No More Learning

But, Fanny,” stopping her, by taking
her hand, and speaking low and seriously, “you know what all this means.
You see how it is; and could tell me, perhaps better than I could tell
you, how and why I am vexed. Let me talk to you a little. You are a
kind, kind listener. I have been pained by her manner this morning, and
cannot get the better of it. I know her disposition to be as sweet and
faultless as your own, but the influence of her former companions
makes her seem--gives to her conversation, to her professed opinions,
sometimes a tinge of wrong. She does not _think_ evil, but she speaks
it, speaks it in playfulness; and though I know it to be playfulness, it
grieves me to the soul. ”

“The effect of education,” said Fanny gently.

Edmund could not but agree to it. “Yes, that uncle and aunt! They have
injured the finest mind; for sometimes, Fanny, I own to you, it does
appear more than manner: it appears as if the mind itself was tainted. ”

Fanny imagined this to be an appeal to her judgment, and therefore,
after a moment’s consideration, said, “If you only want me as a
listener, cousin, I will be as useful as I can; but I am not qualified
for an adviser. Do not ask advice of _me_. I am not competent. ”

“You are right, Fanny, to protest against such an office, but you need
not be afraid. It is a subject on which I should never ask advice; it
is the sort of subject on which it had better never be asked; and few,
I imagine, do ask it, but when they want to be influenced against their
conscience. I only want to talk to you. ”

“One thing more. Excuse the liberty; but take care _how_ you talk to me.
Do not tell me anything now, which hereafter you may be sorry for. The
time may come--”

The colour rushed into her cheeks as she spoke.

“Dearest Fanny! ” cried Edmund, pressing her hand to his lips with
almost as much warmth as if it had been Miss Crawford’s, “you are all
considerate thought! But it is unnecessary here. The time will never
come. No such time as you allude to will ever come. I begin to think it
most improbable: the chances grow less and less; and even if it should,
there will be nothing to be remembered by either you or me that we need
be afraid of, for I can never be ashamed of my own scruples; and if they
are removed, it must be by changes that will only raise her character
the more by the recollection of the faults she once had. You are the
only being upon earth to whom I should say what I have said; but you
have always known my opinion of her; you can bear me witness, Fanny,
that I have never been blinded. How many a time have we talked over
her little errors! You need not fear me; I have almost given up every
serious idea of her; but I must be a blockhead indeed, if, whatever
befell me, I could think of your kindness and sympathy without the
sincerest gratitude. ”

He had said enough to shake the experience of eighteen. He had said
enough to give Fanny some happier feelings than she had lately known,
and with a brighter look, she answered, “Yes, cousin, I am convinced
that _you_ would be incapable of anything else, though perhaps some
might not. I cannot be afraid of hearing anything you wish to say. Do
not check yourself. Tell me whatever you like. ”

They were now on the second floor, and the appearance of a housemaid
prevented any farther conversation. For Fanny’s present comfort it was
concluded, perhaps, at the happiest moment: had he been able to talk
another five minutes, there is no saying that he might not have talked
away all Miss Crawford’s faults and his own despondence. But as it was,
they parted with looks on his side of grateful affection, and with
some very precious sensations on hers. She had felt nothing like it for
hours. Since the first joy from Mr. Crawford’s note to William had worn
away, she had been in a state absolutely the reverse; there had been
no comfort around, no hope within her. Now everything was smiling.
William’s good fortune returned again upon her mind, and seemed of
greater value than at first. The ball, too--such an evening of pleasure
before her! It was now a real animation; and she began to dress for it
with much of the happy flutter which belongs to a ball. All went well:
she did not dislike her own looks; and when she came to the necklaces
again, her good fortune seemed complete, for upon trial the one given
her by Miss Crawford would by no means go through the ring of the cross.
She had, to oblige Edmund, resolved to wear it; but it was too large for
the purpose. His, therefore, must be worn; and having, with delightful
feelings, joined the chain and the cross--those memorials of the two
most beloved of her heart, those dearest tokens so formed for each other
by everything real and imaginary--and put them round her neck, and seen
and felt how full of William and Edmund they were, she was able, without
an effort, to resolve on wearing Miss Crawford’s necklace too. She
acknowledged it to be right. Miss Crawford had a claim; and when it was
no longer to encroach on, to interfere with the stronger claims, the
truer kindness of another, she could do her justice even with pleasure
to herself. The necklace really looked very well; and Fanny left her
room at last, comfortably satisfied with herself and all about her.

Her aunt Bertram had recollected her on this occasion with an unusual
degree of wakefulness. It had really occurred to her, unprompted, that
Fanny, preparing for a ball, might be glad of better help than the upper
housemaid’s, and when dressed herself, she actually sent her own maid to
assist her; too late, of course, to be of any use. Mrs. Chapman had just
reached the attic floor, when Miss Price came out of her room completely
dressed, and only civilities were necessary; but Fanny felt her aunt’s
attention almost as much as Lady Bertram or Mrs. Chapman could do
themselves.



CHAPTER XXVIII

Her uncle and both her aunts were in the drawing-room when Fanny went
down. To the former she was an interesting object, and he saw with
pleasure the general elegance of her appearance, and her being in
remarkably good looks. The neatness and propriety of her dress was all
that he would allow himself to commend in her presence, but upon her
leaving the room again soon afterwards, he spoke of her beauty with very
decided praise.

“Yes,” said Lady Bertram, “she looks very well. I sent Chapman to her. ”

“Look well! Oh, yes! ” cried Mrs. Norris, “she has good reason to look
well with all her advantages: brought up in this family as she has been,
with all the benefit of her cousins’ manners before her. Only think, my
dear Sir Thomas, what extraordinary advantages you and I have been the
means of giving her. The very gown you have been taking notice of is
your own generous present to her when dear Mrs. Rushworth married. What
would she have been if we had not taken her by the hand? ”

Sir Thomas said no more; but when they sat down to table the eyes of
the two young men assured him that the subject might be gently touched
again, when the ladies withdrew, with more success. Fanny saw that she
was approved; and the consciousness of looking well made her look still
better. From a variety of causes she was happy, and she was soon made
still happier; for in following her aunts out of the room, Edmund, who
was holding open the door, said, as she passed him, “You must dance
with me, Fanny; you must keep two dances for me; any two that you like,
except the first. ” She had nothing more to wish for. She had hardly
ever been in a state so nearly approaching high spirits in her life. Her
cousins’ former gaiety on the day of a ball was no longer surprising to
her; she felt it to be indeed very charming, and was actually practising
her steps about the drawing-room as long as she could be safe from the
notice of her aunt Norris, who was entirely taken up at first in fresh
arranging and injuring the noble fire which the butler had prepared.

Half an hour followed that would have been at least languid under any
other circumstances, but Fanny’s happiness still prevailed. It was but
to think of her conversation with Edmund, and what was the restlessness
of Mrs. Norris? What were the yawns of Lady Bertram?

The gentlemen joined them; and soon after began the sweet expectation of
a carriage, when a general spirit of ease and enjoyment seemed diffused,
and they all stood about and talked and laughed, and every moment had
its pleasure and its hope. Fanny felt that there must be a struggle
in Edmund’s cheerfulness, but it was delightful to see the effort so
successfully made.

When the carriages were really heard, when the guests began really to
assemble, her own gaiety of heart was much subdued: the sight of so
many strangers threw her back into herself; and besides the gravity and
formality of the first great circle, which the manners of neither Sir
Thomas nor Lady Bertram were of a kind to do away, she found herself
occasionally called on to endure something worse. She was introduced
here and there by her uncle, and forced to be spoken to, and to curtsey,
and speak again. This was a hard duty, and she was never summoned to
it without looking at William, as he walked about at his ease in the
background of the scene, and longing to be with him.

The entrance of the Grants and Crawfords was a favourable epoch. The
stiffness of the meeting soon gave way before their popular manners and
more diffused intimacies: little groups were formed, and everybody grew
comfortable. Fanny felt the advantage; and, drawing back from the toils
of civility, would have been again most happy, could she have kept her
eyes from wandering between Edmund and Mary Crawford. _She_ looked all
loveliness--and what might not be the end of it? Her own musings
were brought to an end on perceiving Mr. Crawford before her, and
her thoughts were put into another channel by his engaging her almost
instantly for the first two dances. Her happiness on this occasion was
very much _a_ _la_ _mortal_, finely chequered. To be secure of a partner
at first was a most essential good--for the moment of beginning was now
growing seriously near; and she so little understood her own claims as
to think that if Mr. Crawford had not asked her, she must have been the
last to be sought after, and should have received a partner only through
a series of inquiry, and bustle, and interference, which would have been
terrible; but at the same time there was a pointedness in his manner of
asking her which she did not like, and she saw his eye glancing for
a moment at her necklace, with a smile--she thought there was a
smile--which made her blush and feel wretched. And though there was no
second glance to disturb her, though his object seemed then to be only
quietly agreeable, she could not get the better of her embarrassment,
heightened as it was by the idea of his perceiving it, and had no
composure till he turned away to some one else. Then she could gradually
rise up to the genuine satisfaction of having a partner, a voluntary
partner, secured against the dancing began.

When the company were moving into the ballroom, she found herself
for the first time near Miss Crawford, whose eyes and smiles were
immediately and more unequivocally directed as her brother’s had been,
and who was beginning to speak on the subject, when Fanny, anxious
to get the story over, hastened to give the explanation of the second
necklace: the real chain. Miss Crawford listened; and all her intended
compliments and insinuations to Fanny were forgotten: she felt only one
thing; and her eyes, bright as they had been before, shewing they could
yet be brighter, she exclaimed with eager pleasure, “Did he? Did Edmund?
That was like himself. No other man would have thought of it. I honour
him beyond expression. ” And she looked around as if longing to tell him
so. He was not near, he was attending a party of ladies out of the room;
and Mrs. Grant coming up to the two girls, and taking an arm of each,
they followed with the rest.

Fanny’s heart sunk, but there was no leisure for thinking long even of
Miss Crawford’s feelings. They were in the ballroom, the violins were
playing, and her mind was in a flutter that forbade its fixing on
anything serious. She must watch the general arrangements, and see how
everything was done.

In a few minutes Sir Thomas came to her, and asked if she were engaged;
and the “Yes, sir; to Mr. Crawford,” was exactly what he had intended
to hear. Mr. Crawford was not far off; Sir Thomas brought him to her,
saying something which discovered to Fanny, that _she_ was to lead the
way and open the ball; an idea that had never occurred to her before.
Whenever she had thought of the minutiae of the evening, it had been as
a matter of course that Edmund would begin with Miss Crawford; and the
impression was so strong, that though _her_ _uncle_ spoke the contrary,
she could not help an exclamation of surprise, a hint of her unfitness,
an entreaty even to be excused. To be urging her opinion against Sir
Thomas’s was a proof of the extremity of the case; but such was her
horror at the first suggestion, that she could actually look him in
the face and say that she hoped it might be settled otherwise; in vain,
however: Sir Thomas smiled, tried to encourage her, and then looked too
serious, and said too decidedly, “It must be so, my dear,” for her to
hazard another word; and she found herself the next moment conducted by
Mr. Crawford to the top of the room, and standing there to be joined by
the rest of the dancers, couple after couple, as they were formed.

She could hardly believe it. To be placed above so many elegant young
women! The distinction was too great. It was treating her like her
cousins! And her thoughts flew to those absent cousins with most
unfeigned and truly tender regret, that they were not at home to take
their own place in the room, and have their share of a pleasure which
would have been so very delightful to them. So often as she had heard
them wish for a ball at home as the greatest of all felicities! And
to have them away when it was given--and for _her_ to be opening the
ball--and with Mr. Crawford too! She hoped they would not envy her that
distinction _now_; but when she looked back to the state of things in
the autumn, to what they had all been to each other when once dancing
in that house before, the present arrangement was almost more than she
could understand herself.

The ball began. It was rather honour than happiness to Fanny, for the
first dance at least: her partner was in excellent spirits, and tried to
impart them to her; but she was a great deal too much frightened to have
any enjoyment till she could suppose herself no longer looked at. Young,
pretty, and gentle, however, she had no awkwardnesses that were not
as good as graces, and there were few persons present that were not
disposed to praise her. She was attractive, she was modest, she was Sir
Thomas’s niece, and she was soon said to be admired by Mr. Crawford. It
was enough to give her general favour. Sir Thomas himself was watching
her progress down the dance with much complacency; he was proud of his
niece; and without attributing all her personal beauty, as Mrs. Norris
seemed to do, to her transplantation to Mansfield, he was pleased with
himself for having supplied everything else: education and manners she
owed to him.

Miss Crawford saw much of Sir Thomas’s thoughts as he stood, and having,
in spite of all his wrongs towards her, a general prevailing desire of
recommending herself to him, took an opportunity of stepping aside to
say something agreeable of Fanny. Her praise was warm, and he
received it as she could wish, joining in it as far as discretion, and
politeness, and slowness of speech would allow, and certainly appearing
to greater advantage on the subject than his lady did soon afterwards,
when Mary, perceiving her on a sofa very near, turned round before she
began to dance, to compliment her on Miss Price’s looks.

“Yes, she does look very well,” was Lady Bertram’s placid reply.
“Chapman helped her to dress. I sent Chapman to her. ” Not but that
she was really pleased to have Fanny admired; but she was so much more
struck with her own kindness in sending Chapman to her, that she could
not get it out of her head.

Miss Crawford knew Mrs. Norris too well to think of gratifying _her_
by commendation of Fanny; to her, it was as the occasion offered--“Ah!
ma’am, how much we want dear Mrs. Rushworth and Julia to-night! ” and
Mrs. Norris paid her with as many smiles and courteous words as she had
time for, amid so much occupation as she found for herself in making
up card-tables, giving hints to Sir Thomas, and trying to move all the
chaperons to a better part of the room.

Miss Crawford blundered most towards Fanny herself in her intentions
to please. She meant to be giving her little heart a happy flutter,
and filling her with sensations of delightful self-consequence; and,
misinterpreting Fanny’s blushes, still thought she must be doing so when
she went to her after the two first dances, and said, with a significant
look, “Perhaps _you_ can tell me why my brother goes to town to-morrow?
He says he has business there, but will not tell me what. The first time
he ever denied me his confidence! But this is what we all come to.
All are supplanted sooner or later. Now, I must apply to you for
information. Pray, what is Henry going for? ”

Fanny protested her ignorance as steadily as her embarrassment allowed.

“Well, then,” replied Miss Crawford, laughing, “I must suppose it to be
purely for the pleasure of conveying your brother, and of talking of you
by the way. ”

Fanny was confused, but it was the confusion of discontent; while Miss
Crawford wondered she did not smile, and thought her over-anxious,
or thought her odd, or thought her anything rather than insensible of
pleasure in Henry’s attentions. Fanny had a good deal of enjoyment in
the course of the evening; but Henry’s attentions had very little to
do with it. She would much rather _not_ have been asked by him again so
very soon, and she wished she had not been obliged to suspect that his
previous inquiries of Mrs. Norris, about the supper hour, were all for
the sake of securing her at that part of the evening. But it was not to
be avoided: he made her feel that she was the object of all; though she
could not say that it was unpleasantly done, that there was indelicacy
or ostentation in his manner; and sometimes, when he talked of William,
he was really not unagreeable, and shewed even a warmth of heart
which did him credit. But still his attentions made no part of her
satisfaction. She was happy whenever she looked at William, and saw how
perfectly he was enjoying himself, in every five minutes that she could
walk about with him and hear his account of his partners; she was happy
in knowing herself admired; and she was happy in having the two dances
with Edmund still to look forward to, during the greatest part of the
evening, her hand being so eagerly sought after that her indefinite
engagement with _him_ was in continual perspective. She was happy even
when they did take place; but not from any flow of spirits on his side,
or any such expressions of tender gallantry as had blessed the morning.
His mind was fagged, and her happiness sprung from being the friend with
whom it could find repose. “I am worn out with civility,” said he. “I
have been talking incessantly all night, and with nothing to say. But
with _you_, Fanny, there may be peace. You will not want to be talked
to. Let us have the luxury of silence. ” Fanny would hardly even speak
her agreement. A weariness, arising probably, in great measure, from the
same feelings which he had acknowledged in the morning, was peculiarly
to be respected, and they went down their two dances together with such
sober tranquillity as might satisfy any looker-on that Sir Thomas had
been bringing up no wife for his younger son.

The evening had afforded Edmund little pleasure. Miss Crawford had
been in gay spirits when they first danced together, but it was not her
gaiety that could do him good: it rather sank than raised his comfort;
and afterwards, for he found himself still impelled to seek her
again, she had absolutely pained him by her manner of speaking of the
profession to which he was now on the point of belonging. They had
talked, and they had been silent; he had reasoned, she had ridiculed;
and they had parted at last with mutual vexation. Fanny, not able to
refrain entirely from observing them, had seen enough to be tolerably
satisfied. It was barbarous to be happy when Edmund was suffering. Yet
some happiness must and would arise from the very conviction that he did
suffer.

When her two dances with him were over, her inclination and strength for
more were pretty well at an end; and Sir Thomas, having seen her walk
rather than dance down the shortening set, breathless, and with her hand
at her side, gave his orders for her sitting down entirely. From that
time Mr. Crawford sat down likewise.

“Poor Fanny! ” cried William, coming for a moment to visit her, and
working away his partner’s fan as if for life, “how soon she is knocked
up! Why, the sport is but just begun. I hope we shall keep it up these
two hours. How can you be tired so soon? ”

“So soon! my good friend,” said Sir Thomas, producing his watch with all
necessary caution; “it is three o’clock, and your sister is not used to
these sort of hours. ”

“Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before I go. Sleep as
long as you can, and never mind me. ”

“Oh! William. ”

“What! Did she think of being up before you set off? ”

“Oh! yes, sir,” cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat to be nearer
her uncle; “I must get up and breakfast with him. It will be the last
time, you know; the last morning. ”

“You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be gone by half-past
nine. Mr. Crawford, I think you call for him at half-past nine? ”

Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her eyes for
denial; and it ended in a gracious “Well, well! ” which was permission.
“Yes, half-past nine,” said Crawford to William as the latter was
leaving them, “and I shall be punctual, for there will be no kind sister
to get up for _me_. ” And in a lower tone to Fanny, “I shall have only
a desolate house to hurry from. Your brother will find my ideas of time
and his own very different to-morrow. ”

After a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford to join the early
breakfast party in that house instead of eating alone: he should himself
be of it; and the readiness with which his invitation was accepted
convinced him that the suspicions whence, he must confess to himself,
this very ball had in great measure sprung, were well founded. Mr.
Crawford was in love with Fanny. He had a pleasing anticipation of what
would be. His niece, meanwhile, did not thank him for what he had just
done. She had hoped to have William all to herself the last morning. It
would have been an unspeakable indulgence. But though her wishes
were overthrown, there was no spirit of murmuring within her. On the
contrary, she was so totally unused to have her pleasure consulted, or
to have anything take place at all in the way she could desire, that she
was more disposed to wonder and rejoice in having carried her point so
far, than to repine at the counteraction which followed.

Shortly afterward, Sir Thomas was again interfering a little with her
inclination, by advising her to go immediately to bed. “Advise” was his
word, but it was the advice of absolute power, and she had only to
rise, and, with Mr. Crawford’s very cordial adieus, pass quietly away;
stopping at the entrance-door, like the Lady of Branxholm Hall, “one
moment and no more,” to view the happy scene, and take a last look at
the five or six determined couple who were still hard at work; and then,
creeping slowly up the principal staircase, pursued by the ceaseless
country-dance, feverish with hopes and fears, soup and negus,
sore-footed and fatigued, restless and agitated, yet feeling, in spite
of everything, that a ball was indeed delightful.

In thus sending her away, Sir Thomas perhaps might not be thinking
merely of her health. It might occur to him that Mr. Crawford had been
sitting by her long enough, or he might mean to recommend her as a wife
by shewing her persuadableness.



CHAPTER XXIX

The ball was over, and the breakfast was soon over too; the last kiss
was given, and William was gone. Mr. Crawford had, as he foretold, been
very punctual, and short and pleasant had been the meal.

After seeing William to the last moment, Fanny walked back to the
breakfast-room with a very saddened heart to grieve over the melancholy
change; and there her uncle kindly left her to cry in peace, conceiving,
perhaps, that the deserted chair of each young man might exercise her
tender enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold pork bones and mustard in
William’s plate might but divide her feelings with the broken egg-shells
in Mr. Crawford’s. She sat and cried _con_ _amore_ as her uncle
intended, but it was _con_ _amore_ fraternal and no other. William was
gone, and she now felt as if she had wasted half his visit in idle cares
and selfish solicitudes unconnected with him.

Fanny’s disposition was such that she could never even think of her
aunt Norris in the meagreness and cheerlessness of her own small house,
without reproaching herself for some little want of attention to her
when they had been last together; much less could her feelings acquit
her of having done and said and thought everything by William that was
due to him for a whole fortnight.

It was a heavy, melancholy day. Soon after the second breakfast, Edmund
bade them good-bye for a week, and mounted his horse for Peterborough,
and then all were gone. Nothing remained of last night but remembrances,
which she had nobody to share in. She talked to her aunt Bertram--she
must talk to somebody of the ball; but her aunt had seen so little of
what had passed, and had so little curiosity, that it was heavy work.
Lady Bertram was not certain of anybody’s dress or anybody’s place at
supper but her own. “She could not recollect what it was that she had
heard about one of the Miss Maddoxes, or what it was that Lady Prescott
had noticed in Fanny: she was not sure whether Colonel Harrison had been
talking of Mr. Crawford or of William when he said he was the finest
young man in the room--somebody had whispered something to her; she had
forgot to ask Sir Thomas what it could be. ” And these were her longest
speeches and clearest communications: the rest was only a languid “Yes,
yes; very well; did you? did he? I did not see _that_; I should not know
one from the other. ” This was very bad. It was only better than Mrs.
Norris’s sharp answers would have been; but she being gone home with
all the supernumerary jellies to nurse a sick maid, there was peace
and good-humour in their little party, though it could not boast much
beside.

The evening was heavy like the day. “I cannot think what is the matter
with me,” said Lady Bertram, when the tea-things were removed. “I feel
quite stupid. It must be sitting up so late last night. Fanny, you must
do something to keep me awake. I cannot work. Fetch the cards; I feel so
very stupid. ”

The cards were brought, and Fanny played at cribbage with her aunt till
bedtime; and as Sir Thomas was reading to himself, no sounds were
heard in the room for the next two hours beyond the reckonings of the
game--“And _that_ makes thirty-one; four in hand and eight in crib. You
are to deal, ma’am; shall I deal for you? ” Fanny thought and thought
again of the difference which twenty-four hours had made in that room,
and all that part of the house. Last night it had been hope and smiles,
bustle and motion, noise and brilliancy, in the drawing-room, and out
of the drawing-room, and everywhere. Now it was languor, and all but
solitude.

A good night’s rest improved her spirits. She could think of William the
next day more cheerfully; and as the morning afforded her an opportunity
of talking over Thursday night with Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, in a
very handsome style, with all the heightenings of imagination, and
all the laughs of playfulness which are so essential to the shade of a
departed ball, she could afterwards bring her mind without much effort
into its everyday state, and easily conform to the tranquillity of the
present quiet week.

They were indeed a smaller party than she had ever known there for
a whole day together, and _he_ was gone on whom the comfort and
cheerfulness of every family meeting and every meal chiefly depended.
But this must be learned to be endured. He would soon be always gone;
and she was thankful that she could now sit in the same room with her
uncle, hear his voice, receive his questions, and even answer them,
without such wretched feelings as she had formerly known.

“We miss our two young men,” was Sir Thomas’s observation on both the
first and second day, as they formed their very reduced circle after
dinner; and in consideration of Fanny’s swimming eyes, nothing more was
said on the first day than to drink their good health; but on the
second it led to something farther. William was kindly commended and
his promotion hoped for. “And there is no reason to suppose,” added Sir
Thomas, “but that his visits to us may now be tolerably frequent. As to
Edmund, we must learn to do without him. This will be the last winter of
his belonging to us, as he has done. ”

“Yes,” said Lady Bertram, “but I wish he was not going away. They are
all going away, I think. I wish they would stay at home. ”

This wish was levelled principally at Julia, who had just applied for
permission to go to town with Maria; and as Sir Thomas thought it best
for each daughter that the permission should be granted, Lady Bertram,
though in her own good-nature she would not have prevented it, was
lamenting the change it made in the prospect of Julia’s return, which
would otherwise have taken place about this time. A great deal of good
sense followed on Sir Thomas’s side, tending to reconcile his wife to
the arrangement. Everything that a considerate parent _ought_ to feel
was advanced for her use; and everything that an affectionate mother
_must_ feel in promoting her children’s enjoyment was attributed to her
nature. Lady Bertram agreed to it all with a calm “Yes”; and at the end
of a quarter of an hour’s silent consideration spontaneously observed,
“Sir Thomas, I have been thinking--and I am very glad we took Fanny as
we did, for now the others are away we feel the good of it. ”

Sir Thomas immediately improved this compliment by adding, “Very true.
We shew Fanny what a good girl we think her by praising her to her face,
she is now a very valuable companion. If we have been kind to _her_, she
is now quite as necessary to _us_. ”

“Yes,” said Lady Bertram presently; “and it is a comfort to think that
we shall always have _her_. ”

Sir Thomas paused, half smiled, glanced at his niece, and then gravely
replied, “She will never leave us, I hope, till invited to some other
home that may reasonably promise her greater happiness than she knows
here. ”

“And _that_ is not very likely to be, Sir Thomas. Who should invite her?
Maria might be very glad to see her at Sotherton now and then, but she
would not think of asking her to live there; and I am sure she is better
off here; and besides, I cannot do without her. ”

The week which passed so quietly and peaceably at the great house in
Mansfield had a very different character at the Parsonage. To the young
lady, at least, in each family, it brought very different feelings. What
was tranquillity and comfort to Fanny was tediousness and vexation to
Mary. Something arose from difference of disposition and habit: one so
easily satisfied, the other so unused to endure; but still more might be
imputed to difference of circumstances. In some points of interest they
were exactly opposed to each other. To Fanny’s mind, Edmund’s absence
was really, in its cause and its tendency, a relief. To Mary it was
every way painful. She felt the want of his society every day, almost
every hour, and was too much in want of it to derive anything but
irritation from considering the object for which he went. He could not
have devised anything more likely to raise his consequence than this
week’s absence, occurring as it did at the very time of her brother’s
going away, of William Price’s going too, and completing the sort of
general break-up of a party which had been so animated. She felt it
keenly. They were now a miserable trio, confined within doors by a
series of rain and snow, with nothing to do and no variety to hope for.
Angry as she was with Edmund for adhering to his own notions, and acting
on them in defiance of her (and she had been so angry that they had
hardly parted friends at the ball), she could not help thinking of
him continually when absent, dwelling on his merit and affection, and
longing again for the almost daily meetings they lately had. His absence
was unnecessarily long. He should not have planned such an absence--he
should not have left home for a week, when her own departure from
Mansfield was so near. Then she began to blame herself. She wished she
had not spoken so warmly in their last conversation. She was afraid she
had used some strong, some contemptuous expressions in speaking of the
clergy, and that should not have been. It was ill-bred; it was wrong.
She wished such words unsaid with all her heart.

Her vexation did not end with the week. All this was bad, but she had
still more to feel when Friday came round again and brought no Edmund;
when Saturday came and still no Edmund; and when, through the slight
communication with the other family which Sunday produced, she learned
that he had actually written home to defer his return, having promised
to remain some days longer with his friend.

If she had felt impatience and regret before--if she had been sorry for
what she said, and feared its too strong effect on him--she now felt
and feared it all tenfold more. She had, moreover, to contend with one
disagreeable emotion entirely new to her--jealousy. His friend Mr.
Owen had sisters; he might find them attractive. But, at any rate, his
staying away at a time when, according to all preceding plans, she was
to remove to London, meant something that she could not bear. Had Henry
returned, as he talked of doing, at the end of three or four days, she
should now have been leaving Mansfield. It became absolutely necessary
for her to get to Fanny and try to learn something more. She could not
live any longer in such solitary wretchedness; and she made her way
to the Park, through difficulties of walking which she had deemed
unconquerable a week before, for the chance of hearing a little in
addition, for the sake of at least hearing his name.

The first half-hour was lost, for Fanny and Lady Bertram were together,
and unless she had Fanny to herself she could hope for nothing. But
at last Lady Bertram left the room, and then almost immediately Miss
Crawford thus began, with a voice as well regulated as she could--“And
how do _you_ like your cousin Edmund’s staying away so long? Being the
only young person at home, I consider _you_ as the greatest sufferer.
You must miss him. Does his staying longer surprise you? ”

“I do not know,” said Fanny hesitatingly. “Yes; I had not particularly
expected it. ”

“Perhaps he will always stay longer than he talks of. It is the general
way all young men do. ”

“He did not, the only time he went to see Mr. Owen before. ”

“He finds the house more agreeable _now_. He is a very--a very pleasing
young man himself, and I cannot help being rather concerned at not
seeing him again before I go to London, as will now undoubtedly be the
case. I am looking for Henry every day, and as soon as he comes there
will be nothing to detain me at Mansfield. I should like to have seen
him once more, I confess. But you must give my compliments to him. Yes;
I think it must be compliments. Is not there a something wanted,
Miss Price, in our language--a something between compliments and--and
love--to suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have had together? So
many months’ acquaintance! But compliments may be sufficient here.
Was his letter a long one? Does he give you much account of what he is
doing? Is it Christmas gaieties that he is staying for? ”

“I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle; but I believe
it was very short; indeed I am sure it was but a few lines. All that I
heard was that his friend had pressed him to stay longer, and that he
had agreed to do so. A _few_ days longer, or _some_ days longer; I am
not quite sure which. ”

“Oh! if he wrote to his father; but I thought it might have been to Lady
Bertram or you. But if he wrote to his father, no wonder he was concise.
Who could write chat to Sir Thomas? If he had written to you, there
would have been more particulars. You would have heard of balls
and parties. He would have sent you a description of everything and
everybody. How many Miss Owens are there? ”

“Three grown up. ”

“Are they musical? ”

“I do not at all know. I never heard. ”

“That is the first question, you know,” said Miss Crawford, trying to
appear gay and unconcerned, “which every woman who plays herself is sure
to ask about another. But it is very foolish to ask questions about
any young ladies--about any three sisters just grown up; for one knows,
without being told, exactly what they are: all very accomplished and
pleasing, and one very pretty. There is a beauty in every family; it is
a regular thing. Two play on the pianoforte, and one on the harp; and
all sing, or would sing if they were taught, or sing all the better for
not being taught; or something like it. ”

“I know nothing of the Miss Owens,” said Fanny calmly.

“You know nothing and you care less, as people say. Never did tone
express indifference plainer. Indeed, how can one care for those one has
never seen? Well, when your cousin comes back, he will find Mansfield
very quiet; all the noisy ones gone, your brother and mine and myself. I
do not like the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant now the time draws near. She
does not like my going. ”

Fanny felt obliged to speak. “You cannot doubt your being missed by
many,” said she. “You will be very much missed. ”

Miss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if wanting to hear or see more,
and then laughingly said, “Oh yes! missed as every noisy evil is missed
when it is taken away; that is, there is a great difference felt. But I
am not fishing; don’t compliment me. If I _am_ missed, it will appear.
I may be discovered by those who want to see me. I shall not be in any
doubtful, or distant, or unapproachable region. ”

Now Fanny could not bring herself to speak, and Miss Crawford was
disappointed; for she had hoped to hear some pleasant assurance of her
power from one who she thought must know, and her spirits were clouded
again.

“The Miss Owens,” said she, soon afterwards; “suppose you were to have
one of the Miss Owens settled at Thornton Lacey; how should you like it?
Stranger things have happened. I dare say they are trying for it. And
they are quite in the right, for it would be a very pretty establishment
for them. I do not at all wonder or blame them. It is everybody’s duty
to do as well for themselves as they can. Sir Thomas Bertram’s son is
somebody; and now he is in their own line. Their father is a clergyman,
and their brother is a clergyman, and they are all clergymen together.
He is their lawful property; he fairly belongs to them. You don’t speak,
Fanny; Miss Price, you don’t speak. But honestly now, do not you rather
expect it than otherwise? ”

“No,” said Fanny stoutly, “I do not expect it at all. ”

“Not at all! ” cried Miss Crawford with alacrity. “I wonder at that. But
I dare say you know exactly--I always imagine you are--perhaps you do
not think him likely to marry at all--or not at present. ”

“No, I do not,” said Fanny softly, hoping she did not err either in the
belief or the acknowledgment of it.

Her companion looked at her keenly; and gathering greater spirit from
the blush soon produced from such a look, only said, “He is best off as
he is,” and turned the subject.



CHAPTER XXX

Miss Crawford’s uneasiness was much lightened by this conversation, and
she walked home again in spirits which might have defied almost another
week of the same small party in the same bad weather, had they been put
to the proof; but as that very evening brought her brother down from
London again in quite, or more than quite, his usual cheerfulness, she
had nothing farther to try her own. His still refusing to tell her what
he had gone for was but the promotion of gaiety; a day before it might
have irritated, but now it was a pleasant joke--suspected only of
concealing something planned as a pleasant surprise to herself. And the
next day _did_ bring a surprise to her. Henry had said he should just
go and ask the Bertrams how they did, and be back in ten minutes, but
he was gone above an hour; and when his sister, who had been waiting for
him to walk with her in the garden, met him at last most impatiently in
the sweep, and cried out, “My dear Henry, where can you have been
all this time? ” he had only to say that he had been sitting with Lady
Bertram and Fanny.

“Sitting with them an hour and a half! ” exclaimed Mary.

But this was only the beginning of her surprise.

“Yes, Mary,” said he, drawing her arm within his, and walking along
the sweep as if not knowing where he was: “I could not get away sooner;
Fanny looked so lovely! I am quite determined, Mary. My mind is entirely
made up. Will it astonish you? No: you must be aware that I am quite
determined to marry Fanny Price. ”

The surprise was now complete; for, in spite of whatever his
consciousness might suggest, a suspicion of his having any such views
had never entered his sister’s imagination; and she looked so truly the
astonishment she felt, that he was obliged to repeat what he had said,
and more fully and more solemnly. The conviction of his determination
once admitted, it was not unwelcome. There was even pleasure with the
surprise. Mary was in a state of mind to rejoice in a connexion with the
Bertram family, and to be not displeased with her brother’s marrying a
little beneath him.