No More Learning

This was exactly
what Sir Thomas and Edmund had been separately conniving at, as each
proved to the other by the sympathetic alacrity with which they both
advised Mrs. Norris’s continuing where she was, instead of rushing out
into the hall as soon as the noises of the arrival reached them.

William and Fanny soon shewed themselves; and Sir Thomas had the
pleasure of receiving, in his protege, certainly a very different person
from the one he had equipped seven years ago, but a young man of an
open, pleasant countenance, and frank, unstudied, but feeling and
respectful manners, and such as confirmed him his friend.

It was long before Fanny could recover from the agitating happiness of
such an hour as was formed by the last thirty minutes of expectation,
and the first of fruition; it was some time even before her happiness
could be said to make her happy, before the disappointment inseparable
from the alteration of person had vanished, and she could see in him the
same William as before, and talk to him, as her heart had been yearning
to do through many a past year. That time, however, did gradually come,
forwarded by an affection on his side as warm as her own, and much less
encumbered by refinement or self-distrust. She was the first object
of his love, but it was a love which his stronger spirits, and bolder
temper, made it as natural for him to express as to feel. On the
morrow they were walking about together with true enjoyment, and every
succeeding morrow renewed a _tete-a-tete_ which Sir Thomas could not but
observe with complacency, even before Edmund had pointed it out to him.

Excepting the moments of peculiar delight, which any marked or
unlooked-for instance of Edmund’s consideration of her in the last few
months had excited, Fanny had never known so much felicity in her life,
as in this unchecked, equal, fearless intercourse with the brother and
friend who was opening all his heart to her, telling her all his hopes
and fears, plans, and solicitudes respecting that long thought of,
dearly earned, and justly valued blessing of promotion; who could give
her direct and minute information of the father and mother, brothers and
sisters, of whom she very seldom heard; who was interested in all the
comforts and all the little hardships of her home at Mansfield; ready to
think of every member of that home as she directed, or differing only
by a less scrupulous opinion, and more noisy abuse of their aunt Norris,
and with whom (perhaps the dearest indulgence of the whole) all the evil
and good of their earliest years could be gone over again, and every
former united pain and pleasure retraced with the fondest recollection.
An advantage this, a strengthener of love, in which even the conjugal
tie is beneath the fraternal. Children of the same family, the same
blood, with the same first associations and habits, have some means of
enjoyment in their power, which no subsequent connexions can supply; and
it must be by a long and unnatural estrangement, by a divorce which
no subsequent connexion can justify, if such precious remains of the
earliest attachments are ever entirely outlived. Too often, alas! it is
so. Fraternal love, sometimes almost everything, is at others worse than
nothing. But with William and Fanny Price it was still a sentiment
in all its prime and freshness, wounded by no opposition of interest,
cooled by no separate attachment, and feeling the influence of time and
absence only in its increase.

An affection so amiable was advancing each in the opinion of all who had
hearts to value anything good. Henry Crawford was as much struck with
it as any. He honoured the warm-hearted, blunt fondness of the young
sailor, which led him to say, with his hands stretched towards Fanny’s
head, “Do you know, I begin to like that queer fashion already, though
when I first heard of such things being done in England, I could
not believe it; and when Mrs. Brown, and the other women at the
Commissioner’s at Gibraltar, appeared in the same trim, I thought they
were mad; but Fanny can reconcile me to anything”; and saw, with lively
admiration, the glow of Fanny’s cheek, the brightness of her eye, the
deep interest, the absorbed attention, while her brother was describing
any of the imminent hazards, or terrific scenes, which such a period at
sea must supply.

It was a picture which Henry Crawford had moral taste enough to value.
Fanny’s attractions increased--increased twofold; for the sensibility
which beautified her complexion and illumined her countenance was an
attraction in itself. He was no longer in doubt of the capabilities of
her heart. She had feeling, genuine feeling. It would be something to
be loved by such a girl, to excite the first ardours of her young
unsophisticated mind! She interested him more than he had foreseen. A
fortnight was not enough. His stay became indefinite.

William was often called on by his uncle to be the talker. His recitals
were amusing in themselves to Sir Thomas, but the chief object in
seeking them was to understand the reciter, to know the young man by his
histories; and he listened to his clear, simple, spirited details
with full satisfaction, seeing in them the proof of good principles,
professional knowledge, energy, courage, and cheerfulness, everything
that could deserve or promise well. Young as he was, William had already
seen a great deal. He had been in the Mediterranean; in the West Indies;
in the Mediterranean again; had been often taken on shore by the favour
of his captain, and in the course of seven years had known every variety
of danger which sea and war together could offer. With such means in
his power he had a right to be listened to; and though Mrs. Norris could
fidget about the room, and disturb everybody in quest of two needlefuls
of thread or a second-hand shirt button, in the midst of her nephew’s
account of a shipwreck or an engagement, everybody else was attentive;
and even Lady Bertram could not hear of such horrors unmoved, or
without sometimes lifting her eyes from her work to say, “Dear me! how
disagreeable! I wonder anybody can ever go to sea. ”

To Henry Crawford they gave a different feeling. He longed to have been
at sea, and seen and done and suffered as much. His heart was warmed,
his fancy fired, and he felt the highest respect for a lad who, before
he was twenty, had gone through such bodily hardships and given such
proofs of mind. The glory of heroism, of usefulness, of exertion, of
endurance, made his own habits of selfish indulgence appear in shameful
contrast; and he wished he had been a William Price, distinguishing
himself and working his way to fortune and consequence with so much
self-respect and happy ardour, instead of what he was!

The wish was rather eager than lasting. He was roused from the reverie
of retrospection and regret produced by it, by some inquiry from Edmund
as to his plans for the next day’s hunting; and he found it was as well
to be a man of fortune at once with horses and grooms at his command.
In one respect it was better, as it gave him the means of conferring a
kindness where he wished to oblige. With spirits, courage, and curiosity
up to anything, William expressed an inclination to hunt; and Crawford
could mount him without the slightest inconvenience to himself, and with
only some scruples to obviate in Sir Thomas, who knew better than his
nephew the value of such a loan, and some alarms to reason away in
Fanny. She feared for William; by no means convinced by all that he
could relate of his own horsemanship in various countries, of the
scrambling parties in which he had been engaged, the rough horses and
mules he had ridden, or his many narrow escapes from dreadful falls,
that he was at all equal to the management of a high-fed hunter in an
English fox-chase; nor till he returned safe and well, without accident
or discredit, could she be reconciled to the risk, or feel any of that
obligation to Mr. Crawford for lending the horse which he had fully
intended it should produce. When it was proved, however, to have done
William no harm, she could allow it to be a kindness, and even reward
the owner with a smile when the animal was one minute tendered to his
use again; and the next, with the greatest cordiality, and in a manner
not to be resisted, made over to his use entirely so long as he remained
in Northamptonshire.

[End volume one of this edition.
Printed by T. and A. Constable,
Printers to Her Majesty at
the Edinburgh University Press]



CHAPTER XXV

The intercourse of the two families was at this period more nearly
restored to what it had been in the autumn, than any member of the
old intimacy had thought ever likely to be again. The return of Henry
Crawford, and the arrival of William Price, had much to do with it,
but much was still owing to Sir Thomas’s more than toleration of the
neighbourly attempts at the Parsonage. His mind, now disengaged from
the cares which had pressed on him at first, was at leisure to find
the Grants and their young inmates really worth visiting; and though
infinitely above scheming or contriving for any the most advantageous
matrimonial establishment that could be among the apparent possibilities
of any one most dear to him, and disdaining even as a littleness the
being quick-sighted on such points, he could not avoid perceiving, in
a grand and careless way, that Mr. Crawford was somewhat distinguishing
his niece--nor perhaps refrain (though unconsciously) from giving a more
willing assent to invitations on that account.

His readiness, however, in agreeing to dine at the Parsonage, when the
general invitation was at last hazarded, after many debates and many
doubts as to whether it were worth while, “because Sir Thomas seemed
so ill inclined, and Lady Bertram was so indolent! ” proceeded from
good-breeding and goodwill alone, and had nothing to do with Mr.
Crawford, but as being one in an agreeable group: for it was in the
course of that very visit that he first began to think that any one in
the habit of such idle observations _would_ _have_ _thought_ that Mr.
Crawford was the admirer of Fanny Price.

The meeting was generally felt to be a pleasant one, being composed in a
good proportion of those who would talk and those who would listen;
and the dinner itself was elegant and plentiful, according to the usual
style of the Grants, and too much according to the usual habits of
all to raise any emotion except in Mrs. Norris, who could never behold
either the wide table or the number of dishes on it with patience, and
who did always contrive to experience some evil from the passing of the
servants behind her chair, and to bring away some fresh conviction of
its being impossible among so many dishes but that some must be cold.

In the evening it was found, according to the predetermination of Mrs.
Grant and her sister, that after making up the whist-table there would
remain sufficient for a round game, and everybody being as perfectly
complying and without a choice as on such occasions they always are,
speculation was decided on almost as soon as whist; and Lady Bertram
soon found herself in the critical situation of being applied to for her
own choice between the games, and being required either to draw a card
for whist or not. She hesitated. Luckily Sir Thomas was at hand.

“What shall I do, Sir Thomas? Whist and speculation; which will amuse me
most? ”

Sir Thomas, after a moment’s thought, recommended speculation. He was
a whist player himself, and perhaps might feel that it would not much
amuse him to have her for a partner.

“Very well,” was her ladyship’s contented answer; “then speculation, if
you please, Mrs. Grant. I know nothing about it, but Fanny must teach
me. ”

Here Fanny interposed, however, with anxious protestations of her own
equal ignorance; she had never played the game nor seen it played in
her life; and Lady Bertram felt a moment’s indecision again; but upon
everybody’s assuring her that nothing could be so easy, that it was the
easiest game on the cards, and Henry Crawford’s stepping forward with a
most earnest request to be allowed to sit between her ladyship and Miss
Price, and teach them both, it was so settled; and Sir Thomas, Mrs.
Norris, and Dr. and Mrs. Grant being seated at the table of prime
intellectual state and dignity, the remaining six, under Miss Crawford’s
direction, were arranged round the other. It was a fine arrangement
for Henry Crawford, who was close to Fanny, and with his hands full of
business, having two persons’ cards to manage as well as his own; for
though it was impossible for Fanny not to feel herself mistress of the
rules of the game in three minutes, he had yet to inspirit her play,
sharpen her avarice, and harden her heart, which, especially in any
competition with William, was a work of some difficulty; and as for Lady
Bertram, he must continue in charge of all her fame and fortune through
the whole evening; and if quick enough to keep her from looking at her
cards when the deal began, must direct her in whatever was to be done
with them to the end of it.

He was in high spirits, doing everything with happy ease, and preeminent
in all the lively turns, quick resources, and playful impudence that
could do honour to the game; and the round table was altogether a very
comfortable contrast to the steady sobriety and orderly silence of the
other.

Twice had Sir Thomas inquired into the enjoyment and success of his
lady, but in vain; no pause was long enough for the time his measured
manner needed; and very little of her state could be known till Mrs.
Grant was able, at the end of the first rubber, to go to her and pay her
compliments.

“I hope your ladyship is pleased with the game. ”

“Oh dear, yes! very entertaining indeed. A very odd game. I do not know
what it is all about. I am never to see my cards; and Mr. Crawford does
all the rest. ”

“Bertram,” said Crawford, some time afterwards, taking the opportunity
of a little languor in the game, “I have never told you what happened to
me yesterday in my ride home. ” They had been hunting together, and were
in the midst of a good run, and at some distance from Mansfield, when
his horse being found to have flung a shoe, Henry Crawford had been
obliged to give up, and make the best of his way back. “I told you I
lost my way after passing that old farmhouse with the yew-trees, because
I can never bear to ask; but I have not told you that, with my usual
luck--for I never do wrong without gaining by it--I found myself in due
time in the very place which I had a curiosity to see. I was suddenly,
upon turning the corner of a steepish downy field, in the midst of
a retired little village between gently rising hills; a small stream
before me to be forded, a church standing on a sort of knoll to my
right--which church was strikingly large and handsome for the place, and
not a gentleman or half a gentleman’s house to be seen excepting one--to
be presumed the Parsonage--within a stone’s throw of the said knoll and
church. I found myself, in short, in Thornton Lacey. ”

“It sounds like it,” said Edmund; “but which way did you turn after
passing Sewell’s farm? ”

“I answer no such irrelevant and insidious questions; though were I to
answer all that you could put in the course of an hour, you would never
be able to prove that it was _not_ Thornton Lacey--for such it certainly
was. ”

“You inquired, then? ”

“No, I never inquire. But I _told_ a man mending a hedge that it was
Thornton Lacey, and he agreed to it. ”

“You have a good memory. I had forgotten having ever told you half so
much of the place. ”

Thornton Lacey was the name of his impending living, as Miss Crawford
well knew; and her interest in a negotiation for William Price’s knave
increased.

“Well,” continued Edmund, “and how did you like what you saw? ”

“Very much indeed. You are a lucky fellow. There will be work for five
summers at least before the place is liveable. ”

“No, no, not so bad as that. The farmyard must be moved, I grant you;
but I am not aware of anything else. The house is by no means bad, and
when the yard is removed, there may be a very tolerable approach to it. ”

“The farmyard must be cleared away entirely, and planted up to shut
out the blacksmith’s shop. The house must be turned to front the east
instead of the north--the entrance and principal rooms, I mean, must be
on that side, where the view is really very pretty; I am sure it may be
done. And _there_ must be your approach, through what is at present the
garden. You must make a new garden at what is now the back of the house;
which will be giving it the best aspect in the world, sloping to the
south-east. The ground seems precisely formed for it. I rode fifty yards
up the lane, between the church and the house, in order to look about
me; and saw how it might all be. Nothing can be easier. The meadows
beyond what _will_ _be_ the garden, as well as what now _is_, sweeping
round from the lane I stood in to the north-east, that is, to the
principal road through the village, must be all laid together, of
course; very pretty meadows they are, finely sprinkled with timber. They
belong to the living, I suppose; if not, you must purchase them. Then
the stream--something must be done with the stream; but I could not
quite determine what. I had two or three ideas. ”

“And I have two or three ideas also,” said Edmund, “and one of them is,
that very little of your plan for Thornton Lacey will ever be put in
practice. I must be satisfied with rather less ornament and beauty. I
think the house and premises may be made comfortable, and given the air
of a gentleman’s residence, without any very heavy expense, and that
must suffice me; and, I hope, may suffice all who care about me. ”

Miss Crawford, a little suspicious and resentful of a certain tone of
voice, and a certain half-look attending the last expression of his
hope, made a hasty finish of her dealings with William Price; and
securing his knave at an exorbitant rate, exclaimed, “There, I will
stake my last like a woman of spirit. No cold prudence for me. I am not
born to sit still and do nothing. If I lose the game, it shall not be
from not striving for it. ”

The game was hers, and only did not pay her for what she had given
to secure it. Another deal proceeded, and Crawford began again about
Thornton Lacey.

“My plan may not be the best possible: I had not many minutes to form
it in; but you must do a good deal. The place deserves it, and you
will find yourself not satisfied with much less than it is capable of.
(Excuse me, your ladyship must not see your cards. There, let them lie
just before you. ) The place deserves it, Bertram. You talk of giving it
the air of a gentleman’s residence. _That_ will be done by the removal
of the farmyard; for, independent of that terrible nuisance, I never saw
a house of the kind which had in itself so much the air of a
gentleman’s residence, so much the look of a something above a mere
parsonage-house--above the expenditure of a few hundreds a year. It is
not a scrambling collection of low single rooms, with as many roofs
as windows; it is not cramped into the vulgar compactness of a square
farmhouse: it is a solid, roomy, mansion-like looking house, such as
one might suppose a respectable old country family had lived in from
generation to generation, through two centuries at least, and were now
spending from two to three thousand a year in. ” Miss Crawford listened,
and Edmund agreed to this. “The air of a gentleman’s residence,
therefore, you cannot but give it, if you do anything. But it is capable
of much more. (Let me see, Mary; Lady Bertram bids a dozen for that
queen; no, no, a dozen is more than it is worth. Lady Bertram does not
bid a dozen. She will have nothing to say to it. Go on, go on. ) By some
such improvements as I have suggested (I do not really require you to
proceed upon my plan, though, by the bye, I doubt anybody’s striking out
a better) you may give it a higher character. You may raise it into
a _place_. From being the mere gentleman’s residence, it becomes, by
judicious improvement, the residence of a man of education, taste,
modern manners, good connexions. All this may be stamped on it; and that
house receive such an air as to make its owner be set down as the
great landholder of the parish by every creature travelling the road;
especially as there is no real squire’s house to dispute the point--a
circumstance, between ourselves, to enhance the value of such a
situation in point of privilege and independence beyond all calculation.
_You_ think with me, I hope” (turning with a softened voice to Fanny).
“Have you ever seen the place? ”

Fanny gave a quick negative, and tried to hide her interest in the
subject by an eager attention to her brother, who was driving as hard a
bargain, and imposing on her as much as he could; but Crawford pursued
with “No, no, you must not part with the queen. You have bought her too
dearly, and your brother does not offer half her value. No, no, sir,
hands off, hands off. Your sister does not part with the queen. She is
quite determined. The game will be yours,” turning to her again; “it
will certainly be yours. ”

“And Fanny had much rather it were William’s,” said Edmund, smiling at
her. “Poor Fanny! not allowed to cheat herself as she wishes! ”

“Mr. Bertram,” said Miss Crawford, a few minutes afterwards, “you know
Henry to be such a capital improver, that you cannot possibly engage in
anything of the sort at Thornton Lacey without accepting his help. Only
think how useful he was at Sotherton! Only think what grand things were
produced there by our all going with him one hot day in August to drive
about the grounds, and see his genius take fire. There we went, and
there we came home again; and what was done there is not to be told! ”

Fanny’s eyes were turned on Crawford for a moment with an expression
more than grave--even reproachful; but on catching his, were instantly
withdrawn. With something of consciousness he shook his head at his
sister, and laughingly replied, “I cannot say there was much done at
Sotherton; but it was a hot day, and we were all walking after each
other, and bewildered. ” As soon as a general buzz gave him shelter, he
added, in a low voice, directed solely at Fanny, “I should be sorry to
have my powers of _planning_ judged of by the day at Sotherton. I see
things very differently now. Do not think of me as I appeared then. ”

Sotherton was a word to catch Mrs. Norris, and being just then in the
happy leisure which followed securing the odd trick by Sir Thomas’s
capital play and her own against Dr. and Mrs. Grant’s great hands,
she called out, in high good-humour, “Sotherton! Yes, that is a place,
indeed, and we had a charming day there. William, you are quite out of
luck; but the next time you come, I hope dear Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth
will be at home, and I am sure I can answer for your being kindly
received by both. Your cousins are not of a sort to forget their
relations, and Mr. Rushworth is a most amiable man. They are at Brighton
now, you know; in one of the best houses there, as Mr. Rushworth’s fine
fortune gives them a right to be. I do not exactly know the distance,
but when you get back to Portsmouth, if it is not very far off, you
ought to go over and pay your respects to them; and I could send a
little parcel by you that I want to get conveyed to your cousins. ”

“I should be very happy, aunt; but Brighton is almost by Beachey Head;
and if I could get so far, I could not expect to be welcome in such a
smart place as that--poor scrubby midshipman as I am. ”

Mrs. Norris was beginning an eager assurance of the affability he might
depend on, when she was stopped by Sir Thomas’s saying with authority,
“I do not advise your going to Brighton, William, as I trust you may
soon have more convenient opportunities of meeting; but my daughters
would be happy to see their cousins anywhere; and you will find Mr.
Rushworth most sincerely disposed to regard all the connexions of our
family as his own. ”

“I would rather find him private secretary to the First Lord than
anything else,” was William’s only answer, in an undervoice, not meant
to reach far, and the subject dropped.

As yet Sir Thomas had seen nothing to remark in Mr. Crawford’s
behaviour; but when the whist-table broke up at the end of the second
rubber, and leaving Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris to dispute over their last
play, he became a looker-on at the other, he found his niece the
object of attentions, or rather of professions, of a somewhat pointed
character.

Henry Crawford was in the first glow of another scheme about Thornton
Lacey; and not being able to catch Edmund’s ear, was detailing it to his
fair neighbour with a look of considerable earnestness. His scheme was
to rent the house himself the following winter, that he might have a
home of his own in that neighbourhood; and it was not merely for the use
of it in the hunting-season (as he was then telling her), though _that_
consideration had certainly some weight, feeling as he did that, in
spite of all Dr. Grant’s very great kindness, it was impossible for him
and his horses to be accommodated where they now were without material
inconvenience; but his attachment to that neighbourhood did not depend
upon one amusement or one season of the year: he had set his heart upon
having a something there that he could come to at any time, a little
homestall at his command, where all the holidays of his year might be
spent, and he might find himself continuing, improving, and _perfecting_
that friendship and intimacy with the Mansfield Park family which was
increasing in value to him every day. Sir Thomas heard and was not
offended. There was no want of respect in the young man’s address;
and Fanny’s reception of it was so proper and modest, so calm and
uninviting, that he had nothing to censure in her. She said little,
assented only here and there, and betrayed no inclination either of
appropriating any part of the compliment to herself, or of strengthening
his views in favour of Northamptonshire. Finding by whom he was
observed, Henry Crawford addressed himself on the same subject to Sir
Thomas, in a more everyday tone, but still with feeling.

“I want to be your neighbour, Sir Thomas, as you have, perhaps, heard me
telling Miss Price. May I hope for your acquiescence, and for your not
influencing your son against such a tenant? ”

Sir Thomas, politely bowing, replied, “It is the only way, sir, in which
I could _not_ wish you established as a permanent neighbour; but I hope,
and believe, that Edmund will occupy his own house at Thornton Lacey.
Edmund, am I saying too much? ”

Edmund, on this appeal, had first to hear what was going on; but, on
understanding the question, was at no loss for an answer.

“Certainly, sir, I have no idea but of residence. But, Crawford, though
I refuse you as a tenant, come to me as a friend.
Consider the house as
half your own every winter, and we will add to the stables on your own
improved plan, and with all the improvements of your improved plan that
may occur to you this spring. ”

“We shall be the losers,” continued Sir Thomas. “His going, though only
eight miles, will be an unwelcome contraction of our family circle; but
I should have been deeply mortified if any son of mine could reconcile
himself to doing less. It is perfectly natural that you should not have
thought much on the subject, Mr. Crawford. But a parish has wants and
claims which can be known only by a clergyman constantly resident, and
which no proxy can be capable of satisfying to the same extent. Edmund
might, in the common phrase, do the duty of Thornton, that is, he might
read prayers and preach, without giving up Mansfield Park: he might ride
over every Sunday, to a house nominally inhabited, and go through divine
service; he might be the clergyman of Thornton Lacey every seventh day,
for three or four hours, if that would content him. But it will not.
He knows that human nature needs more lessons than a weekly sermon can
convey; and that if he does not live among his parishioners, and prove
himself, by constant attention, their well-wisher and friend, he does
very little either for their good or his own. ”

Mr. Crawford bowed his acquiescence.

“I repeat again,” added Sir Thomas, “that Thornton Lacey is the only
house in the neighbourhood in which I should _not_ be happy to wait on
Mr. Crawford as occupier. ”

Mr. Crawford bowed his thanks.

“Sir Thomas,” said Edmund, “undoubtedly understands the duty of a parish
priest. We must hope his son may prove that _he_ knows it too. ”

Whatever effect Sir Thomas’s little harangue might really produce on Mr.
Crawford, it raised some awkward sensations in two of the others, two
of his most attentive listeners--Miss Crawford and Fanny. One of
whom, having never before understood that Thornton was so soon and so
completely to be his home, was pondering with downcast eyes on what it
would be _not_ to see Edmund every day; and the other, startled from the
agreeable fancies she had been previously indulging on the strength of
her brother’s description, no longer able, in the picture she had
been forming of a future Thornton, to shut out the church, sink the
clergyman, and see only the respectable, elegant, modernised, and
occasional residence of a man of independent fortune, was considering
Sir Thomas, with decided ill-will, as the destroyer of all this, and
suffering the more from that involuntary forbearance which his character
and manner commanded, and from not daring to relieve herself by a single
attempt at throwing ridicule on his cause.

All the agreeable of _her_ speculation was over for that hour. It was
time to have done with cards, if sermons prevailed; and she was glad to
find it necessary to come to a conclusion, and be able to refresh her
spirits by a change of place and neighbour.

The chief of the party were now collected irregularly round the
fire, and waiting the final break-up. William and Fanny were the most
detached. They remained together at the otherwise deserted card-table,
talking very comfortably, and not thinking of the rest, till some of the
rest began to think of them. Henry Crawford’s chair was the first to be
given a direction towards them, and he sat silently observing them for a
few minutes; himself, in the meanwhile, observed by Sir Thomas, who was
standing in chat with Dr. Grant.

“This is the assembly night,” said William. “If I were at Portsmouth I
should be at it, perhaps. ”

“But you do not wish yourself at Portsmouth, William? ”

“No, Fanny, that I do not. I shall have enough of Portsmouth and of
dancing too, when I cannot have you. And I do not know that there would
be any good in going to the assembly, for I might not get a partner.
The Portsmouth girls turn up their noses at anybody who has not a
commission. One might as well be nothing as a midshipman. One _is_
nothing, indeed. You remember the Gregorys; they are grown up amazing
fine girls, but they will hardly speak to _me_, because Lucy is courted
by a lieutenant. ”

“Oh! shame, shame! But never mind it, William” (her own cheeks in a
glow of indignation as she spoke). “It is not worth minding. It is no
reflection on _you_; it is no more than what the greatest admirals have
all experienced, more or less, in their time. You must think of that,
you must try to make up your mind to it as one of the hardships which
fall to every sailor’s share, like bad weather and hard living, only
with this advantage, that there will be an end to it, that there will
come a time when you will have nothing of that sort to endure. When you
are a lieutenant! only think, William, when you are a lieutenant, how
little you will care for any nonsense of this kind. ”

“I begin to think I shall never be a lieutenant, Fanny. Everybody gets
made but me. ”

“Oh! my dear William, do not talk so; do not be so desponding. My uncle
says nothing, but I am sure he will do everything in his power to get
you made. He knows, as well as you do, of what consequence it is. ”

She was checked by the sight of her uncle much nearer to them than she
had any suspicion of, and each found it necessary to talk of something
else.

“Are you fond of dancing, Fanny? ”

“Yes, very; only I am soon tired. ”

“I should like to go to a ball with you and see you dance. Have you
never any balls at Northampton? I should like to see you dance, and I’d
dance with you if you _would_, for nobody would know who I was here,
and I should like to be your partner once more. We used to jump about
together many a time, did not we? when the hand-organ was in the street?
I am a pretty good dancer in my way, but I dare say you are a better. ”
And turning to his uncle, who was now close to them, “Is not Fanny a
very good dancer, sir? ”

Fanny, in dismay at such an unprecedented question, did not know which
way to look, or how to be prepared for the answer. Some very grave
reproof, or at least the coldest expression of indifference, must be
coming to distress her brother, and sink her to the ground. But, on the
contrary, it was no worse than, “I am sorry to say that I am unable
to answer your question. I have never seen Fanny dance since she was a
little girl; but I trust we shall both think she acquits herself like
a gentlewoman when we do see her, which, perhaps, we may have an
opportunity of doing ere long. ”

“I have had the pleasure of seeing your sister dance, Mr. Price,”
said Henry Crawford, leaning forward, “and will engage to answer every
inquiry which you can make on the subject, to your entire satisfaction.
But I believe” (seeing Fanny looked distressed) “it must be at some
other time. There is _one_ person in company who does not like to have
Miss Price spoken of. ”

True enough, he had once seen Fanny dance; and it was equally true
that he would now have answered for her gliding about with quiet, light
elegance, and in admirable time; but, in fact, he could not for the life
of him recall what her dancing had been, and rather took it for granted
that she had been present than remembered anything about her.

He passed, however, for an admirer of her dancing; and Sir Thomas, by no
means displeased, prolonged the conversation on dancing in general, and
was so well engaged in describing the balls of Antigua, and listening to
what his nephew could relate of the different modes of dancing which
had fallen within his observation, that he had not heard his carriage
announced, and was first called to the knowledge of it by the bustle of
Mrs. Norris.

“Come, Fanny, Fanny, what are you about? We are going. Do not you see
your aunt is going? Quick, quick! I cannot bear to keep good old Wilcox
waiting. You should always remember the coachman and horses. My dear Sir
Thomas, we have settled it that the carriage should come back for you,
and Edmund and William. ”

Sir Thomas could not dissent, as it had been his own arrangement,
previously communicated to his wife and sister; but _that_ seemed
forgotten by Mrs. Norris, who must fancy that she settled it all
herself.

Fanny’s last feeling in the visit was disappointment: for the shawl
which Edmund was quietly taking from the servant to bring and put round
her shoulders was seized by Mr. Crawford’s quicker hand, and she was
obliged to be indebted to his more prominent attention.



CHAPTER XXVI

William’s desire of seeing Fanny dance made more than a momentary
impression on his uncle. The hope of an opportunity, which Sir Thomas
had then given, was not given to be thought of no more. He remained
steadily inclined to gratify so amiable a feeling; to gratify anybody
else who might wish to see Fanny dance, and to give pleasure to the
young people in general; and having thought the matter over, and taken
his resolution in quiet independence, the result of it appeared the
next morning at breakfast, when, after recalling and commending what
his nephew had said, he added, “I do not like, William, that you
should leave Northamptonshire without this indulgence. It would give me
pleasure to see you both dance. You spoke of the balls at Northampton.
Your cousins have occasionally attended them; but they would not
altogether suit us now. The fatigue would be too much for your aunt. I
believe we must not think of a Northampton ball. A dance at home would
be more eligible; and if--”

“Ah, my dear Sir Thomas! ” interrupted Mrs. Norris, “I knew what was
coming. I knew what you were going to say. If dear Julia were at home,
or dearest Mrs. Rushworth at Sotherton, to afford a reason, an occasion
for such a thing, you would be tempted to give the young people a dance
at Mansfield. I know you would. If _they_ were at home to grace the
ball, a ball you would have this very Christmas. Thank your uncle,
William, thank your uncle! ”

“My daughters,” replied Sir Thomas, gravely interposing, “have their
pleasures at Brighton, and I hope are very happy; but the dance which I
think of giving at Mansfield will be for their cousins. Could we be all
assembled, our satisfaction would undoubtedly be more complete, but the
absence of some is not to debar the others of amusement. ”

Mrs. Norris had not another word to say. She saw decision in his looks,
and her surprise and vexation required some minutes’ silence to be
settled into composure. A ball at such a time! His daughters absent and
herself not consulted! There was comfort, however, soon at hand. _She_
must be the doer of everything: Lady Bertram would of course be spared
all thought and exertion, and it would all fall upon _her_. She should
have to do the honours of the evening; and this reflection quickly
restored so much of her good-humour as enabled her to join in with the
others, before their happiness and thanks were all expressed.

Edmund, William, and Fanny did, in their different ways, look and speak
as much grateful pleasure in the promised ball as Sir Thomas could
desire. Edmund’s feelings were for the other two. His father had never
conferred a favour or shewn a kindness more to his satisfaction.

Lady Bertram was perfectly quiescent and contented, and had no
objections to make. Sir Thomas engaged for its giving her very little
trouble; and she assured him “that she was not at all afraid of the
trouble; indeed, she could not imagine there would be any. ”

Mrs. Norris was ready with her suggestions as to the rooms he would
think fittest to be used, but found it all prearranged; and when she
would have conjectured and hinted about the day, it appeared that the
day was settled too. Sir Thomas had been amusing himself with shaping a
very complete outline of the business; and as soon as she would listen
quietly, could read his list of the families to be invited, from whom
he calculated, with all necessary allowance for the shortness of the
notice, to collect young people enough to form twelve or fourteen
couple: and could detail the considerations which had induced him to
fix on the 22nd as the most eligible day. William was required to be at
Portsmouth on the 24th; the 22nd would therefore be the last day of his
visit; but where the days were so few it would be unwise to fix on any
earlier. Mrs. Norris was obliged to be satisfied with thinking just the
same, and with having been on the point of proposing the 22nd herself,
as by far the best day for the purpose.

The ball was now a settled thing, and before the evening a proclaimed
thing to all whom it concerned. Invitations were sent with despatch,
and many a young lady went to bed that night with her head full of happy
cares as well as Fanny. To her the cares were sometimes almost beyond
the happiness; for young and inexperienced, with small means of choice
and no confidence in her own taste, the “how she should be dressed” was
a point of painful solicitude; and the almost solitary ornament in her
possession, a very pretty amber cross which William had brought her from
Sicily, was the greatest distress of all, for she had nothing but a bit
of ribbon to fasten it to; and though she had worn it in that manner
once, would it be allowable at such a time in the midst of all the rich
ornaments which she supposed all the other young ladies would appear in?
And yet not to wear it! William had wanted to buy her a gold chain too,
but the purchase had been beyond his means, and therefore not to wear
the cross might be mortifying him. These were anxious considerations;
enough to sober her spirits even under the prospect of a ball given
principally for her gratification.

The preparations meanwhile went on, and Lady Bertram continued to sit on
her sofa without any inconvenience from them. She had some extra visits
from the housekeeper, and her maid was rather hurried in making up a new
dress for her: Sir Thomas gave orders, and Mrs. Norris ran about; but
all this gave _her_ no trouble, and as she had foreseen, “there was, in
fact, no trouble in the business. ”

Edmund was at this time particularly full of cares: his mind being
deeply occupied in the consideration of two important events now
at hand, which were to fix his fate in life--ordination and
matrimony--events of such a serious character as to make the ball, which
would be very quickly followed by one of them, appear of less moment in
his eyes than in those of any other person in the house. On the 23rd
he was going to a friend near Peterborough, in the same situation
as himself, and they were to receive ordination in the course of the
Christmas week. Half his destiny would then be determined, but the
other half might not be so very smoothly wooed. His duties would be
established, but the wife who was to share, and animate, and reward
those duties, might yet be unattainable. He knew his own mind, but he
was not always perfectly assured of knowing Miss Crawford’s. There were
points on which they did not quite agree; there were moments in which
she did not seem propitious; and though trusting altogether to her
affection, so far as to be resolved--almost resolved--on bringing it to
a decision within a very short time, as soon as the variety of business
before him were arranged, and he knew what he had to offer her, he
had many anxious feelings, many doubting hours as to the result. His
conviction of her regard for him was sometimes very strong; he could
look back on a long course of encouragement, and she was as perfect in
disinterested attachment as in everything else. But at other times
doubt and alarm intermingled with his hopes; and when he thought of
her acknowledged disinclination for privacy and retirement, her decided
preference of a London life, what could he expect but a determined
rejection? unless it were an acceptance even more to be deprecated,
demanding such sacrifices of situation and employment on his side as
conscience must forbid.

The issue of all depended on one question. Did she love him well enough
to forego what had used to be essential points? Did she love him well
enough to make them no longer essential? And this question, which he was
continually repeating to himself, though oftenest answered with a “Yes,”
had sometimes its “No. ”

Miss Crawford was soon to leave Mansfield, and on this circumstance the
“no” and the “yes” had been very recently in alternation. He had seen
her eyes sparkle as she spoke of the dear friend’s letter, which claimed
a long visit from her in London, and of the kindness of Henry, in
engaging to remain where he was till January, that he might convey her
thither; he had heard her speak of the pleasure of such a journey with
an animation which had “no” in every tone. But this had occurred on the
first day of its being settled, within the first hour of the burst of
such enjoyment, when nothing but the friends she was to visit was before
her. He had since heard her express herself differently, with other
feelings, more chequered feelings: he had heard her tell Mrs. Grant that
she should leave her with regret; that she began to believe neither the
friends nor the pleasures she was going to were worth those she left
behind; and that though she felt she must go, and knew she should enjoy
herself when once away, she was already looking forward to being at
Mansfield again. Was there not a “yes” in all this?

With such matters to ponder over, and arrange, and re-arrange, Edmund
could not, on his own account, think very much of the evening which the
rest of the family were looking forward to with a more equal degree of
strong interest. Independent of his two cousins’ enjoyment in it, the
evening was to him of no higher value than any other appointed meeting
of the two families might be. In every meeting there was a hope of
receiving farther confirmation of Miss Crawford’s attachment; but the
whirl of a ballroom, perhaps, was not particularly favourable to the
excitement or expression of serious feelings. To engage her early for
the two first dances was all the command of individual happiness which
he felt in his power, and the only preparation for the ball which he
could enter into, in spite of all that was passing around him on the
subject, from morning till night.

Thursday was the day of the ball; and on Wednesday morning Fanny, still
unable to satisfy herself as to what she ought to wear, determined to
seek the counsel of the more enlightened, and apply to Mrs. Grant and
her sister, whose acknowledged taste would certainly bear her blameless;
and as Edmund and William were gone to Northampton, and she had reason
to think Mr. Crawford likewise out, she walked down to the Parsonage
without much fear of wanting an opportunity for private discussion;
and the privacy of such a discussion was a most important part of it to
Fanny, being more than half-ashamed of her own solicitude.

She met Miss Crawford within a few yards of the Parsonage, just setting
out to call on her, and as it seemed to her that her friend, though
obliged to insist on turning back, was unwilling to lose her walk, she
explained her business at once, and observed, that if she would be so
kind as to give her opinion, it might be all talked over as well without
doors as within. Miss Crawford appeared gratified by the application,
and after a moment’s thought, urged Fanny’s returning with her in a much
more cordial manner than before, and proposed their going up into her
room, where they might have a comfortable coze, without disturbing Dr.
and Mrs. Grant, who were together in the drawing-room. It was just the
plan to suit Fanny; and with a great deal of gratitude on her side for
such ready and kind attention, they proceeded indoors, and upstairs, and
were soon deep in the interesting subject. Miss Crawford, pleased with
the appeal, gave her all her best judgment and taste, made everything
easy by her suggestions, and tried to make everything agreeable by her
encouragement. The dress being settled in all its grander parts--“But
what shall you have by way of necklace? ” said Miss Crawford. “Shall not
you wear your brother’s cross? ” And as she spoke she was undoing a
small parcel, which Fanny had observed in her hand when they met. Fanny
acknowledged her wishes and doubts on this point: she did not know
how either to wear the cross, or to refrain from wearing it. She was
answered by having a small trinket-box placed before her, and being
requested to chuse from among several gold chains and necklaces. Such
had been the parcel with which Miss Crawford was provided, and such the
object of her intended visit: and in the kindest manner she now urged
Fanny’s taking one for the cross and to keep for her sake, saying
everything she could think of to obviate the scruples which were making
Fanny start back at first with a look of horror at the proposal.

“You see what a collection I have,” said she; “more by half than I ever
use or think of. I do not offer them as new. I offer nothing but an old
necklace. You must forgive the liberty, and oblige me. ”

Fanny still resisted, and from her heart. The gift was too valuable. But
Miss Crawford persevered, and argued the case with so much affectionate
earnestness through all the heads of William and the cross, and the
ball, and herself, as to be finally successful. Fanny found
herself obliged to yield, that she might not be accused of pride
or indifference, or some other littleness; and having with modest
reluctance given her consent, proceeded to make the selection. She
looked and looked, longing to know which might be least valuable; and
was determined in her choice at last, by fancying there was one necklace
more frequently placed before her eyes than the rest. It was of gold,
prettily worked; and though Fanny would have preferred a longer and a
plainer chain as more adapted for her purpose, she hoped, in fixing
on this, to be chusing what Miss Crawford least wished to keep. Miss
Crawford smiled her perfect approbation; and hastened to complete the
gift by putting the necklace round her, and making her see how well
it looked. Fanny had not a word to say against its becomingness, and,
excepting what remained of her scruples, was exceedingly pleased with
an acquisition so very apropos. She would rather, perhaps, have been
obliged to some other person. But this was an unworthy feeling. Miss
Crawford had anticipated her wants with a kindness which proved her a
real friend. “When I wear this necklace I shall always think of you,”
said she, “and feel how very kind you were. ”

“You must think of somebody else too, when you wear that necklace,”
replied Miss Crawford. “You must think of Henry, for it was his choice
in the first place. He gave it to me, and with the necklace I make over
to you all the duty of remembering the original giver. It is to be
a family remembrancer. The sister is not to be in your mind without
bringing the brother too. ”

Fanny, in great astonishment and confusion, would have returned the
present instantly. To take what had been the gift of another person,
of a brother too, impossible! it must not be! and with an eagerness
and embarrassment quite diverting to her companion, she laid down the
necklace again on its cotton, and seemed resolved either to take another
or none at all. Miss Crawford thought she had never seen a prettier
consciousness. “My dear child,” said she, laughing, “what are you afraid
of? Do you think Henry will claim the necklace as mine, and fancy you
did not come honestly by it? or are you imagining he would be too much
flattered by seeing round your lovely throat an ornament which his money
purchased three years ago, before he knew there was such a throat in the
world? or perhaps”--looking archly--“you suspect a confederacy between
us, and that what I am now doing is with his knowledge and at his
desire? ”

With the deepest blushes Fanny protested against such a thought.

“Well, then,” replied Miss Crawford more seriously, but without at all
believing her, “to convince me that you suspect no trick, and are as
unsuspicious of compliment as I have always found you, take the necklace
and say no more about it.