No More Learning

He knew not that he had a pre-engaged heart to attack.
Of _that_ he had no suspicion. He considered her rather as one who
had never thought on the subject enough to be in danger; who had been
guarded by youth, a youth of mind as lovely as of person; whose modesty
had prevented her from understanding his attentions, and who was still
overpowered by the suddenness of addresses so wholly unexpected, and the
novelty of a situation which her fancy had never taken into account.

Must it not follow of course, that, when he was understood, he should
succeed? He believed it fully. Love such as his, in a man like himself,
must with perseverance secure a return, and at no great distance; and
he had so much delight in the idea of obliging her to love him in a very
short time, that her not loving him now was scarcely regretted. A little
difficulty to be overcome was no evil to Henry Crawford. He rather
derived spirits from it. He had been apt to gain hearts too easily. His
situation was new and animating.

To Fanny, however, who had known too much opposition all her life to
find any charm in it, all this was unintelligible. She found that he did
mean to persevere; but how he could, after such language from her as she
felt herself obliged to use, was not to be understood. She told him that
she did not love him, could not love him, was sure she never should love
him; that such a change was quite impossible; that the subject was most
painful to her; that she must entreat him never to mention it again, to
allow her to leave him at once, and let it be considered as concluded
for ever. And when farther pressed, had added, that in her opinion their
dispositions were so totally dissimilar as to make mutual affection
incompatible; and that they were unfitted for each other by nature,
education, and habit. All this she had said, and with the earnestness
of sincerity; yet this was not enough, for he immediately denied there
being anything uncongenial in their characters, or anything unfriendly
in their situations; and positively declared, that he would still love,
and still hope!

Fanny knew her own meaning, but was no judge of her own manner. Her
manner was incurably gentle; and she was not aware how much it concealed
the sternness of her purpose. Her diffidence, gratitude, and softness
made every expression of indifference seem almost an effort of
self-denial; seem, at least, to be giving nearly as much pain to herself
as to him. Mr. Crawford was no longer the Mr. Crawford who, as the
clandestine, insidious, treacherous admirer of Maria Bertram, had been
her abhorrence, whom she had hated to see or to speak to, in whom she
could believe no good quality to exist, and whose power, even of being
agreeable, she had barely acknowledged. He was now the Mr. Crawford who
was addressing herself with ardent, disinterested love; whose feelings
were apparently become all that was honourable and upright, whose views
of happiness were all fixed on a marriage of attachment; who was
pouring out his sense of her merits, describing and describing again his
affection, proving as far as words could prove it, and in the language,
tone, and spirit of a man of talent too, that he sought her for her
gentleness and her goodness; and to complete the whole, he was now the
Mr. Crawford who had procured William’s promotion!

Here was a change, and here were claims which could not but operate!
She might have disdained him in all the dignity of angry virtue, in
the grounds of Sotherton, or the theatre at Mansfield Park; but he
approached her now with rights that demanded different treatment.
She must be courteous, and she must be compassionate. She must have
a sensation of being honoured, and whether thinking of herself or her
brother, she must have a strong feeling of gratitude. The effect of the
whole was a manner so pitying and agitated, and words intermingled with
her refusal so expressive of obligation and concern, that to a temper of
vanity and hope like Crawford’s, the truth, or at least the strength
of her indifference, might well be questionable; and he was not so
irrational as Fanny considered him, in the professions of persevering,
assiduous, and not desponding attachment which closed the interview.

It was with reluctance that he suffered her to go; but there was no look
of despair in parting to belie his words, or give her hopes of his being
less unreasonable than he professed himself.

Now she was angry. Some resentment did arise at a perseverance so
selfish and ungenerous. Here was again a want of delicacy and regard for
others which had formerly so struck and disgusted her. Here was again
a something of the same Mr. Crawford whom she had so reprobated before.
How evidently was there a gross want of feeling and humanity where his
own pleasure was concerned; and alas! how always known no principle to
supply as a duty what the heart was deficient in! Had her own affections
been as free as perhaps they ought to have been, he never could have
engaged them.

So thought Fanny, in good truth and sober sadness, as she sat musing
over that too great indulgence and luxury of a fire upstairs: wondering
at the past and present; wondering at what was yet to come, and in a
nervous agitation which made nothing clear to her but the persuasion of
her being never under any circumstances able to love Mr. Crawford, and
the felicity of having a fire to sit over and think of it.

Sir Thomas was obliged, or obliged himself, to wait till the morrow for
a knowledge of what had passed between the young people. He then saw
Mr. Crawford, and received his account. The first feeling was
disappointment: he had hoped better things; he had thought that an
hour’s entreaty from a young man like Crawford could not have worked so
little change on a gentle-tempered girl like Fanny; but there was speedy
comfort in the determined views and sanguine perseverance of the lover;
and when seeing such confidence of success in the principal, Sir Thomas
was soon able to depend on it himself.

Nothing was omitted, on his side, of civility, compliment, or kindness,
that might assist the plan. Mr. Crawford’s steadiness was honoured, and
Fanny was praised, and the connexion was still the most desirable in the
world. At Mansfield Park Mr. Crawford would always be welcome; he had
only to consult his own judgment and feelings as to the frequency of his
visits, at present or in future. In all his niece’s family and friends,
there could be but one opinion, one wish on the subject; the influence
of all who loved her must incline one way.

Everything was said that could encourage, every encouragement received
with grateful joy, and the gentlemen parted the best of friends.

Satisfied that the cause was now on a footing the most proper and
hopeful, Sir Thomas resolved to abstain from all farther importunity
with his niece, and to shew no open interference. Upon her disposition
he believed kindness might be the best way of working. Entreaty should
be from one quarter only. The forbearance of her family on a point,
respecting which she could be in no doubt of their wishes, might be
their surest means of forwarding it. Accordingly, on this principle, Sir
Thomas took the first opportunity of saying to her, with a mild gravity,
intended to be overcoming, “Well, Fanny, I have seen Mr. Crawford again,
and learn from him exactly how matters stand between you. He is a most
extraordinary young man, and whatever be the event, you must feel that
you have created an attachment of no common character; though, young
as you are, and little acquainted with the transient, varying, unsteady
nature of love, as it generally exists, you cannot be struck as I
am with all that is wonderful in a perseverance of this sort against
discouragement. With him it is entirely a matter of feeling: he claims
no merit in it; perhaps is entitled to none. Yet, having chosen so
well, his constancy has a respectable stamp. Had his choice been less
unexceptionable, I should have condemned his persevering. ”

“Indeed, sir,” said Fanny, “I am very sorry that Mr. Crawford should
continue to know that it is paying me a very great compliment, and I
feel most undeservedly honoured; but I am so perfectly convinced, and I
have told him so, that it never will be in my power--”

“My dear,” interrupted Sir Thomas, “there is no occasion for this. Your
feelings are as well known to me as my wishes and regrets must be
to you. There is nothing more to be said or done. From this hour the
subject is never to be revived between us. You will have nothing to
fear, or to be agitated about. You cannot suppose me capable of trying
to persuade you to marry against your inclinations. Your happiness and
advantage are all that I have in view, and nothing is required of you
but to bear with Mr. Crawford’s endeavours to convince you that they may
not be incompatible with his. He proceeds at his own risk. You are on
safe ground. I have engaged for your seeing him whenever he calls, as
you might have done had nothing of this sort occurred. You will see
him with the rest of us, in the same manner, and, as much as you
can, dismissing the recollection of everything unpleasant. He leaves
Northamptonshire so soon, that even this slight sacrifice cannot be
often demanded. The future must be very uncertain. And now, my dear
Fanny, this subject is closed between us. ”

The promised departure was all that Fanny could think of with much
satisfaction. Her uncle’s kind expressions, however, and forbearing
manner, were sensibly felt; and when she considered how much of the
truth was unknown to him, she believed she had no right to wonder at
the line of conduct he pursued. He, who had married a daughter to Mr.
Rushworth: romantic delicacy was certainly not to be expected from him.
She must do her duty, and trust that time might make her duty easier
than it now was.

She could not, though only eighteen, suppose Mr. Crawford’s attachment
would hold out for ever; she could not but imagine that steady,
unceasing discouragement from herself would put an end to it in time.
How much time she might, in her own fancy, allot for its dominion, is
another concern. It would not be fair to inquire into a young lady’s
exact estimate of her own perfections.

In spite of his intended silence, Sir Thomas found himself once more
obliged to mention the subject to his niece, to prepare her briefly for
its being imparted to her aunts; a measure which he would still have
avoided, if possible, but which became necessary from the totally
opposite feelings of Mr. Crawford as to any secrecy of proceeding. He
had no idea of concealment. It was all known at the Parsonage, where
he loved to talk over the future with both his sisters, and it would be
rather gratifying to him to have enlightened witnesses of the progress
of his success. When Sir Thomas understood this, he felt the necessity
of making his own wife and sister-in-law acquainted with the business
without delay; though, on Fanny’s account, he almost dreaded the
effect of the communication to Mrs. Norris as much as Fanny herself. He
deprecated her mistaken but well-meaning zeal. Sir Thomas, indeed, was,
by this time, not very far from classing Mrs. Norris as one of those
well-meaning people who are always doing mistaken and very disagreeable
things.

Mrs. Norris, however, relieved him. He pressed for the strictest
forbearance and silence towards their niece; she not only promised, but
did observe it. She only looked her increased ill-will. Angry she was:
bitterly angry; but she was more angry with Fanny for having received
such an offer than for refusing it. It was an injury and affront to
Julia, who ought to have been Mr. Crawford’s choice; and, independently
of that, she disliked Fanny, because she had neglected her; and she
would have grudged such an elevation to one whom she had been always
trying to depress.

Sir Thomas gave her more credit for discretion on the occasion than she
deserved; and Fanny could have blessed her for allowing her only to see
her displeasure, and not to hear it.

Lady Bertram took it differently. She had been a beauty, and a
prosperous beauty, all her life; and beauty and wealth were all that
excited her respect. To know Fanny to be sought in marriage by a man of
fortune, raised her, therefore, very much in her opinion. By convincing
her that Fanny _was_ very pretty, which she had been doubting about
before, and that she would be advantageously married, it made her feel a
sort of credit in calling her niece.

“Well, Fanny,” said she, as soon as they were alone together afterwards,
and she really had known something like impatience to be alone with her,
and her countenance, as she spoke, had extraordinary animation; “Well,
Fanny, I have had a very agreeable surprise this morning. I must just
speak of it _once_, I told Sir Thomas I must _once_, and then I
shall have done. I give you joy, my dear niece. ” And looking at her
complacently, she added, “Humph, we certainly are a handsome family! ”

Fanny coloured, and doubted at first what to say; when, hoping to assail
her on her vulnerable side, she presently answered--

“My dear aunt, _you_ cannot wish me to do differently from what I have
done, I am sure. _You_ cannot wish me to marry; for you would miss me,
should not you? Yes, I am sure you would miss me too much for that. ”

“No, my dear, I should not think of missing you, when such an offer as
this comes in your way. I could do very well without you, if you were
married to a man of such good estate as Mr. Crawford. And you must be
aware, Fanny, that it is every young woman’s duty to accept such a very
unexceptionable offer as this. ”

This was almost the only rule of conduct, the only piece of advice,
which Fanny had ever received from her aunt in the course of eight years
and a half. It silenced her. She felt how unprofitable contention would
be. If her aunt’s feelings were against her, nothing could be hoped from
attacking her understanding. Lady Bertram was quite talkative.

“I will tell you what, Fanny,” said she, “I am sure he fell in love with
you at the ball; I am sure the mischief was done that evening. You did
look remarkably well. Everybody said so. Sir Thomas said so. And you
know you had Chapman to help you to dress. I am very glad I sent
Chapman to you. I shall tell Sir Thomas that I am sure it was done
that evening. ” And still pursuing the same cheerful thoughts, she soon
afterwards added, “And will tell you what, Fanny, which is more than I
did for Maria: the next time Pug has a litter you shall have a puppy. ”



CHAPTER XXXIV

Edmund had great things to hear on his return. Many surprises were
awaiting him. The first that occurred was not least in interest: the
appearance of Henry Crawford and his sister walking together through the
village as he rode into it. He had concluded--he had meant them to be
far distant. His absence had been extended beyond a fortnight purposely
to avoid Miss Crawford. He was returning to Mansfield with spirits ready
to feed on melancholy remembrances, and tender associations, when her
own fair self was before him, leaning on her brother’s arm, and he found
himself receiving a welcome, unquestionably friendly, from the woman
whom, two moments before, he had been thinking of as seventy miles off,
and as farther, much farther, from him in inclination than any distance
could express.

Her reception of him was of a sort which he could not have hoped
for, had he expected to see her. Coming as he did from such a purport
fulfilled as had taken him away, he would have expected anything rather
than a look of satisfaction, and words of simple, pleasant meaning.
It was enough to set his heart in a glow, and to bring him home in the
properest state for feeling the full value of the other joyful surprises
at hand.

William’s promotion, with all its particulars, he was soon master of;
and with such a secret provision of comfort within his own breast to
help the joy, he found in it a source of most gratifying sensation and
unvarying cheerfulness all dinner-time.

After dinner, when he and his father were alone, he had Fanny’s history;
and then all the great events of the last fortnight, and the present
situation of matters at Mansfield were known to him.

Fanny suspected what was going on. They sat so much longer than usual in
the dining-parlour, that she was sure they must be talking of her; and
when tea at last brought them away, and she was to be seen by Edmund
again, she felt dreadfully guilty. He came to her, sat down by her, took
her hand, and pressed it kindly; and at that moment she thought that,
but for the occupation and the scene which the tea-things afforded, she
must have betrayed her emotion in some unpardonable excess.

He was not intending, however, by such action, to be conveying to her
that unqualified approbation and encouragement which her hopes drew
from it. It was designed only to express his participation in all that
interested her, and to tell her that he had been hearing what quickened
every feeling of affection. He was, in fact, entirely on his father’s
side of the question. His surprise was not so great as his father’s at
her refusing Crawford, because, so far from supposing her to consider
him with anything like a preference, he had always believed it to
be rather the reverse, and could imagine her to be taken perfectly
unprepared, but Sir Thomas could not regard the connexion as more
desirable than he did. It had every recommendation to him; and while
honouring her for what she had done under the influence of her present
indifference, honouring her in rather stronger terms than Sir Thomas
could quite echo, he was most earnest in hoping, and sanguine in
believing, that it would be a match at last, and that, united by mutual
affection, it would appear that their dispositions were as exactly
fitted to make them blessed in each other, as he was now beginning
seriously to consider them. Crawford had been too precipitate. He had
not given her time to attach herself. He had begun at the wrong end.
With such powers as his, however, and such a disposition as hers, Edmund
trusted that everything would work out a happy conclusion. Meanwhile,
he saw enough of Fanny’s embarrassment to make him scrupulously guard
against exciting it a second time, by any word, or look, or movement.

Crawford called the next day, and on the score of Edmund’s return, Sir
Thomas felt himself more than licensed to ask him to stay dinner; it was
really a necessary compliment. He staid of course, and Edmund had then
ample opportunity for observing how he sped with Fanny, and what degree
of immediate encouragement for him might be extracted from her manners;
and it was so little, so very, very little--every chance, every
possibility of it, resting upon her embarrassment only; if there was
not hope in her confusion, there was hope in nothing else--that he was
almost ready to wonder at his friend’s perseverance. Fanny was worth it
all; he held her to be worth every effort of patience, every exertion of
mind, but he did not think he could have gone on himself with any woman
breathing, without something more to warm his courage than his eyes
could discern in hers. He was very willing to hope that Crawford saw
clearer, and this was the most comfortable conclusion for his friend
that he could come to from all that he observed to pass before, and at,
and after dinner.

In the evening a few circumstances occurred which he thought more
promising. When he and Crawford walked into the drawing-room, his mother
and Fanny were sitting as intently and silently at work as if there
were nothing else to care for. Edmund could not help noticing their
apparently deep tranquillity.

“We have not been so silent all the time,” replied his mother. “Fanny
has been reading to me, and only put the book down upon hearing you
coming. ” And sure enough there was a book on the table which had the air
of being very recently closed: a volume of Shakespeare. “She often
reads to me out of those books; and she was in the middle of a very
fine speech of that man’s--what’s his name, Fanny? --when we heard your
footsteps. ”

Crawford took the volume. “Let me have the pleasure of finishing that
speech to your ladyship,” said he. “I shall find it immediately. ” And by
carefully giving way to the inclination of the leaves, he did find it,
or within a page or two, quite near enough to satisfy Lady Bertram, who
assured him, as soon as he mentioned the name of Cardinal Wolsey, that
he had got the very speech. Not a look or an offer of help had Fanny
given; not a syllable for or against. All her attention was for her
work. She seemed determined to be interested by nothing else. But taste
was too strong in her. She could not abstract her mind five minutes: she
was forced to listen; his reading was capital, and her pleasure in good
reading extreme. To _good_ reading, however, she had been long used:
her uncle read well, her cousins all, Edmund very well, but in Mr.
Crawford’s reading there was a variety of excellence beyond what she had
ever met with. The King, the Queen, Buckingham, Wolsey, Cromwell, all
were given in turn; for with the happiest knack, the happiest power of
jumping and guessing, he could always alight at will on the best scene,
or the best speeches of each; and whether it were dignity, or pride, or
tenderness, or remorse, or whatever were to be expressed, he could do
it with equal beauty. It was truly dramatic. His acting had first taught
Fanny what pleasure a play might give, and his reading brought all his
acting before her again; nay, perhaps with greater enjoyment, for it
came unexpectedly, and with no such drawback as she had been used to
suffer in seeing him on the stage with Miss Bertram.

Edmund watched the progress of her attention, and was amused and
gratified by seeing how she gradually slackened in the needlework, which
at the beginning seemed to occupy her totally: how it fell from her hand
while she sat motionless over it, and at last, how the eyes which had
appeared so studiously to avoid him throughout the day were turned and
fixed on Crawford--fixed on him for minutes, fixed on him, in short,
till the attraction drew Crawford’s upon her, and the book was closed,
and the charm was broken. Then she was shrinking again into herself,
and blushing and working as hard as ever; but it had been enough to give
Edmund encouragement for his friend, and as he cordially thanked him, he
hoped to be expressing Fanny’s secret feelings too.

“That play must be a favourite with you,” said he; “you read as if you
knew it well. ”

“It will be a favourite, I believe, from this hour,” replied Crawford;
“but I do not think I have had a volume of Shakespeare in my hand before
since I was fifteen. I once saw Henry the Eighth acted, or I have heard
of it from somebody who did, I am not certain which. But Shakespeare
one gets acquainted with without knowing how. It is a part of an
Englishman’s constitution. His thoughts and beauties are so spread
abroad that one touches them everywhere; one is intimate with him by
instinct. No man of any brain can open at a good part of one of his
plays without falling into the flow of his meaning immediately. ”

“No doubt one is familiar with Shakespeare in a degree,” said Edmund,
“from one’s earliest years. His celebrated passages are quoted
by everybody; they are in half the books we open, and we all talk
Shakespeare, use his similes, and describe with his descriptions; but
this is totally distinct from giving his sense as you gave it. To know
him in bits and scraps is common enough; to know him pretty thoroughly
is, perhaps, not uncommon; but to read him well aloud is no everyday
talent. ”

“Sir, you do me honour,” was Crawford’s answer, with a bow of mock
gravity.

Both gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see if a word of accordant
praise could be extorted from her; yet both feeling that it could not
be. Her praise had been given in her attention; _that_ must content
them.

Lady Bertram’s admiration was expressed, and strongly too. “It was
really like being at a play,” said she. “I wish Sir Thomas had been
here. ”

Crawford was excessively pleased.
If Lady Bertram, with all her
incompetency and languor, could feel this, the inference of what her
niece, alive and enlightened as she was, must feel, was elevating.

“You have a great turn for acting, I am sure, Mr. Crawford,” said her
ladyship soon afterwards; “and I will tell you what, I think you will
have a theatre, some time or other, at your house in Norfolk. I mean
when you are settled there. I do indeed. I think you will fit up a
theatre at your house in Norfolk. ”

“Do you, ma’am? ” cried he, with quickness. “No, no, that will never be.
Your ladyship is quite mistaken. No theatre at Everingham! Oh no! ” And
he looked at Fanny with an expressive smile, which evidently meant,
“That lady will never allow a theatre at Everingham. ”

Edmund saw it all, and saw Fanny so determined _not_ to see it, as to
make it clear that the voice was enough to convey the full meaning of
the protestation; and such a quick consciousness of compliment, such a
ready comprehension of a hint, he thought, was rather favourable than
not.

The subject of reading aloud was farther discussed. The two young men
were the only talkers, but they, standing by the fire, talked over the
too common neglect of the qualification, the total inattention to it,
in the ordinary school-system for boys, the consequently natural, yet in
some instances almost unnatural, degree of ignorance and uncouthness
of men, of sensible and well-informed men, when suddenly called to the
necessity of reading aloud, which had fallen within their notice, giving
instances of blunders, and failures with their secondary causes, the
want of management of the voice, of proper modulation and emphasis, of
foresight and judgment, all proceeding from the first cause: want of
early attention and habit; and Fanny was listening again with great
entertainment.

“Even in my profession,” said Edmund, with a smile, “how little the
art of reading has been studied! how little a clear manner, and good
delivery, have been attended to! I speak rather of the past, however,
than the present. There is now a spirit of improvement abroad; but among
those who were ordained twenty, thirty, forty years ago, the larger
number, to judge by their performance, must have thought reading was
reading, and preaching was preaching. It is different now. The subject
is more justly considered. It is felt that distinctness and energy may
have weight in recommending the most solid truths; and besides, there is
more general observation and taste, a more critical knowledge diffused
than formerly; in every congregation there is a larger proportion who
know a little of the matter, and who can judge and criticise. ”

Edmund had already gone through the service once since his ordination;
and upon this being understood, he had a variety of questions from
Crawford as to his feelings and success; questions, which being made,
though with the vivacity of friendly interest and quick taste, without
any touch of that spirit of banter or air of levity which Edmund knew to
be most offensive to Fanny, he had true pleasure in satisfying; and
when Crawford proceeded to ask his opinion and give his own as to the
properest manner in which particular passages in the service should be
delivered, shewing it to be a subject on which he had thought before,
and thought with judgment, Edmund was still more and more pleased. This
would be the way to Fanny’s heart. She was not to be won by all that
gallantry and wit and good-nature together could do; or, at least,
she would not be won by them nearly so soon, without the assistance of
sentiment and feeling, and seriousness on serious subjects.

“Our liturgy,” observed Crawford, “has beauties, which not even a
careless, slovenly style of reading can destroy; but it has also
redundancies and repetitions which require good reading not to be felt.
For myself, at least, I must confess being not always so attentive as I
ought to be” (here was a glance at Fanny); “that nineteen times out of
twenty I am thinking how such a prayer ought to be read, and longing to
have it to read myself. Did you speak? ” stepping eagerly to Fanny, and
addressing her in a softened voice; and upon her saying “No,” he added,
“Are you sure you did not speak? I saw your lips move. I fancied you
might be going to tell me I ought to be more attentive, and not _allow_
my thoughts to wander. Are not you going to tell me so? ”

“No, indeed, you know your duty too well for me to--even supposing--”

She stopt, felt herself getting into a puzzle, and could not be
prevailed on to add another word, not by dint of several minutes of
supplication and waiting. He then returned to his former station, and
went on as if there had been no such tender interruption.

“A sermon, well delivered, is more uncommon even than prayers well read.
A sermon, good in itself, is no rare thing. It is more difficult
to speak well than to compose well; that is, the rules and trick of
composition are oftener an object of study. A thoroughly good sermon,
thoroughly well delivered, is a capital gratification. I can never hear
such a one without the greatest admiration and respect, and more than
half a mind to take orders and preach myself. There is something in the
eloquence of the pulpit, when it is really eloquence, which is entitled
to the highest praise and honour. The preacher who can touch and affect
such an heterogeneous mass of hearers, on subjects limited, and long
worn threadbare in all common hands; who can say anything new or
striking, anything that rouses the attention without offending the
taste, or wearing out the feelings of his hearers, is a man whom one
could not, in his public capacity, honour enough. I should like to be
such a man. ”

Edmund laughed.

“I should indeed. I never listened to a distinguished preacher in my
life without a sort of envy. But then, I must have a London audience.
I could not preach but to the educated; to those who were capable of
estimating my composition. And I do not know that I should be fond of
preaching often; now and then, perhaps once or twice in the spring,
after being anxiously expected for half a dozen Sundays together; but
not for a constancy; it would not do for a constancy. ”

Here Fanny, who could not but listen, involuntarily shook her head,
and Crawford was instantly by her side again, entreating to know her
meaning; and as Edmund perceived, by his drawing in a chair, and sitting
down close by her, that it was to be a very thorough attack, that looks
and undertones were to be well tried, he sank as quietly as possible
into a corner, turned his back, and took up a newspaper, very sincerely
wishing that dear little Fanny might be persuaded into explaining away
that shake of the head to the satisfaction of her ardent lover; and as
earnestly trying to bury every sound of the business from himself in
murmurs of his own, over the various advertisements of “A most desirable
Estate in South Wales”; “To Parents and Guardians”; and a “Capital
season’d Hunter. ”

Fanny, meanwhile, vexed with herself for not having been as motionless
as she was speechless, and grieved to the heart to see Edmund’s
arrangements, was trying by everything in the power of her modest,
gentle nature, to repulse Mr. Crawford, and avoid both his looks and
inquiries; and he, unrepulsable, was persisting in both.

“What did that shake of the head mean? ” said he. “What was it meant to
express? Disapprobation, I fear. But of what? What had I been saying
to displease you? Did you think me speaking improperly, lightly,
irreverently on the subject? Only tell me if I was. Only tell me if
I was wrong. I want to be set right. Nay, nay, I entreat you; for one
moment put down your work. What did that shake of the head mean? ”

In vain was her “Pray, sir, don’t; pray, Mr. Crawford,” repeated twice
over; and in vain did she try to move away. In the same low, eager
voice, and the same close neighbourhood, he went on, reurging the same
questions as before. She grew more agitated and displeased.

“How can you, sir? You quite astonish me; I wonder how you can--”

“Do I astonish you? ” said he. “Do you wonder? Is there anything in
my present entreaty that you do not understand? I will explain to you
instantly all that makes me urge you in this manner, all that gives me
an interest in what you look and do, and excites my present curiosity. I
will not leave you to wonder long. ”

In spite of herself, she could not help half a smile, but she said
nothing.

“You shook your head at my acknowledging that I should not like to
engage in the duties of a clergyman always for a constancy. Yes, that
was the word. Constancy: I am not afraid of the word. I would spell it,
read it, write it with anybody. I see nothing alarming in the word. Did
you think I ought? ”

“Perhaps, sir,” said Fanny, wearied at last into speaking--“perhaps,
sir, I thought it was a pity you did not always know yourself as well as
you seemed to do at that moment. ”

Crawford, delighted to get her to speak at any rate, was determined
to keep it up; and poor Fanny, who had hoped to silence him by such an
extremity of reproof, found herself sadly mistaken, and that it was only
a change from one object of curiosity and one set of words to another.
He had always something to entreat the explanation of. The opportunity
was too fair. None such had occurred since his seeing her in her uncle’s
room, none such might occur again before his leaving Mansfield. Lady
Bertram’s being just on the other side of the table was a trifle,
for she might always be considered as only half-awake, and Edmund’s
advertisements were still of the first utility.

“Well,” said Crawford, after a course of rapid questions and reluctant
answers; “I am happier than I was, because I now understand more clearly
your opinion of me. You think me unsteady: easily swayed by the whim of
the moment, easily tempted, easily put aside. With such an opinion, no
wonder that. But we shall see. It is not by protestations that I shall
endeavour to convince you I am wronged; it is not by telling you that my
affections are steady. My conduct shall speak for me; absence, distance,
time shall speak for me. _They_ shall prove that, as far as you can be
deserved by anybody, I do deserve you. You are infinitely my superior
in merit; all _that_ I know. You have qualities which I had not before
supposed to exist in such a degree in any human creature. You have some
touches of the angel in you beyond what--not merely beyond what one
sees, because one never sees anything like it--but beyond what one
fancies might be. But still I am not frightened. It is not by equality
of merit that you can be won. That is out of the question. It is he
who sees and worships your merit the strongest, who loves you most
devotedly, that has the best right to a return. There I build my
confidence. By that right I do and will deserve you; and when once
convinced that my attachment is what I declare it, I know you too well
not to entertain the warmest hopes. Yes, dearest, sweetest Fanny. Nay”
(seeing her draw back displeased), “forgive me. Perhaps I have as yet
no right; but by what other name can I call you? Do you suppose you are
ever present to my imagination under any other? No, it is ‘Fanny’ that
I think of all day, and dream of all night. You have given the name such
reality of sweetness, that nothing else can now be descriptive of you. ”

Fanny could hardly have kept her seat any longer, or have refrained from
at least trying to get away in spite of all the too public opposition
she foresaw to it, had it not been for the sound of approaching relief,
the very sound which she had been long watching for, and long thinking
strangely delayed.

The solemn procession, headed by Baddeley, of tea-board, urn, and
cake-bearers, made its appearance, and delivered her from a grievous
imprisonment of body and mind. Mr. Crawford was obliged to move. She was
at liberty, she was busy, she was protected.

Edmund was not sorry to be admitted again among the number of those who
might speak and hear. But though the conference had seemed full long to
him, and though on looking at Fanny he saw rather a flush of vexation,
he inclined to hope that so much could not have been said and listened
to without some profit to the speaker.



CHAPTER XXXV

Edmund had determined that it belonged entirely to Fanny to chuse
whether her situation with regard to Crawford should be mentioned
between them or not; and that if she did not lead the way, it should
never be touched on by him; but after a day or two of mutual reserve, he
was induced by his father to change his mind, and try what his influence
might do for his friend.

A day, and a very early day, was actually fixed for the Crawfords’
departure; and Sir Thomas thought it might be as well to make one
more effort for the young man before he left Mansfield, that all his
professions and vows of unshaken attachment might have as much hope to
sustain them as possible.

Sir Thomas was most cordially anxious for the perfection of Mr.
Crawford’s character in that point. He wished him to be a model of
constancy; and fancied the best means of effecting it would be by not
trying him too long.

Edmund was not unwilling to be persuaded to engage in the business; he
wanted to know Fanny’s feelings. She had been used to consult him in
every difficulty, and he loved her too well to bear to be denied her
confidence now; he hoped to be of service to her, he thought he must be
of service to her; whom else had she to open her heart to? If she did
not need counsel, she must need the comfort of communication. Fanny
estranged from him, silent and reserved, was an unnatural state of
things; a state which he must break through, and which he could easily
learn to think she was wanting him to break through.

“I will speak to her, sir: I will take the first opportunity of speaking
to her alone,” was the result of such thoughts as these; and upon Sir
Thomas’s information of her being at that very time walking alone in the
shrubbery, he instantly joined her.

“I am come to walk with you, Fanny,” said he. “Shall I? ” Drawing her
arm within his. “It is a long while since we have had a comfortable walk
together. ”

She assented to it all rather by look than word. Her spirits were low.

“But, Fanny,” he presently added, “in order to have a comfortable walk,
something more is necessary than merely pacing this gravel together. You
must talk to me. I know you have something on your mind. I know what you
are thinking of. You cannot suppose me uninformed. Am I to hear of it
from everybody but Fanny herself? ”

Fanny, at once agitated and dejected, replied, “If you hear of it from
everybody, cousin, there can be nothing for me to tell. ”

“Not of facts, perhaps; but of feelings, Fanny. No one but you can tell
me them. I do not mean to press you, however. If it is not what you wish
yourself, I have done. I had thought it might be a relief. ”

“I am afraid we think too differently for me to find any relief in
talking of what I feel. ”

“Do you suppose that we think differently? I have no idea of it. I dare
say that, on a comparison of our opinions, they would be found as much
alike as they have been used to be: to the point--I consider Crawford’s
proposals as most advantageous and desirable, if you could return his
affection. I consider it as most natural that all your family should
wish you could return it; but that, as you cannot, you have done exactly
as you ought in refusing him. Can there be any disagreement between us
here? ”

“Oh no! But I thought you blamed me. I thought you were against me. This
is such a comfort! ”

“This comfort you might have had sooner, Fanny, had you sought it. But
how could you possibly suppose me against you? How could you imagine me
an advocate for marriage without love? Were I even careless in general
on such matters, how could you imagine me so where your happiness was at
stake? ”

“My uncle thought me wrong, and I knew he had been talking to you. ”

“As far as you have gone, Fanny, I think you perfectly right. I may be
sorry, I may be surprised--though hardly _that_, for you had not had
time to attach yourself--but I think you perfectly right. Can it admit
of a question? It is disgraceful to us if it does. You did not love him;
nothing could have justified your accepting him. ”

Fanny had not felt so comfortable for days and days.

“So far your conduct has been faultless, and they were quite mistaken
who wished you to do otherwise. But the matter does not end here.
Crawford’s is no common attachment; he perseveres, with the hope of
creating that regard which had not been created before. This, we know,
must be a work of time. But” (with an affectionate smile) “let him
succeed at last, Fanny, let him succeed at last. You have proved
yourself upright and disinterested, prove yourself grateful and
tender-hearted; and then you will be the perfect model of a woman which
I have always believed you born for. ”

“Oh! never, never, never! he never will succeed with me. ” And she spoke
with a warmth which quite astonished Edmund, and which she blushed at
the recollection of herself, when she saw his look, and heard him
reply, “Never! Fanny! --so very determined and positive! This is not like
yourself, your rational self. ”

“I mean,” she cried, sorrowfully correcting herself, “that I _think_ I
never shall, as far as the future can be answered for; I think I never
shall return his regard. ”

“I must hope better things. I am aware, more aware than Crawford can be,
that the man who means to make you love him (you having due notice of
his intentions) must have very uphill work, for there are all your early
attachments and habits in battle array; and before he can get your heart
for his own use he has to unfasten it from all the holds upon things
animate and inanimate, which so many years’ growth have confirmed, and
which are considerably tightened for the moment by the very idea
of separation. I know that the apprehension of being forced to quit
Mansfield will for a time be arming you against him. I wish he had not
been obliged to tell you what he was trying for. I wish he had known you
as well as I do, Fanny. Between us, I think we should have won you. My
theoretical and his practical knowledge together could not have failed.
He should have worked upon my plans. I must hope, however, that time,
proving him (as I firmly believe it will) to deserve you by his steady
affection, will give him his reward. I cannot suppose that you have not
the _wish_ to love him--the natural wish of gratitude. You must have
some feeling of that sort. You must be sorry for your own indifference. ”

“We are so totally unlike,” said Fanny, avoiding a direct answer, “we
are so very, very different in all our inclinations and ways, that
I consider it as quite impossible we should ever be tolerably happy
together, even if I _could_ like him. There never were two people more
dissimilar. We have not one taste in common. We should be miserable. ”

“You are mistaken, Fanny. The dissimilarity is not so strong. You are
quite enough alike. You _have_ tastes in common. You have moral and
literary tastes in common.