Mansfield Park
had been given her at different times, principally by Tom; and she grew
bewildered as to the amount of the debt which all these kind
remembrances produced. A tap at the door roused her in the midst of
this attempt to find her way to her duty, and her gentle “Come in” was
answered by the appearance of one, before whom all her doubts were wont
to be laid. Her eyes brightened at the sight of Edmund.
“Can I speak with you, Fanny, for a few minutes?” said he.
“Yes, certainly.”
“I want to consult. I want your opinion.”
“My opinion!” she cried, shrinking from such a compliment, highly as it
gratified her.
“Yes, your advice and opinion. I do not know what to do. This acting
scheme gets worse and worse, you see. They have chosen almost as bad a
play as they could, and now, to complete the business, are going to ask
the help of a young man very slightly known to any of us. This is the
end of all the privacy and propriety which was talked about at first. I
know no harm of Charles Maddox; but the excessive intimacy which must
spring from his being admitted among us in this manner is highly
objectionable, the _more_ than intimacy—the familiarity. I cannot think
of it with any patience; and it does appear to me an evil of such
magnitude as must, _if_ _possible_, be prevented. Do not you see it in
the same light?”
“Yes; but what can be done? Your brother is so determined.”
“There is but _one_ thing to be done, Fanny. I must take Anhalt myself.
I am well aware that nothing else will quiet Tom.”
Fanny could not answer him.
“It is not at all what I like,” he continued. “No man can like being
driven into the _appearance_ of such inconsistency. After being known
to oppose the scheme from the beginning, there is absurdity in the face
of my joining them _now_, when they are exceeding their first plan in
every respect; but I can think of no other alternative. Can you,
Fanny?”
“No,” said Fanny slowly, “not immediately, but—”
“But what? I see your judgment is not with me. Think it a little over.
Perhaps you are not so much aware as I am of the mischief that _may_,
of the unpleasantness that _must_ arise from a young man’s being
received in this manner: domesticated among us; authorised to come at
all hours, and placed suddenly on a footing which must do away all
restraints. To think only of the licence which every rehearsal must
tend to create. It is all very bad! Put yourself in Miss Crawford’s
place, Fanny. Consider what it would be to act Amelia with a stranger.
She has a right to be felt for, because she evidently feels for
herself. I heard enough of what she said to you last night to
understand her unwillingness to be acting with a stranger; and as she
probably engaged in the part with different expectations—perhaps
without considering the subject enough to know what was likely to be—it
would be ungenerous, it would be really wrong to expose her to it. Her
feelings ought to be respected. Does it not strike you so, Fanny? You
hesitate.”
“I am sorry for Miss Crawford; but I am more sorry to see you drawn in
to do what you had resolved against, and what you are known to think
will be disagreeable to my uncle. It will be such a triumph to the
others!”
“They will not have much cause of triumph when they see how infamously
I act. But, however, triumph there certainly will be, and I must brave
it. But if I can be the means of restraining the publicity of the
business, of limiting the exhibition, of concentrating our folly, I
shall be well repaid. As I am now, I have no influence, I can do
nothing: I have offended them, and they will not hear me; but when I
have put them in good-humour by this concession, I am not without hopes
of persuading them to confine the representation within a much smaller
circle than they are now in the high road for. This will be a material
gain. My object is to confine it to Mrs. Rushworth and the Grants. Will
not this be worth gaining?”
“Yes, it will be a great point.”
“But still it has not your approbation. Can you mention any other
measure by which I have a chance of doing equal good?”
“No, I cannot think of anything else.”
“Give me your approbation, then, Fanny. I am not comfortable without
it.”
“Oh, cousin!”
“If you are against me, I ought to distrust myself, and yet—But it is
absolutely impossible to let Tom go on in this way, riding about the
country in quest of anybody who can be persuaded to act—no matter whom:
the look of a gentleman is to be enough. I thought _you_ would have
entered more into Miss Crawford’s feelings.”
“No doubt she will be very glad. It must be a great relief to her,”
said Fanny, trying for greater warmth of manner.
“She never appeared more amiable than in her behaviour to you last
night. It gave her a very strong claim on my goodwill.”
“She _was_ very kind, indeed, and I am glad to have her spared”...
She could not finish the generous effusion. Her conscience stopt her in
the middle, but Edmund was satisfied.
“I shall walk down immediately after breakfast,” said he, “and am sure
of giving pleasure there. And now, dear Fanny, I will not interrupt you
any longer. You want to be reading. But I could not be easy till I had
spoken to you, and come to a decision. Sleeping or waking, my head has
been full of this matter all night. It is an evil, but I am certainly
making it less than it might be. If Tom is up, I shall go to him
directly and get it over, and when we meet at breakfast we shall be all
in high good-humour at the prospect of acting the fool together with
such unanimity. _You_, in the meanwhile, will be taking a trip into
China, I suppose. How does Lord Macartney go on?”—opening a volume on
the table and then taking up some others. “And here are Crabbe’s Tales,
and the Idler, at hand to relieve you, if you tire of your great book.
I admire your little establishment exceedingly; and as soon as I am
gone, you will empty your head of all this nonsense of acting, and sit
comfortably down to your table. But do not stay here to be cold.”
He went; but there was no reading, no China, no composure for Fanny. He
had told her the most extraordinary, the most inconceivable, the most
unwelcome news; and she could think of nothing else. To be acting!
After all his objections—objections so just and so public! After all
that she had heard him say, and seen him look, and known him to be
feeling. Could it be possible? Edmund so inconsistent! Was he not
deceiving himself? Was he not wrong? Alas! it was all Miss Crawford’s
doing. She had seen her influence in every speech, and was miserable.
The doubts and alarms as to her own conduct, which had previously
distressed her, and which had all slept while she listened to him, were
become of little consequence now. This deeper anxiety swallowed them
up. Things should take their course; she cared not how it ended. Her
cousins might attack, but could hardly tease her. She was beyond their
reach; and if at last obliged to yield—no matter—it was all misery now.
CHAPTER XVII
It was, indeed, a triumphant day to Mr. Bertram and Maria. Such a
victory over Edmund’s discretion had been beyond their hopes, and was
most delightful. There was no longer anything to disturb them in their
darling project, and they congratulated each other in private on the
jealous weakness to which they attributed the change, with all the glee
of feelings gratified in every way. Edmund might still look grave, and
say he did not like the scheme in general, and must disapprove the play
in particular; their point was gained: he was to act, and he was driven
to it by the force of selfish inclinations only. Edmund had descended
from that moral elevation which he had maintained before, and they were
both as much the better as the happier for the descent.
They behaved very well, however, to _him_ on the occasion, betraying no
exultation beyond the lines about the corners of the mouth, and seemed
to think it as great an escape to be quit of the intrusion of Charles
Maddox, as if they had been forced into admitting him against their
inclination. “To have it quite in their own family circle was what they
had particularly wished. A stranger among them would have been the
destruction of all their comfort”; and when Edmund, pursuing that idea,
gave a hint of his hope as to the limitation of the audience, they were
ready, in the complaisance of the moment, to promise anything. It was
all good-humour and encouragement. Mrs. Norris offered to contrive his
dress, Mr. Yates assured him that Anhalt’s last scene with the Baron
admitted a good deal of action and emphasis, and Mr. Rushworth
undertook to count his speeches.
“Perhaps,” said Tom, “Fanny may be more disposed to oblige us now.
Perhaps you may persuade _her_.”
“No, she is quite determined. She certainly will not act.”
“Oh! very well.” And not another word was said; but Fanny felt herself
again in danger, and her indifference to the danger was beginning to
fail her already.
There were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage than at the Park on this
change in Edmund; Miss Crawford looked very lovely in hers, and entered
with such an instantaneous renewal of cheerfulness into the whole
affair as could have but one effect on him. “He was certainly right in
respecting such feelings; he was glad he had determined on it.” And the
morning wore away in satisfactions very sweet, if not very sound. One
advantage resulted from it to Fanny: at the earnest request of Miss
Crawford, Mrs. Grant had, with her usual good-humour, agreed to
undertake the part for which Fanny had been wanted; and this was all
that occurred to gladden _her_ heart during the day; and even this,
when imparted by Edmund, brought a pang with it, for it was Miss
Crawford to whom she was obliged—it was Miss Crawford whose kind
exertions were to excite her gratitude, and whose merit in making them
was spoken of with a glow of admiration. She was safe; but peace and
safety were unconnected here. Her mind had been never farther from
peace. She could not feel that she had done wrong herself, but she was
disquieted in every other way. Her heart and her judgment were equally
against Edmund’s decision: she could not acquit his unsteadiness, and
his happiness under it made her wretched. She was full of jealousy and
agitation. Miss Crawford came with looks of gaiety which seemed an
insult, with friendly expressions towards herself which she could
hardly answer calmly. Everybody around her was gay and busy, prosperous
and important; each had their object of interest, their part, their
dress, their favourite scene, their friends and confederates: all were
finding employment in consultations and comparisons, or diversion in
the playful conceits they suggested. She alone was sad and
insignificant: she had no share in anything; she might go or stay; she
might be in the midst of their noise, or retreat from it to the
solitude of the East room, without being seen or missed. She could
almost think anything would have been preferable to this. Mrs. Grant
was of consequence: _her_ good-nature had honourable mention; her taste
and her time were considered; her presence was wanted; she was sought
for, and attended, and praised; and Fanny was at first in some danger
of envying her the character she had accepted. But reflection brought
better feelings, and shewed her that Mrs. Grant was entitled to
respect, which could never have belonged to _her_; and that, had she
received even the greatest, she could never have been easy in joining a
scheme which, considering only her uncle, she must condemn altogether.
Fanny’s heart was not absolutely the only saddened one amongst them, as
she soon began to acknowledge to herself. Julia was a sufferer too,
though not quite so blamelessly.