, in a few words, of his having succeeded in the object he had
undertaken, the promotion of young Price, and enclosing two more, one
from the Secretary of the First Lord to a friend, whom the Admiral had
set to work in the business, the other from that friend to himself,
by which it appeared that his lordship had the very great happiness of
attending to the recommendation of Sir Charles; that Sir Charles was
much delighted in having such an opportunity of proving his regard
for Admiral Crawford, and that the circumstance of Mr. William Price’s
commission as Second Lieutenant of H. M. Sloop Thrush being made out was
spreading general joy through a wide circle of great people.
While her hand was trembling under these letters, her eye running from
one to the other, and her heart swelling with emotion, Crawford thus
continued, with unfeigned eagerness, to express his interest in the
event--
“I will not talk of my own happiness,” said he, “great as it is, for I
think only of yours. Compared with you, who has a right to be happy? I
have almost grudged myself my own prior knowledge of what you ought to
have known before all the world. I have not lost a moment, however.
The post was late this morning, but there has not been since a moment’s
delay. How impatient, how anxious, how wild I have been on the subject,
I will not attempt to describe; how severely mortified, how cruelly
disappointed, in not having it finished while I was in London! I was
kept there from day to day in the hope of it, for nothing less dear
to me than such an object would have detained me half the time from
Mansfield. But though my uncle entered into my wishes with all the
warmth I could desire, and exerted himself immediately, there were
difficulties from the absence of one friend, and the engagements of
another, which at last I could no longer bear to stay the end of, and
knowing in what good hands I left the cause, I came away on Monday,
trusting that many posts would not pass before I should be followed by
such very letters as these. My uncle, who is the very best man in
the world, has exerted himself, as I knew he would, after seeing your
brother. He was delighted with him. I would not allow myself yesterday
to say how delighted, or to repeat half that the Admiral said in his
praise. I deferred it all till his praise should be proved the praise of
a friend, as this day _does_ prove it. _Now_ I may say that even I could
not require William Price to excite a greater interest, or be followed
by warmer wishes and higher commendation, than were most voluntarily
bestowed by my uncle after the evening they had passed together. ”
“Has this been all _your_ doing, then? ” cried Fanny. “Good heaven! how
very, very kind! Have you really--was it by _your_ desire? I beg your
pardon, but I am bewildered. Did Admiral Crawford apply? How was it? I
am stupefied. ”
Henry was most happy to make it more intelligible, by beginning at an
earlier stage, and explaining very particularly what he had done. His
last journey to London had been undertaken with no other view than that
of introducing her brother in Hill Street, and prevailing on the Admiral
to exert whatever interest he might have for getting him on. This had
been his business. He had communicated it to no creature: he had not
breathed a syllable of it even to Mary; while uncertain of the issue,
he could not have borne any participation of his feelings, but this had
been his business; and he spoke with such a glow of what his solicitude
had been, and used such strong expressions, was so abounding in the
_deepest_ _interest_, in _twofold_ _motives_, in _views_ _and_ _wishes_
_more_ _than_ _could_ _be_ _told_, that Fanny could not have remained
insensible of his drift, had she been able to attend; but her heart was
so full and her senses still so astonished, that she could listen but
imperfectly even to what he told her of William, and saying only when
he paused, “How kind! how very kind! Oh, Mr. Crawford, we are infinitely
obliged to you! Dearest, dearest William! ” She jumped up and moved in
haste towards the door, crying out, “I will go to my uncle. My uncle
ought to know it as soon as possible. ” But this could not be suffered.
The opportunity was too fair, and his feelings too impatient. He was
after her immediately. “She must not go, she must allow him five minutes
longer,” and he took her hand and led her back to her seat, and was in
the middle of his farther explanation, before she had suspected for what
she was detained. When she did understand it, however, and found herself
expected to believe that she had created sensations which his heart had
never known before, and that everything he had done for William was to
be placed to the account of his excessive and unequalled attachment
to her, she was exceedingly distressed, and for some moments unable
to speak. She considered it all as nonsense, as mere trifling and
gallantry, which meant only to deceive for the hour; she could not but
feel that it was treating her improperly and unworthily, and in such a
way as she had not deserved; but it was like himself, and entirely of a
piece with what she had seen before; and she would not allow herself to
shew half the displeasure she felt, because he had been conferring an
obligation, which no want of delicacy on his part could make a trifle
to her. While her heart was still bounding with joy and gratitude on
William’s behalf, she could not be severely resentful of anything that
injured only herself; and after having twice drawn back her hand, and
twice attempted in vain to turn away from him, she got up, and said
only, with much agitation, “Don’t, Mr. Crawford, pray don’t! I beg you
would not.
This is a sort of talking which is very unpleasant to me. I
must go away. I cannot bear it. ” But he was still talking on, describing
his affection, soliciting a return, and, finally, in words so plain as
to bear but one meaning even to her, offering himself, hand, fortune,
everything, to her acceptance. It was so; he had said it. Her
astonishment and confusion increased; and though still not knowing
how to suppose him serious, she could hardly stand. He pressed for an
answer.
“No, no, no! ” she cried, hiding her face. “This is all nonsense. Do not
distress me. I can hear no more of this. Your kindness to William makes
me more obliged to you than words can express; but I do not want, I
cannot bear, I must not listen to such--No, no, don’t think of me. But
you are _not_ thinking of me. I know it is all nothing. ”
She had burst away from him, and at that moment Sir Thomas was heard
speaking to a servant in his way towards the room they were in. It was
no time for farther assurances or entreaty, though to part with her at
a moment when her modesty alone seemed, to his sanguine and preassured
mind, to stand in the way of the happiness he sought, was a cruel
necessity. She rushed out at an opposite door from the one her uncle
was approaching, and was walking up and down the East room in the
utmost confusion of contrary feeling, before Sir Thomas’s politeness
or apologies were over, or he had reached the beginning of the joyful
intelligence which his visitor came to communicate.
She was feeling, thinking, trembling about everything; agitated, happy,
miserable, infinitely obliged, absolutely angry. It was all beyond
belief! He was inexcusable, incomprehensible! But such were his habits
that he could do nothing without a mixture of evil. He had previously
made her the happiest of human beings, and now he had insulted--she knew
not what to say, how to class, or how to regard it. She would not have
him be serious, and yet what could excuse the use of such words and
offers, if they meant but to trifle?
But William was a lieutenant. _That_ was a fact beyond a doubt, and
without an alloy. She would think of it for ever and forget all the
rest. Mr. Crawford would certainly never address her so again: he must
have seen how unwelcome it was to her; and in that case, how gratefully
she could esteem him for his friendship to William!
She would not stir farther from the East room than the head of the great
staircase, till she had satisfied herself of Mr. Crawford’s having left
the house; but when convinced of his being gone, she was eager to go
down and be with her uncle, and have all the happiness of his joy
as well as her own, and all the benefit of his information or his
conjectures as to what would now be William’s destination. Sir Thomas
was as joyful as she could desire, and very kind and communicative; and
she had so comfortable a talk with him about William as to make her
feel as if nothing had occurred to vex her, till she found, towards the
close, that Mr. Crawford was engaged to return and dine there that
very day. This was a most unwelcome hearing, for though he might think
nothing of what had passed, it would be quite distressing to her to see
him again so soon.
She tried to get the better of it; tried very hard, as the dinner hour
approached, to feel and appear as usual; but it was quite impossible for
her not to look most shy and uncomfortable when their visitor entered
the room. She could not have supposed it in the power of any concurrence
of circumstances to give her so many painful sensations on the first day
of hearing of William’s promotion.
Mr. Crawford was not only in the room--he was soon close to her. He
had a note to deliver from his sister. Fanny could not look at him, but
there was no consciousness of past folly in his voice. She opened her
note immediately, glad to have anything to do, and happy, as she read
it, to feel that the fidgetings of her aunt Norris, who was also to dine
there, screened her a little from view.
“My dear Fanny,--for so I may now always call you, to the infinite
relief of a tongue that has been stumbling at _Miss_ _Price_ for at
least the last six weeks--I cannot let my brother go without sending you
a few lines of general congratulation, and giving my most joyful consent
and approval. Go on, my dear Fanny, and without fear; there can be no
difficulties worth naming. I chuse to suppose that the assurance of my
consent will be something; so you may smile upon him with your sweetest
smiles this afternoon, and send him back to me even happier than he
goes. --Yours affectionately, M. C. ”
These were not expressions to do Fanny any good; for though she read
in too much haste and confusion to form the clearest judgment of Miss
Crawford’s meaning, it was evident that she meant to compliment her on
her brother’s attachment, and even to _appear_ to believe it serious.
She did not know what to do, or what to think. There was wretchedness in
the idea of its being serious; there was perplexity and agitation every
way. She was distressed whenever Mr. Crawford spoke to her, and he spoke
to her much too often; and she was afraid there was a something in his
voice and manner in addressing her very different from what they were
when he talked to the others. Her comfort in that day’s dinner was
quite destroyed: she could hardly eat anything; and when Sir Thomas
good-humouredly observed that joy had taken away her appetite, she
was ready to sink with shame, from the dread of Mr. Crawford’s
interpretation; for though nothing could have tempted her to turn
her eyes to the right hand, where he sat, she felt that _his_ were
immediately directed towards her.
She was more silent than ever. She would hardly join even when William
was the subject, for his commission came all from the right hand too,
and there was pain in the connexion.
She thought Lady Bertram sat longer than ever, and began to be in
despair of ever getting away; but at last they were in the drawing-room,
and she was able to think as she would, while her aunts finished the
subject of William’s appointment in their own style.
Mrs. Norris seemed as much delighted with the saving it would be to
Sir Thomas as with any part of it. “_Now_ William would be able to keep
himself, which would make a vast difference to his uncle, for it was
unknown how much he had cost his uncle; and, indeed, it would make some
difference in _her_ presents too. She was very glad that she had given
William what she did at parting, very glad, indeed, that it had been in
her power, without material inconvenience, just at that time to give him
something rather considerable; that is, for _her_, with _her_ limited
means, for now it would all be useful in helping to fit up his cabin.
She knew he must be at some expense, that he would have many things to
buy, though to be sure his father and mother would be able to put him in
the way of getting everything very cheap; but she was very glad she had
contributed her mite towards it. ”
“I am glad you gave him something considerable,” said Lady Bertram, with
most unsuspicious calmness, “for _I_ gave him only 10 pounds. ”
“Indeed! ” cried Mrs. Norris, reddening. “Upon my word, he must have gone
off with his pockets well lined, and at no expense for his journey to
London either! ”
“Sir Thomas told me 10 pounds would be enough. ”
Mrs. Norris, being not at all inclined to question its sufficiency,
began to take the matter in another point.
“It is amazing,” said she, “how much young people cost their friends,
what with bringing them up and putting them out in the world! They
little think how much it comes to, or what their parents, or their
uncles and aunts, pay for them in the course of the year. Now, here are
my sister Price’s children; take them all together, I dare say nobody
would believe what a sum they cost Sir Thomas every year, to say nothing
of what _I_ do for them. ”
“Very true, sister, as you say. But, poor things! they cannot help
it; and you know it makes very little difference to Sir Thomas. Fanny,
William must not forget my shawl if he goes to the East Indies; and I
shall give him a commission for anything else that is worth having. I
wish he may go to the East Indies, that I may have my shawl. I think I
will have two shawls, Fanny. ”
Fanny, meanwhile, speaking only when she could not help it, was very
earnestly trying to understand what Mr. and Miss Crawford were at. There
was everything in the world _against_ their being serious but his words
and manner. Everything natural, probable, reasonable, was against it;
all their habits and ways of thinking, and all her own demerits. How
could _she_ have excited serious attachment in a man who had seen so
many, and been admired by so many, and flirted with so many, infinitely
her superiors; who seemed so little open to serious impressions, even
where pains had been taken to please him; who thought so slightly, so
carelessly, so unfeelingly on all such points; who was everything to
everybody, and seemed to find no one essential to him? And farther,
how could it be supposed that his sister, with all her high and worldly
notions of matrimony, would be forwarding anything of a serious nature
in such a quarter? Nothing could be more unnatural in either. Fanny
was ashamed of her own doubts. Everything might be possible rather than
serious attachment, or serious approbation of it toward her. She had
quite convinced herself of this before Sir Thomas and Mr. Crawford
joined them. The difficulty was in maintaining the conviction quite so
absolutely after Mr. Crawford was in the room; for once or twice a
look seemed forced on her which she did not know how to class among the
common meaning; in any other man, at least, she would have said that
it meant something very earnest, very pointed. But she still tried to
believe it no more than what he might often have expressed towards her
cousins and fifty other women.
She thought he was wishing to speak to her unheard by the rest. She
fancied he was trying for it the whole evening at intervals, whenever
Sir Thomas was out of the room, or at all engaged with Mrs. Norris, and
she carefully refused him every opportunity.
At last--it seemed an at last to Fanny’s nervousness, though not
remarkably late--he began to talk of going away; but the comfort of the
sound was impaired by his turning to her the next moment, and saying,
“Have you nothing to send to Mary? No answer to her note? She will be
disappointed if she receives nothing from you. Pray write to her, if it
be only a line. ”
“Oh yes! certainly,” cried Fanny, rising in haste, the haste of
embarrassment and of wanting to get away--“I will write directly. ”
She went accordingly to the table, where she was in the habit of writing
for her aunt, and prepared her materials without knowing what in the
world to say. She had read Miss Crawford’s note only once, and how to
reply to anything so imperfectly understood was most distressing.
Quite unpractised in such sort of note-writing, had there been time for
scruples and fears as to style she would have felt them in abundance:
but something must be instantly written; and with only one decided
feeling, that of wishing not to appear to think anything really
intended, she wrote thus, in great trembling both of spirits and hand--
“I am very much obliged to you, my dear Miss Crawford, for your kind
congratulations, as far as they relate to my dearest William. The rest
of your note I know means nothing; but I am so unequal to anything of
the sort, that I hope you will excuse my begging you to take no farther
notice. I have seen too much of Mr. Crawford not to understand his
manners; if he understood me as well, he would, I dare say, behave
differently. I do not know what I write, but it would be a great favour
of you never to mention the subject again. With thanks for the honour of
your note, I remain, dear Miss Crawford, etc. , etc. ”
The conclusion was scarcely intelligible from increasing fright, for
she found that Mr. Crawford, under pretence of receiving the note, was
coming towards her.
“You cannot think I mean to hurry you,” said he, in an undervoice,
perceiving the amazing trepidation with which she made up the note, “you
cannot think I have any such object. Do not hurry yourself, I entreat. ”
“Oh! I thank you; I have quite done, just done; it will be ready in a
moment; I am very much obliged to you; if you will be so good as to give
_that_ to Miss Crawford. ”
The note was held out, and must be taken; and as she instantly and with
averted eyes walked towards the fireplace, where sat the others, he had
nothing to do but to go in good earnest.
Fanny thought she had never known a day of greater agitation, both of
pain and pleasure; but happily the pleasure was not of a sort to die
with the day; for every day would restore the knowledge of William’s
advancement, whereas the pain, she hoped, would return no more. She had
no doubt that her note must appear excessively ill-written, that
the language would disgrace a child, for her distress had allowed no
arrangement; but at least it would assure them both of her being neither
imposed on nor gratified by Mr. Crawford’s attentions.
CHAPTER XXXII
Fanny had by no means forgotten Mr. Crawford when she awoke the next
morning; but she remembered the purport of her note, and was not less
sanguine as to its effect than she had been the night before. If Mr.
Crawford would but go away! That was what she most earnestly desired:
go and take his sister with him, as he was to do, and as he returned to
Mansfield on purpose to do. And why it was not done already she could
not devise, for Miss Crawford certainly wanted no delay. Fanny had
hoped, in the course of his yesterday’s visit, to hear the day named;
but he had only spoken of their journey as what would take place ere
long.
Having so satisfactorily settled the conviction her note would convey,
she could not but be astonished to see Mr. Crawford, as she accidentally
did, coming up to the house again, and at an hour as early as the day
before. His coming might have nothing to do with her, but she must avoid
seeing him if possible; and being then on her way upstairs, she resolved
there to remain, during the whole of his visit, unless actually sent
for; and as Mrs. Norris was still in the house, there seemed little
danger of her being wanted.
She sat some time in a good deal of agitation, listening, trembling, and
fearing to be sent for every moment; but as no footsteps approached the
East room, she grew gradually composed, could sit down, and be able to
employ herself, and able to hope that Mr. Crawford had come and would go
without her being obliged to know anything of the matter.
Nearly half an hour had passed, and she was growing very comfortable,
when suddenly the sound of a step in regular approach was heard; a heavy
step, an unusual step in that part of the house: it was her uncle’s; she
knew it as well as his voice; she had trembled at it as often, and began
to tremble again, at the idea of his coming up to speak to her, whatever
might be the subject. It was indeed Sir Thomas who opened the door and
asked if she were there, and if he might come in. The terror of his
former occasional visits to that room seemed all renewed, and she felt
as if he were going to examine her again in French and English.
She was all attention, however, in placing a chair for him, and trying
to appear honoured; and, in her agitation, had quite overlooked the
deficiencies of her apartment, till he, stopping short as he entered,
said, with much surprise, “Why have you no fire to-day? ”
There was snow on the ground, and she was sitting in a shawl. She
hesitated.
“I am not cold, sir: I never sit here long at this time of year. ”
“But you have a fire in general? ”
“No, sir. ”
“How comes this about? Here must be some mistake. I understood that you
had the use of this room by way of making you perfectly comfortable.
In your bedchamber I know you _cannot_ have a fire. Here is some great
misapprehension which must be rectified. It is highly unfit for you to
sit, be it only half an hour a day, without a fire. You are not strong.
You are chilly. Your aunt cannot be aware of this. ”
Fanny would rather have been silent; but being obliged to speak, she
could not forbear, in justice to the aunt she loved best, from saying
something in which the words “my aunt Norris” were distinguishable.
“I understand,” cried her uncle, recollecting himself, and not wanting
to hear more: “I understand. Your aunt Norris has always been an
advocate, and very judiciously, for young people’s being brought up
without unnecessary indulgences; but there should be moderation in
everything. She is also very hardy herself, which of course will
influence her in her opinion of the wants of others. And on another
account, too, I can perfectly comprehend. I know what her sentiments
have always been. The principle was good in itself, but it may have
been, and I believe _has_ _been_, carried too far in your case. I
am aware that there has been sometimes, in some points, a misplaced
distinction; but I think too well of you, Fanny, to suppose you will
ever harbour resentment on that account. You have an understanding
which will prevent you from receiving things only in part, and judging
partially by the event. You will take in the whole of the past, you
will consider times, persons, and probabilities, and you will feel that
_they_ were not least your friends who were educating and preparing you
for that mediocrity of condition which _seemed_ to be your lot. Though
their caution may prove eventually unnecessary, it was kindly meant; and
of this you may be assured, that every advantage of affluence will be
doubled by the little privations and restrictions that may have been
imposed. I am sure you will not disappoint my opinion of you, by failing
at any time to treat your aunt Norris with the respect and attention
that are due to her. But enough of this. Sit down, my dear. I must speak
to you for a few minutes, but I will not detain you long. ”
Fanny obeyed, with eyes cast down and colour rising. After a moment’s
pause, Sir Thomas, trying to suppress a smile, went on.
“You are not aware, perhaps, that I have had a visitor this morning. I
had not been long in my own room, after breakfast, when Mr. Crawford was
shewn in. His errand you may probably conjecture. ”
Fanny’s colour grew deeper and deeper; and her uncle, perceiving that
she was embarrassed to a degree that made either speaking or looking
up quite impossible, turned away his own eyes, and without any farther
pause proceeded in his account of Mr. Crawford’s visit.
Mr. Crawford’s business had been to declare himself the lover of Fanny,
make decided proposals for her, and entreat the sanction of the uncle,
who seemed to stand in the place of her parents; and he had done it all
so well, so openly, so liberally, so properly, that Sir Thomas, feeling,
moreover, his own replies, and his own remarks to have been very much
to the purpose, was exceedingly happy to give the particulars of their
conversation; and little aware of what was passing in his niece’s mind,
conceived that by such details he must be gratifying her far more than
himself. He talked, therefore, for several minutes without Fanny’s
daring to interrupt him. She had hardly even attained the wish to do it.
Her mind was in too much confusion. She had changed her position; and,
with her eyes fixed intently on one of the windows, was listening to her
uncle in the utmost perturbation and dismay. For a moment he ceased, but
she had barely become conscious of it, when, rising from his chair, he
said, “And now, Fanny, having performed one part of my commission,
and shewn you everything placed on a basis the most assured and
satisfactory, I may execute the remainder by prevailing on you to
accompany me downstairs, where, though I cannot but presume on having
been no unacceptable companion myself, I must submit to your finding
one still better worth listening to. Mr. Crawford, as you have perhaps
foreseen, is yet in the house. He is in my room, and hoping to see you
there. ”
There was a look, a start, an exclamation on hearing this, which
astonished Sir Thomas; but what was his increase of astonishment on
hearing her exclaim--“Oh! no, sir, I cannot, indeed I cannot go down to
him. Mr. Crawford ought to know--he must know that: I told him enough
yesterday to convince him; he spoke to me on this subject yesterday,
and I told him without disguise that it was very disagreeable to me, and
quite out of my power to return his good opinion. ”
“I do not catch your meaning,” said Sir Thomas, sitting down again. “Out
of your power to return his good opinion? What is all this? I know he
spoke to you yesterday, and (as far as I understand) received as much
encouragement to proceed as a well-judging young woman could permit
herself to give. I was very much pleased with what I collected to have
been your behaviour on the occasion; it shewed a discretion highly to
be commended. But now, when he has made his overtures so properly, and
honourably--what are your scruples _now_? ”
“You are mistaken, sir,” cried Fanny, forced by the anxiety of the
moment even to tell her uncle that he was wrong; “you are quite
mistaken. How could Mr. Crawford say such a thing? I gave him no
encouragement yesterday. On the contrary, I told him, I cannot recollect
my exact words, but I am sure I told him that I would not listen to him,
that it was very unpleasant to me in every respect, and that I begged
him never to talk to me in that manner again. I am sure I said as much
as that and more; and I should have said still more, if I had been quite
certain of his meaning anything seriously; but I did not like to be, I
could not bear to be, imputing more than might be intended. I thought it
might all pass for nothing with _him_.
I dare say you know exactly--I always imagine you are--perhaps you do
not think him likely to marry at all--or not at present. ”
“No, I do not,” said Fanny softly, hoping she did not err either in the
belief or the acknowledgment of it.
Her companion looked at her keenly; and gathering greater spirit from
the blush soon produced from such a look, only said, “He is best off as
he is,” and turned the subject.
CHAPTER XXX
Miss Crawford’s uneasiness was much lightened by this conversation, and
she walked home again in spirits which might have defied almost another
week of the same small party in the same bad weather, had they been put
to the proof; but as that very evening brought her brother down from
London again in quite, or more than quite, his usual cheerfulness, she
had nothing farther to try her own. His still refusing to tell her what
he had gone for was but the promotion of gaiety; a day before it might
have irritated, but now it was a pleasant joke--suspected only of
concealing something planned as a pleasant surprise to herself. And the
next day _did_ bring a surprise to her. Henry had said he should just
go and ask the Bertrams how they did, and be back in ten minutes, but
he was gone above an hour; and when his sister, who had been waiting for
him to walk with her in the garden, met him at last most impatiently in
the sweep, and cried out, “My dear Henry, where can you have been
all this time? ” he had only to say that he had been sitting with Lady
Bertram and Fanny.
“Sitting with them an hour and a half! ” exclaimed Mary.
But this was only the beginning of her surprise.
“Yes, Mary,” said he, drawing her arm within his, and walking along
the sweep as if not knowing where he was: “I could not get away sooner;
Fanny looked so lovely! I am quite determined, Mary. My mind is entirely
made up. Will it astonish you? No: you must be aware that I am quite
determined to marry Fanny Price. ”
The surprise was now complete; for, in spite of whatever his
consciousness might suggest, a suspicion of his having any such views
had never entered his sister’s imagination; and she looked so truly the
astonishment she felt, that he was obliged to repeat what he had said,
and more fully and more solemnly. The conviction of his determination
once admitted, it was not unwelcome. There was even pleasure with the
surprise. Mary was in a state of mind to rejoice in a connexion with the
Bertram family, and to be not displeased with her brother’s marrying a
little beneath him.
“Yes, Mary,” was Henry’s concluding assurance. “I am fairly caught.
You know with what idle designs I began; but this is the end of them.
I have, I flatter myself, made no inconsiderable progress in her
affections; but my own are entirely fixed. ”
“Lucky, lucky girl! ” cried Mary, as soon as she could speak; “what a
match for her! My dearest Henry, this must be my _first_ feeling; but
my _second_, which you shall have as sincerely, is, that I approve your
choice from my soul, and foresee your happiness as heartily as I wish
and desire it. You will have a sweet little wife; all gratitude and
devotion. Exactly what you deserve. What an amazing match for her! Mrs.
Norris often talks of her luck; what will she say now? The delight
of all the family, indeed! And she has some _true_ friends in it! How
_they_ will rejoice! But tell me all about it! Talk to me for ever. When
did you begin to think seriously about her? ”
Nothing could be more impossible than to answer such a question, though
nothing could be more agreeable than to have it asked. “How the pleasing
plague had stolen on him” he could not say; and before he had expressed
the same sentiment with a little variation of words three times over,
his sister eagerly interrupted him with, “Ah, my dear Henry, and this
is what took you to London! This was your business! You chose to consult
the Admiral before you made up your mind. ”
But this he stoutly denied. He knew his uncle too well to consult him on
any matrimonial scheme. The Admiral hated marriage, and thought it never
pardonable in a young man of independent fortune.
“When Fanny is known to him,” continued Henry, “he will doat on her.
She is exactly the woman to do away every prejudice of such a man as
the Admiral, for she he would describe, if indeed he has now delicacy
of language enough to embody his own ideas. But till it is absolutely
settled--settled beyond all interference, he shall know nothing of the
matter. No, Mary, you are quite mistaken. You have not discovered my
business yet. ”
“Well, well, I am satisfied. I know now to whom it must relate, and am
in no hurry for the rest. Fanny Price! wonderful, quite wonderful! That
Mansfield should have done so much for--that _you_ should have found
your fate in Mansfield! But you are quite right; you could not have
chosen better. There is not a better girl in the world, and you do not
want for fortune; and as to her connexions, they are more than good. The
Bertrams are undoubtedly some of the first people in this country. She
is niece to Sir Thomas Bertram; that will be enough for the world. But
go on, go on. Tell me more. What are your plans? Does she know her own
happiness? ”
“No. ”
“What are you waiting for? ”
“For--for very little more than opportunity. Mary, she is not like her
cousins; but I think I shall not ask in vain. ”
“Oh no! you cannot. Were you even less pleasing--supposing her not to
love you already (of which, however, I can have little doubt)--you would
be safe. The gentleness and gratitude of her disposition would secure
her all your own immediately. From my soul I do not think she would
marry you _without_ love; that is, if there is a girl in the world
capable of being uninfluenced by ambition, I can suppose it her; but ask
her to love you, and she will never have the heart to refuse. ”
As soon as her eagerness could rest in silence, he was as happy to tell
as she could be to listen; and a conversation followed almost as deeply
interesting to her as to himself, though he had in fact nothing to
relate but his own sensations, nothing to dwell on but Fanny’s charms.
Fanny’s beauty of face and figure, Fanny’s graces of manner and goodness
of heart, were the exhaustless theme. The gentleness, modesty, and
sweetness of her character were warmly expatiated on; that sweetness
which makes so essential a part of every woman’s worth in the judgment
of man, that though he sometimes loves where it is not, he can never
believe it absent. Her temper he had good reason to depend on and
to praise. He had often seen it tried. Was there one of the family,
excepting Edmund, who had not in some way or other continually exercised
her patience and forbearance? Her affections were evidently strong. To
see her with her brother! What could more delightfully prove that the
warmth of her heart was equal to its gentleness? What could be more
encouraging to a man who had her love in view? Then, her understanding
was beyond every suspicion, quick and clear; and her manners were the
mirror of her own modest and elegant mind. Nor was this all. Henry
Crawford had too much sense not to feel the worth of good principles
in a wife, though he was too little accustomed to serious reflection to
know them by their proper name; but when he talked of her having such a
steadiness and regularity of conduct, such a high notion of honour, and
such an observance of decorum as might warrant any man in the fullest
dependence on her faith and integrity, he expressed what was inspired by
the knowledge of her being well principled and religious.
“I could so wholly and absolutely confide in her,” said he; “and _that_
is what I want. ”
Well might his sister, believing as she really did that his opinion of
Fanny Price was scarcely beyond her merits, rejoice in her prospects.
“The more I think of it,” she cried, “the more am I convinced that you
are doing quite right; and though I should never have selected Fanny
Price as the girl most likely to attach you, I am now persuaded she is
the very one to make you happy. Your wicked project upon her peace turns
out a clever thought indeed. You will both find your good in it. ”
“It was bad, very bad in me against such a creature; but I did not know
her then; and she shall have no reason to lament the hour that first put
it into my head. I will make her very happy, Mary; happier than she has
ever yet been herself, or ever seen anybody else. I will not take her
from Northamptonshire. I shall let Everingham, and rent a place in this
neighbourhood; perhaps Stanwix Lodge. I shall let a seven years’ lease
of Everingham. I am sure of an excellent tenant at half a word. I could
name three people now, who would give me my own terms and thank me. ”
“Ha! ” cried Mary; “settle in Northamptonshire! That is pleasant! Then we
shall be all together. ”
When she had spoken it, she recollected herself, and wished it unsaid;
but there was no need of confusion; for her brother saw her only as the
supposed inmate of Mansfield parsonage, and replied but to invite her in
the kindest manner to his own house, and to claim the best right in her.
“You must give us more than half your time,” said he. “I cannot admit
Mrs. Grant to have an equal claim with Fanny and myself, for we shall
both have a right in you. Fanny will be so truly your sister! ”
Mary had only to be grateful and give general assurances; but she was
now very fully purposed to be the guest of neither brother nor sister
many months longer.
“You will divide your year between London and Northamptonshire? ”
“Yes. ”
“That’s right; and in London, of course, a house of your own: no longer
with the Admiral. My dearest Henry, the advantage to you of getting away
from the Admiral before your manners are hurt by the contagion of his,
before you have contracted any of his foolish opinions, or learned to
sit over your dinner as if it were the best blessing of life! _You_ are
not sensible of the gain, for your regard for him has blinded you; but,
in my estimation, your marrying early may be the saving of you. To have
seen you grow like the Admiral in word or deed, look or gesture, would
have broken my heart. ”
“Well, well, we do not think quite alike here. The Admiral has his
faults, but he is a very good man, and has been more than a father to
me. Few fathers would have let me have my own way half so much. You must
not prejudice Fanny against him. I must have them love one another. ”
Mary refrained from saying what she felt, that there could not be two
persons in existence whose characters and manners were less accordant:
time would discover it to him; but she could not help _this_ reflection
on the Admiral. “Henry, I think so highly of Fanny Price, that if I
could suppose the next Mrs. Crawford would have half the reason which
my poor ill-used aunt had to abhor the very name, I would prevent the
marriage, if possible; but I know you: I know that a wife you _loved_
would be the happiest of women, and that even when you ceased to
love, she would yet find in you the liberality and good-breeding of a
gentleman. ”
The impossibility of not doing everything in the world to make Fanny
Price happy, or of ceasing to love Fanny Price, was of course the
groundwork of his eloquent answer.
“Had you seen her this morning, Mary,” he continued, “attending with
such ineffable sweetness and patience to all the demands of her aunt’s
stupidity, working with her, and for her, her colour beautifully
heightened as she leant over the work, then returning to her seat to
finish a note which she was previously engaged in writing for that
stupid woman’s service, and all this with such unpretending gentleness,
so much as if it were a matter of course that she was not to have a
moment at her own command, her hair arranged as neatly as it always is,
and one little curl falling forward as she wrote, which she now and then
shook back, and in the midst of all this, still speaking at intervals to
_me_, or listening, and as if she liked to listen, to what I said. Had
you seen her so, Mary, you would not have implied the possibility of her
power over my heart ever ceasing. ”
“My dearest Henry,” cried Mary, stopping short, and smiling in his face,
“how glad I am to see you so much in love! It quite delights me. But
what will Mrs. Rushworth and Julia say? ”
“I care neither what they say nor what they feel. They will now see what
sort of woman it is that can attach me, that can attach a man of sense.
I wish the discovery may do them any good. And they will now see their
cousin treated as she ought to be, and I wish they may be heartily
ashamed of their own abominable neglect and unkindness. They will be
angry,” he added, after a moment’s silence, and in a cooler tone; “Mrs.
Rushworth will be very angry. It will be a bitter pill to her; that is,
like other bitter pills, it will have two moments’ ill flavour, and then
be swallowed and forgotten; for I am not such a coxcomb as to suppose
her feelings more lasting than other women’s, though _I_ was the object
of them. Yes, Mary, my Fanny will feel a difference indeed: a daily,
hourly difference, in the behaviour of every being who approaches her;
and it will be the completion of my happiness to know that I am the doer
of it, that I am the person to give the consequence so justly her due.
Now she is dependent, helpless, friendless, neglected, forgotten. ”
“Nay, Henry, not by all; not forgotten by all; not friendless or
forgotten. Her cousin Edmund never forgets her. ”
“Edmund! True, I believe he is, generally speaking, kind to her, and
so is Sir Thomas in his way; but it is the way of a rich, superior,
long-worded, arbitrary uncle. What can Sir Thomas and Edmund together
do, what do they _do_ for her happiness, comfort, honour, and dignity in
the world, to what I _shall_ do? ”
CHAPTER XXXI
Henry Crawford was at Mansfield Park again the next morning, and at an
earlier hour than common visiting warrants. The two ladies were together
in the breakfast-room, and, fortunately for him, Lady Bertram was on the
very point of quitting it as he entered. She was almost at the door, and
not chusing by any means to take so much trouble in vain, she still went
on, after a civil reception, a short sentence about being waited for,
and a “Let Sir Thomas know” to the servant.
Henry, overjoyed to have her go, bowed and watched her off, and without
losing another moment, turned instantly to Fanny, and, taking out some
letters, said, with a most animated look, “I must acknowledge myself
infinitely obliged to any creature who gives me such an opportunity
of seeing you alone: I have been wishing it more than you can have any
idea. Knowing as I do what your feelings as a sister are, I could hardly
have borne that any one in the house should share with you in the
first knowledge of the news I now bring. He is made. Your brother is a
lieutenant. I have the infinite satisfaction of congratulating you on
your brother’s promotion. Here are the letters which announce it, this
moment come to hand. You will, perhaps, like to see them. ”
Fanny could not speak, but he did not want her to speak. To see the
expression of her eyes, the change of her complexion, the progress of
her feelings, their doubt, confusion, and felicity, was enough. She took
the letters as he gave them. The first was from the Admiral to inform
his nephew, in a few words, of his having succeeded in the object he had
undertaken, the promotion of young Price, and enclosing two more, one
from the Secretary of the First Lord to a friend, whom the Admiral had
set to work in the business, the other from that friend to himself,
by which it appeared that his lordship had the very great happiness of
attending to the recommendation of Sir Charles; that Sir Charles was
much delighted in having such an opportunity of proving his regard
for Admiral Crawford, and that the circumstance of Mr. William Price’s
commission as Second Lieutenant of H. M. Sloop Thrush being made out was
spreading general joy through a wide circle of great people.
While her hand was trembling under these letters, her eye running from
one to the other, and her heart swelling with emotion, Crawford thus
continued, with unfeigned eagerness, to express his interest in the
event--
“I will not talk of my own happiness,” said he, “great as it is, for I
think only of yours. Compared with you, who has a right to be happy? I
have almost grudged myself my own prior knowledge of what you ought to
have known before all the world. I have not lost a moment, however.
The post was late this morning, but there has not been since a moment’s
delay. How impatient, how anxious, how wild I have been on the subject,
I will not attempt to describe; how severely mortified, how cruelly
disappointed, in not having it finished while I was in London! I was
kept there from day to day in the hope of it, for nothing less dear
to me than such an object would have detained me half the time from
Mansfield. But though my uncle entered into my wishes with all the
warmth I could desire, and exerted himself immediately, there were
difficulties from the absence of one friend, and the engagements of
another, which at last I could no longer bear to stay the end of, and
knowing in what good hands I left the cause, I came away on Monday,
trusting that many posts would not pass before I should be followed by
such very letters as these. My uncle, who is the very best man in
the world, has exerted himself, as I knew he would, after seeing your
brother. He was delighted with him. I would not allow myself yesterday
to say how delighted, or to repeat half that the Admiral said in his
praise. I deferred it all till his praise should be proved the praise of
a friend, as this day _does_ prove it. _Now_ I may say that even I could
not require William Price to excite a greater interest, or be followed
by warmer wishes and higher commendation, than were most voluntarily
bestowed by my uncle after the evening they had passed together. ”
“Has this been all _your_ doing, then? ” cried Fanny. “Good heaven! how
very, very kind! Have you really--was it by _your_ desire? I beg your
pardon, but I am bewildered. Did Admiral Crawford apply? How was it? I
am stupefied. ”
Henry was most happy to make it more intelligible, by beginning at an
earlier stage, and explaining very particularly what he had done. His
last journey to London had been undertaken with no other view than that
of introducing her brother in Hill Street, and prevailing on the Admiral
to exert whatever interest he might have for getting him on. This had
been his business. He had communicated it to no creature: he had not
breathed a syllable of it even to Mary; while uncertain of the issue,
he could not have borne any participation of his feelings, but this had
been his business; and he spoke with such a glow of what his solicitude
had been, and used such strong expressions, was so abounding in the
_deepest_ _interest_, in _twofold_ _motives_, in _views_ _and_ _wishes_
_more_ _than_ _could_ _be_ _told_, that Fanny could not have remained
insensible of his drift, had she been able to attend; but her heart was
so full and her senses still so astonished, that she could listen but
imperfectly even to what he told her of William, and saying only when
he paused, “How kind! how very kind! Oh, Mr. Crawford, we are infinitely
obliged to you! Dearest, dearest William! ” She jumped up and moved in
haste towards the door, crying out, “I will go to my uncle. My uncle
ought to know it as soon as possible. ” But this could not be suffered.
The opportunity was too fair, and his feelings too impatient. He was
after her immediately. “She must not go, she must allow him five minutes
longer,” and he took her hand and led her back to her seat, and was in
the middle of his farther explanation, before she had suspected for what
she was detained. When she did understand it, however, and found herself
expected to believe that she had created sensations which his heart had
never known before, and that everything he had done for William was to
be placed to the account of his excessive and unequalled attachment
to her, she was exceedingly distressed, and for some moments unable
to speak. She considered it all as nonsense, as mere trifling and
gallantry, which meant only to deceive for the hour; she could not but
feel that it was treating her improperly and unworthily, and in such a
way as she had not deserved; but it was like himself, and entirely of a
piece with what she had seen before; and she would not allow herself to
shew half the displeasure she felt, because he had been conferring an
obligation, which no want of delicacy on his part could make a trifle
to her. While her heart was still bounding with joy and gratitude on
William’s behalf, she could not be severely resentful of anything that
injured only herself; and after having twice drawn back her hand, and
twice attempted in vain to turn away from him, she got up, and said
only, with much agitation, “Don’t, Mr. Crawford, pray don’t! I beg you
would not.
This is a sort of talking which is very unpleasant to me. I
must go away. I cannot bear it. ” But he was still talking on, describing
his affection, soliciting a return, and, finally, in words so plain as
to bear but one meaning even to her, offering himself, hand, fortune,
everything, to her acceptance. It was so; he had said it. Her
astonishment and confusion increased; and though still not knowing
how to suppose him serious, she could hardly stand. He pressed for an
answer.
“No, no, no! ” she cried, hiding her face. “This is all nonsense. Do not
distress me. I can hear no more of this. Your kindness to William makes
me more obliged to you than words can express; but I do not want, I
cannot bear, I must not listen to such--No, no, don’t think of me. But
you are _not_ thinking of me. I know it is all nothing. ”
She had burst away from him, and at that moment Sir Thomas was heard
speaking to a servant in his way towards the room they were in. It was
no time for farther assurances or entreaty, though to part with her at
a moment when her modesty alone seemed, to his sanguine and preassured
mind, to stand in the way of the happiness he sought, was a cruel
necessity. She rushed out at an opposite door from the one her uncle
was approaching, and was walking up and down the East room in the
utmost confusion of contrary feeling, before Sir Thomas’s politeness
or apologies were over, or he had reached the beginning of the joyful
intelligence which his visitor came to communicate.
She was feeling, thinking, trembling about everything; agitated, happy,
miserable, infinitely obliged, absolutely angry. It was all beyond
belief! He was inexcusable, incomprehensible! But such were his habits
that he could do nothing without a mixture of evil. He had previously
made her the happiest of human beings, and now he had insulted--she knew
not what to say, how to class, or how to regard it. She would not have
him be serious, and yet what could excuse the use of such words and
offers, if they meant but to trifle?
But William was a lieutenant. _That_ was a fact beyond a doubt, and
without an alloy. She would think of it for ever and forget all the
rest. Mr. Crawford would certainly never address her so again: he must
have seen how unwelcome it was to her; and in that case, how gratefully
she could esteem him for his friendship to William!
She would not stir farther from the East room than the head of the great
staircase, till she had satisfied herself of Mr. Crawford’s having left
the house; but when convinced of his being gone, she was eager to go
down and be with her uncle, and have all the happiness of his joy
as well as her own, and all the benefit of his information or his
conjectures as to what would now be William’s destination. Sir Thomas
was as joyful as she could desire, and very kind and communicative; and
she had so comfortable a talk with him about William as to make her
feel as if nothing had occurred to vex her, till she found, towards the
close, that Mr. Crawford was engaged to return and dine there that
very day. This was a most unwelcome hearing, for though he might think
nothing of what had passed, it would be quite distressing to her to see
him again so soon.
She tried to get the better of it; tried very hard, as the dinner hour
approached, to feel and appear as usual; but it was quite impossible for
her not to look most shy and uncomfortable when their visitor entered
the room. She could not have supposed it in the power of any concurrence
of circumstances to give her so many painful sensations on the first day
of hearing of William’s promotion.
Mr. Crawford was not only in the room--he was soon close to her. He
had a note to deliver from his sister. Fanny could not look at him, but
there was no consciousness of past folly in his voice. She opened her
note immediately, glad to have anything to do, and happy, as she read
it, to feel that the fidgetings of her aunt Norris, who was also to dine
there, screened her a little from view.
“My dear Fanny,--for so I may now always call you, to the infinite
relief of a tongue that has been stumbling at _Miss_ _Price_ for at
least the last six weeks--I cannot let my brother go without sending you
a few lines of general congratulation, and giving my most joyful consent
and approval. Go on, my dear Fanny, and without fear; there can be no
difficulties worth naming. I chuse to suppose that the assurance of my
consent will be something; so you may smile upon him with your sweetest
smiles this afternoon, and send him back to me even happier than he
goes. --Yours affectionately, M. C. ”
These were not expressions to do Fanny any good; for though she read
in too much haste and confusion to form the clearest judgment of Miss
Crawford’s meaning, it was evident that she meant to compliment her on
her brother’s attachment, and even to _appear_ to believe it serious.
She did not know what to do, or what to think. There was wretchedness in
the idea of its being serious; there was perplexity and agitation every
way. She was distressed whenever Mr. Crawford spoke to her, and he spoke
to her much too often; and she was afraid there was a something in his
voice and manner in addressing her very different from what they were
when he talked to the others. Her comfort in that day’s dinner was
quite destroyed: she could hardly eat anything; and when Sir Thomas
good-humouredly observed that joy had taken away her appetite, she
was ready to sink with shame, from the dread of Mr. Crawford’s
interpretation; for though nothing could have tempted her to turn
her eyes to the right hand, where he sat, she felt that _his_ were
immediately directed towards her.
She was more silent than ever. She would hardly join even when William
was the subject, for his commission came all from the right hand too,
and there was pain in the connexion.
She thought Lady Bertram sat longer than ever, and began to be in
despair of ever getting away; but at last they were in the drawing-room,
and she was able to think as she would, while her aunts finished the
subject of William’s appointment in their own style.
Mrs. Norris seemed as much delighted with the saving it would be to
Sir Thomas as with any part of it. “_Now_ William would be able to keep
himself, which would make a vast difference to his uncle, for it was
unknown how much he had cost his uncle; and, indeed, it would make some
difference in _her_ presents too. She was very glad that she had given
William what she did at parting, very glad, indeed, that it had been in
her power, without material inconvenience, just at that time to give him
something rather considerable; that is, for _her_, with _her_ limited
means, for now it would all be useful in helping to fit up his cabin.
She knew he must be at some expense, that he would have many things to
buy, though to be sure his father and mother would be able to put him in
the way of getting everything very cheap; but she was very glad she had
contributed her mite towards it. ”
“I am glad you gave him something considerable,” said Lady Bertram, with
most unsuspicious calmness, “for _I_ gave him only 10 pounds. ”
“Indeed! ” cried Mrs. Norris, reddening. “Upon my word, he must have gone
off with his pockets well lined, and at no expense for his journey to
London either! ”
“Sir Thomas told me 10 pounds would be enough. ”
Mrs. Norris, being not at all inclined to question its sufficiency,
began to take the matter in another point.
“It is amazing,” said she, “how much young people cost their friends,
what with bringing them up and putting them out in the world! They
little think how much it comes to, or what their parents, or their
uncles and aunts, pay for them in the course of the year. Now, here are
my sister Price’s children; take them all together, I dare say nobody
would believe what a sum they cost Sir Thomas every year, to say nothing
of what _I_ do for them. ”
“Very true, sister, as you say. But, poor things! they cannot help
it; and you know it makes very little difference to Sir Thomas. Fanny,
William must not forget my shawl if he goes to the East Indies; and I
shall give him a commission for anything else that is worth having. I
wish he may go to the East Indies, that I may have my shawl. I think I
will have two shawls, Fanny. ”
Fanny, meanwhile, speaking only when she could not help it, was very
earnestly trying to understand what Mr. and Miss Crawford were at. There
was everything in the world _against_ their being serious but his words
and manner. Everything natural, probable, reasonable, was against it;
all their habits and ways of thinking, and all her own demerits. How
could _she_ have excited serious attachment in a man who had seen so
many, and been admired by so many, and flirted with so many, infinitely
her superiors; who seemed so little open to serious impressions, even
where pains had been taken to please him; who thought so slightly, so
carelessly, so unfeelingly on all such points; who was everything to
everybody, and seemed to find no one essential to him? And farther,
how could it be supposed that his sister, with all her high and worldly
notions of matrimony, would be forwarding anything of a serious nature
in such a quarter? Nothing could be more unnatural in either. Fanny
was ashamed of her own doubts. Everything might be possible rather than
serious attachment, or serious approbation of it toward her. She had
quite convinced herself of this before Sir Thomas and Mr. Crawford
joined them. The difficulty was in maintaining the conviction quite so
absolutely after Mr. Crawford was in the room; for once or twice a
look seemed forced on her which she did not know how to class among the
common meaning; in any other man, at least, she would have said that
it meant something very earnest, very pointed. But she still tried to
believe it no more than what he might often have expressed towards her
cousins and fifty other women.
She thought he was wishing to speak to her unheard by the rest. She
fancied he was trying for it the whole evening at intervals, whenever
Sir Thomas was out of the room, or at all engaged with Mrs. Norris, and
she carefully refused him every opportunity.
At last--it seemed an at last to Fanny’s nervousness, though not
remarkably late--he began to talk of going away; but the comfort of the
sound was impaired by his turning to her the next moment, and saying,
“Have you nothing to send to Mary? No answer to her note? She will be
disappointed if she receives nothing from you. Pray write to her, if it
be only a line. ”
“Oh yes! certainly,” cried Fanny, rising in haste, the haste of
embarrassment and of wanting to get away--“I will write directly. ”
She went accordingly to the table, where she was in the habit of writing
for her aunt, and prepared her materials without knowing what in the
world to say. She had read Miss Crawford’s note only once, and how to
reply to anything so imperfectly understood was most distressing.
Quite unpractised in such sort of note-writing, had there been time for
scruples and fears as to style she would have felt them in abundance:
but something must be instantly written; and with only one decided
feeling, that of wishing not to appear to think anything really
intended, she wrote thus, in great trembling both of spirits and hand--
“I am very much obliged to you, my dear Miss Crawford, for your kind
congratulations, as far as they relate to my dearest William. The rest
of your note I know means nothing; but I am so unequal to anything of
the sort, that I hope you will excuse my begging you to take no farther
notice. I have seen too much of Mr. Crawford not to understand his
manners; if he understood me as well, he would, I dare say, behave
differently. I do not know what I write, but it would be a great favour
of you never to mention the subject again. With thanks for the honour of
your note, I remain, dear Miss Crawford, etc. , etc. ”
The conclusion was scarcely intelligible from increasing fright, for
she found that Mr. Crawford, under pretence of receiving the note, was
coming towards her.
“You cannot think I mean to hurry you,” said he, in an undervoice,
perceiving the amazing trepidation with which she made up the note, “you
cannot think I have any such object. Do not hurry yourself, I entreat. ”
“Oh! I thank you; I have quite done, just done; it will be ready in a
moment; I am very much obliged to you; if you will be so good as to give
_that_ to Miss Crawford. ”
The note was held out, and must be taken; and as she instantly and with
averted eyes walked towards the fireplace, where sat the others, he had
nothing to do but to go in good earnest.
Fanny thought she had never known a day of greater agitation, both of
pain and pleasure; but happily the pleasure was not of a sort to die
with the day; for every day would restore the knowledge of William’s
advancement, whereas the pain, she hoped, would return no more. She had
no doubt that her note must appear excessively ill-written, that
the language would disgrace a child, for her distress had allowed no
arrangement; but at least it would assure them both of her being neither
imposed on nor gratified by Mr. Crawford’s attentions.
CHAPTER XXXII
Fanny had by no means forgotten Mr. Crawford when she awoke the next
morning; but she remembered the purport of her note, and was not less
sanguine as to its effect than she had been the night before. If Mr.
Crawford would but go away! That was what she most earnestly desired:
go and take his sister with him, as he was to do, and as he returned to
Mansfield on purpose to do. And why it was not done already she could
not devise, for Miss Crawford certainly wanted no delay. Fanny had
hoped, in the course of his yesterday’s visit, to hear the day named;
but he had only spoken of their journey as what would take place ere
long.
Having so satisfactorily settled the conviction her note would convey,
she could not but be astonished to see Mr. Crawford, as she accidentally
did, coming up to the house again, and at an hour as early as the day
before. His coming might have nothing to do with her, but she must avoid
seeing him if possible; and being then on her way upstairs, she resolved
there to remain, during the whole of his visit, unless actually sent
for; and as Mrs. Norris was still in the house, there seemed little
danger of her being wanted.
She sat some time in a good deal of agitation, listening, trembling, and
fearing to be sent for every moment; but as no footsteps approached the
East room, she grew gradually composed, could sit down, and be able to
employ herself, and able to hope that Mr. Crawford had come and would go
without her being obliged to know anything of the matter.
Nearly half an hour had passed, and she was growing very comfortable,
when suddenly the sound of a step in regular approach was heard; a heavy
step, an unusual step in that part of the house: it was her uncle’s; she
knew it as well as his voice; she had trembled at it as often, and began
to tremble again, at the idea of his coming up to speak to her, whatever
might be the subject. It was indeed Sir Thomas who opened the door and
asked if she were there, and if he might come in. The terror of his
former occasional visits to that room seemed all renewed, and she felt
as if he were going to examine her again in French and English.
She was all attention, however, in placing a chair for him, and trying
to appear honoured; and, in her agitation, had quite overlooked the
deficiencies of her apartment, till he, stopping short as he entered,
said, with much surprise, “Why have you no fire to-day? ”
There was snow on the ground, and she was sitting in a shawl. She
hesitated.
“I am not cold, sir: I never sit here long at this time of year. ”
“But you have a fire in general? ”
“No, sir. ”
“How comes this about? Here must be some mistake. I understood that you
had the use of this room by way of making you perfectly comfortable.
In your bedchamber I know you _cannot_ have a fire. Here is some great
misapprehension which must be rectified. It is highly unfit for you to
sit, be it only half an hour a day, without a fire. You are not strong.
You are chilly. Your aunt cannot be aware of this. ”
Fanny would rather have been silent; but being obliged to speak, she
could not forbear, in justice to the aunt she loved best, from saying
something in which the words “my aunt Norris” were distinguishable.
“I understand,” cried her uncle, recollecting himself, and not wanting
to hear more: “I understand. Your aunt Norris has always been an
advocate, and very judiciously, for young people’s being brought up
without unnecessary indulgences; but there should be moderation in
everything. She is also very hardy herself, which of course will
influence her in her opinion of the wants of others. And on another
account, too, I can perfectly comprehend. I know what her sentiments
have always been. The principle was good in itself, but it may have
been, and I believe _has_ _been_, carried too far in your case. I
am aware that there has been sometimes, in some points, a misplaced
distinction; but I think too well of you, Fanny, to suppose you will
ever harbour resentment on that account. You have an understanding
which will prevent you from receiving things only in part, and judging
partially by the event. You will take in the whole of the past, you
will consider times, persons, and probabilities, and you will feel that
_they_ were not least your friends who were educating and preparing you
for that mediocrity of condition which _seemed_ to be your lot. Though
their caution may prove eventually unnecessary, it was kindly meant; and
of this you may be assured, that every advantage of affluence will be
doubled by the little privations and restrictions that may have been
imposed. I am sure you will not disappoint my opinion of you, by failing
at any time to treat your aunt Norris with the respect and attention
that are due to her. But enough of this. Sit down, my dear. I must speak
to you for a few minutes, but I will not detain you long. ”
Fanny obeyed, with eyes cast down and colour rising. After a moment’s
pause, Sir Thomas, trying to suppress a smile, went on.
“You are not aware, perhaps, that I have had a visitor this morning. I
had not been long in my own room, after breakfast, when Mr. Crawford was
shewn in. His errand you may probably conjecture. ”
Fanny’s colour grew deeper and deeper; and her uncle, perceiving that
she was embarrassed to a degree that made either speaking or looking
up quite impossible, turned away his own eyes, and without any farther
pause proceeded in his account of Mr. Crawford’s visit.
Mr. Crawford’s business had been to declare himself the lover of Fanny,
make decided proposals for her, and entreat the sanction of the uncle,
who seemed to stand in the place of her parents; and he had done it all
so well, so openly, so liberally, so properly, that Sir Thomas, feeling,
moreover, his own replies, and his own remarks to have been very much
to the purpose, was exceedingly happy to give the particulars of their
conversation; and little aware of what was passing in his niece’s mind,
conceived that by such details he must be gratifying her far more than
himself. He talked, therefore, for several minutes without Fanny’s
daring to interrupt him. She had hardly even attained the wish to do it.
Her mind was in too much confusion. She had changed her position; and,
with her eyes fixed intently on one of the windows, was listening to her
uncle in the utmost perturbation and dismay. For a moment he ceased, but
she had barely become conscious of it, when, rising from his chair, he
said, “And now, Fanny, having performed one part of my commission,
and shewn you everything placed on a basis the most assured and
satisfactory, I may execute the remainder by prevailing on you to
accompany me downstairs, where, though I cannot but presume on having
been no unacceptable companion myself, I must submit to your finding
one still better worth listening to. Mr. Crawford, as you have perhaps
foreseen, is yet in the house. He is in my room, and hoping to see you
there. ”
There was a look, a start, an exclamation on hearing this, which
astonished Sir Thomas; but what was his increase of astonishment on
hearing her exclaim--“Oh! no, sir, I cannot, indeed I cannot go down to
him. Mr. Crawford ought to know--he must know that: I told him enough
yesterday to convince him; he spoke to me on this subject yesterday,
and I told him without disguise that it was very disagreeable to me, and
quite out of my power to return his good opinion. ”
“I do not catch your meaning,” said Sir Thomas, sitting down again. “Out
of your power to return his good opinion? What is all this? I know he
spoke to you yesterday, and (as far as I understand) received as much
encouragement to proceed as a well-judging young woman could permit
herself to give. I was very much pleased with what I collected to have
been your behaviour on the occasion; it shewed a discretion highly to
be commended. But now, when he has made his overtures so properly, and
honourably--what are your scruples _now_? ”
“You are mistaken, sir,” cried Fanny, forced by the anxiety of the
moment even to tell her uncle that he was wrong; “you are quite
mistaken. How could Mr. Crawford say such a thing? I gave him no
encouragement yesterday. On the contrary, I told him, I cannot recollect
my exact words, but I am sure I told him that I would not listen to him,
that it was very unpleasant to me in every respect, and that I begged
him never to talk to me in that manner again. I am sure I said as much
as that and more; and I should have said still more, if I had been quite
certain of his meaning anything seriously; but I did not like to be, I
could not bear to be, imputing more than might be intended. I thought it
might all pass for nothing with _him_.
