Mansfield Park
should break through every other claim, he should absolutely condition
with his uncle for attending them whenever he might be wanted. The play
should not be lost by _his_ absence.
“From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be,” said he; “I will
attend you from any place in England, at an hour’s notice.”
It was well at that moment that Tom had to speak, and not his sister.
He could immediately say with easy fluency, “I am sorry you are going;
but as to our play, _that_ is all over—entirely at an end” (looking
significantly at his father). “The painter was sent off yesterday, and
very little will remain of the theatre to-morrow. I knew how _that_
would be from the first. It is early for Bath. You will find nobody
there.”
“It is about my uncle’s usual time.”
“When do you think of going?”
“I may, perhaps, get as far as Banbury to-day.”
“Whose stables do you use at Bath?” was the next question; and while
this branch of the subject was under discussion, Maria, who wanted
neither pride nor resolution, was preparing to encounter her share of
it with tolerable calmness.
To her he soon turned, repeating much of what he had already said, with
only a softened air and stronger expressions of regret. But what
availed his expressions or his air? He was going, and, if not
voluntarily going, voluntarily intending to stay away; for, excepting
what might be due to his uncle, his engagements were all self-imposed.
He might talk of necessity, but she knew his independence. The hand
which had so pressed hers to his heart! the hand and the heart were
alike motionless and passive now! Her spirit supported her, but the
agony of her mind was severe. She had not long to endure what arose
from listening to language which his actions contradicted, or to bury
the tumult of her feelings under the restraint of society; for general
civilities soon called his notice from her, and the farewell visit, as
it then became openly acknowledged, was a very short one. He was
gone—he had touched her hand for the last time, he had made his parting
bow, and she might seek directly all that solitude could do for her.
Henry Crawford was gone, gone from the house, and within two hours
afterwards from the parish; and so ended all the hopes his selfish
vanity had raised in Maria and Julia Bertram.
Julia could rejoice that he was gone. His presence was beginning to be
odious to her; and if Maria gained him not, she was now cool enough to
dispense with any other revenge. She did not want exposure to be added
to desertion. Henry Crawford gone, she could even pity her sister.
With a purer spirit did Fanny rejoice in the intelligence. She heard it
at dinner, and felt it a blessing. By all the others it was mentioned
with regret; and his merits honoured with due gradation of feeling—from
the sincerity of Edmund’s too partial regard, to the unconcern of his
mother speaking entirely by rote. Mrs. Norris began to look about her,
and wonder that his falling in love with Julia had come to nothing; and
could almost fear that she had been remiss herself in forwarding it;
but with so many to care for, how was it possible for even _her_
activity to keep pace with her wishes?
Another day or two, and Mr. Yates was gone likewise. In _his_ departure
Sir Thomas felt the chief interest: wanting to be alone with his
family, the presence of a stranger superior to Mr. Yates must have been
irksome; but of him, trifling and confident, idle and expensive, it was
every way vexatious. In himself he was wearisome, but as the friend of
Tom and the admirer of Julia he became offensive. Sir Thomas had been
quite indifferent to Mr. Crawford’s going or staying: but his good
wishes for Mr. Yates’s having a pleasant journey, as he walked with him
to the hall-door, were given with genuine satisfaction. Mr. Yates had
staid to see the destruction of every theatrical preparation at
Mansfield, the removal of everything appertaining to the play: he left
the house in all the soberness of its general character; and Sir Thomas
hoped, in seeing him out of it, to be rid of the worst object connected
with the scheme, and the last that must be inevitably reminding him of
its existence.
Mrs. Norris contrived to remove one article from his sight that might
have distressed him. The curtain, over which she had presided with such
talent and such success, went off with her to her cottage, where she
happened to be particularly in want of green baize.
CHAPTER XXI
Sir Thomas’s return made a striking change in the ways of the family,
independent of Lovers’ Vows. Under his government, Mansfield was an
altered place. Some members of their society sent away, and the spirits
of many others saddened—it was all sameness and gloom compared with the
past—a sombre family party rarely enlivened. There was little
intercourse with the Parsonage. Sir Thomas, drawing back from
intimacies in general, was particularly disinclined, at this time, for
any engagements but in one quarter. The Rushworths were the only
addition to his own domestic circle which he could solicit.
Edmund did not wonder that such should be his father’s feelings, nor
could he regret anything but the exclusion of the Grants. “But they,”
he observed to Fanny, “have a claim. They seem to belong to us; they
seem to be part of ourselves. I could wish my father were more sensible
of their very great attention to my mother and sisters while he was
away. I am afraid they may feel themselves neglected. But the truth is,
that my father hardly knows them. They had not been here a twelvemonth
when he left England. If he knew them better, he would value their
society as it deserves; for they are in fact exactly the sort of people
he would like. We are sometimes a little in want of animation among
ourselves: my sisters seem out of spirits, and Tom is certainly not at
his ease. Dr. and Mrs. Grant would enliven us, and make our evenings
pass away with more enjoyment even to my father.”
“Do you think so?” said Fanny: “in my opinion, my uncle would not like
_any_ addition. I think he values the very quietness you speak of, and
that the repose of his own family circle is all he wants. And it does
not appear to me that we are more serious than we used to be—I mean
before my uncle went abroad. As well as I can recollect, it was always
much the same. There was never much laughing in his presence; or, if
there is any difference, it is not more, I think, than such an absence
has a tendency to produce at first. There must be a sort of shyness;
but I cannot recollect that our evenings formerly were ever merry,
except when my uncle was in town. No young people’s are, I suppose,
when those they look up to are at home”.
“I believe you are right, Fanny,” was his reply, after a short
consideration. “I believe our evenings are rather returned to what they
were, than assuming a new character. The novelty was in their being
lively. Yet, how strong the impression that only a few weeks will give!
I have been feeling as if we had never lived so before.”
“I suppose I am graver than other people,” said Fanny. “The evenings do
not appear long to me. I love to hear my uncle talk of the West Indies.
I could listen to him for an hour together. It entertains _me_ more
than many other things have done; but then I am unlike other people, I
dare say.”
“Why should you dare say _that_?” (smiling). “Do you want to be told
that you are only unlike other people in being more wise and discreet?
But when did you, or anybody, ever get a compliment from me, Fanny? Go
to my father if you want to be complimented. He will satisfy you. Ask
your uncle what he thinks, and you will hear compliments enough: and
though they may be chiefly on your person, you must put up with it, and
trust to his seeing as much beauty of mind in time.”
Such language was so new to Fanny that it quite embarrassed her.
“Your uncle thinks you very pretty, dear Fanny—and that is the long and
the short of the matter. Anybody but myself would have made something
more of it, and anybody but you would resent that you had not been
thought very pretty before; but the truth is, that your uncle never did
admire you till now—and now he does. Your complexion is so
improved!—and you have gained so much countenance!—and your figure—nay,
Fanny, do not turn away about it—it is but an uncle. If you cannot bear
an uncle’s admiration, what is to become of you? You must really begin
to harden yourself to the idea of being worth looking at. You must try
not to mind growing up into a pretty woman.”
“Oh! don’t talk so, don’t talk so,” cried Fanny, distressed by more
feelings than he was aware of; but seeing that she was distressed, he
had done with the subject, and only added more seriously—
“Your uncle is disposed to be pleased with you in every respect; and I
only wish you would talk to him more. You are one of those who are too
silent in the evening circle.”
“But I do talk to him more than I used. I am sure I do. Did not you
hear me ask him about the slave-trade last night?”
“I did—and was in hopes the question would be followed up by others. It
would have pleased your uncle to be inquired of farther.”
“And I longed to do it—but there was such a dead silence! And while my
cousins were sitting by without speaking a word, or seeming at all
interested in the subject, I did not like—I thought it would appear as
if I wanted to set myself off at their expense, by shewing a curiosity
and pleasure in his information which he must wish his own daughters to
feel.”
“Miss Crawford was very right in what she said of you the other day:
that you seemed almost as fearful of notice and praise as other women
were of neglect. We were talking of you at the Parsonage, and those
were her words. She has great discernment. I know nobody who
distinguishes characters better. For so young a woman it is remarkable!
She certainly understands _you_ better than you are understood by the
greater part of those who have known you so long; and with regard to
some others, I can perceive, from occasional lively hints, the
unguarded expressions of the moment, that she could define _many_ as
accurately, did not delicacy forbid it. I wonder what she thinks of my
father! She must admire him as a fine-looking man, with most
gentlemanlike, dignified, consistent manners; but perhaps, having seen
him so seldom, his reserve may be a little repulsive. Could they be
much together, I feel sure of their liking each other. He would enjoy
her liveliness and she has talents to value his powers. I wish they met
more frequently! I hope she does not suppose there is any dislike on
his side.”
“She must know herself too secure of the regard of all the rest of
you,” said Fanny, with half a sigh, “to have any such apprehension. And
Sir Thomas’s wishing just at first to be only with his family, is so
very natural, that she can argue nothing from that. After a little
while, I dare say, we shall be meeting again in the same sort of way,
allowing for the difference of the time of year.”
“This is the first October that she has passed in the country since her
infancy. I do not call Tunbridge or Cheltenham the country; and
November is a still more serious month, and I can see that Mrs. Grant
is very anxious for her not finding Mansfield dull as winter comes on.”
Fanny could have said a great deal, but it was safer to say nothing,
and leave untouched all Miss Crawford’s resources—her accomplishments,
her spirits, her importance, her friends, lest it should betray her
into any observations seemingly unhandsome. Miss Crawford’s kind
opinion of herself deserved at least a grateful forbearance, and she
began to talk of something else.
“To-morrow, I think, my uncle dines at Sotherton, and you and Mr.