Mansfield Park
momentary seriousness, “She is too good for him—much too good.” And
then changing his tone again to one of gentle gallantry, and addressing
Fanny, he said, “You were Mr. Rushworth’s best friend. Your kindness
and patience can never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience in
trying to make it possible for him to learn his part—in trying to give
him a brain which nature had denied—to mix up an understanding for him
out of the superfluity of your own! _He_ might not have sense enough
himself to estimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had
honour from all the rest of the party.”
Fanny coloured, and said nothing.
“It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!” he exclaimed, breaking forth
again, after a few minutes’ musing. “I shall always look back on our
theatricals with exquisite pleasure. There was such an interest, such
an animation, such a spirit diffused. Everybody felt it. We were all
alive. There was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every hour
of the day. Always some little objection, some little doubt, some
little anxiety to be got over. I never was happier.”
With silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself, “Never
happier!—never happier than when doing what you must know was not
justifiable!—never happier than when behaving so dishonourably and
unfeelingly! Oh! what a corrupted mind!”
“We were unlucky, Miss Price,” he continued, in a lower tone, to avoid
the possibility of being heard by Edmund, and not at all aware of her
feelings, “we certainly were very unlucky. Another week, only one other
week, would have been enough for us. I think if we had had the disposal
of events—if Mansfield Park had had the government of the winds just
for a week or two, about the equinox, there would have been a
difference. Not that we would have endangered his safety by any
tremendous weather—but only by a steady contrary wind, or a calm. I
think, Miss Price, we would have indulged ourselves with a week’s calm
in the Atlantic at that season.”
He seemed determined to be answered; and Fanny, averting her face,
said, with a firmer tone than usual, “As far as _I_ am concerned, sir,
I would not have delayed his return for a day. My uncle disapproved it
all so entirely when he did arrive, that in my opinion everything had
gone quite far enough.”
She had never spoken so much at once to him in her life before, and
never so angrily to any one; and when her speech was over, she trembled
and blushed at her own daring. He was surprised; but after a few
moments’ silent consideration of her, replied in a calmer, graver tone,
and as if the candid result of conviction, “I believe you are right. It
was more pleasant than prudent. We were getting too noisy.” And then
turning the conversation, he would have engaged her on some other
subject, but her answers were so shy and reluctant that he could not
advance in any.
Miss Crawford, who had been repeatedly eyeing Dr. Grant and Edmund, now
observed, “Those gentlemen must have some very interesting point to
discuss.”
“The most interesting in the world,” replied her brother—“how to make
money; how to turn a good income into a better. Dr. Grant is giving
Bertram instructions about the living he is to step into so soon. I
find he takes orders in a few weeks. They were at it in the
dining-parlour. I am glad to hear Bertram will be so well off. He will
have a very pretty income to make ducks and drakes with, and earned
without much trouble. I apprehend he will not have less than seven
hundred a year. Seven hundred a year is a fine thing for a younger
brother; and as of course he will still live at home, it will be all
for his _menus_ _plaisirs_; and a sermon at Christmas and Easter, I
suppose, will be the sum total of sacrifice.”
His sister tried to laugh off her feelings by saying, “Nothing amuses
me more than the easy manner with which everybody settles the abundance
of those who have a great deal less than themselves. You would look
rather blank, Henry, if your _menus_ _plaisirs_ were to be limited to
seven hundred a year.”
“Perhaps I might; but all _that_ you know is entirely comparative.
Birthright and habit must settle the business. Bertram is certainly
well off for a cadet of even a baronet’s family. By the time he is four
or five and twenty he will have seven hundred a year, and nothing to do
for it.”
Miss Crawford _could_ have said that there would be a something to do
and to suffer for it, which she could not think lightly of; but she
checked herself and let it pass; and tried to look calm and unconcerned
when the two gentlemen shortly afterwards joined them.
“Bertram,” said Henry Crawford, “I shall make a point of coming to
Mansfield to hear you preach your first sermon. I shall come on purpose
to encourage a young beginner. When is it to be? Miss Price, will not
you join me in encouraging your cousin? Will not you engage to attend
with your eyes steadily fixed on him the whole time—as I shall do—not
to lose a word; or only looking off just to note down any sentence
preeminently beautiful? We will provide ourselves with tablets and a
pencil. When will it be? You must preach at Mansfield, you know, that
Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram may hear you.”
“I shall keep clear of you, Crawford, as long as I can,” said Edmund;
“for you would be more likely to disconcert me, and I should be more
sorry to see you trying at it than almost any other man.”
“Will he not feel this?” thought Fanny. “No, he can feel nothing as he
ought.”
The party being now all united, and the chief talkers attracting each
other, she remained in tranquillity; and as a whist-table was formed
after tea—formed really for the amusement of Dr. Grant, by his
attentive wife, though it was not to be supposed so—and Miss Crawford
took her harp, she had nothing to do but to listen; and her
tranquillity remained undisturbed the rest of the evening, except when
Mr. Crawford now and then addressed to her a question or observation,
which she could not avoid answering. Miss Crawford was too much vexed
by what had passed to be in a humour for anything but music. With that
she soothed herself and amused her friend.
The assurance of Edmund’s being so soon to take orders, coming upon her
like a blow that had been suspended, and still hoped uncertain and at a
distance, was felt with resentment and mortification. She was very
angry with him. She had thought her influence more. She _had_ begun to
think of him; she felt that she had, with great regard, with almost
decided intentions; but she would now meet him with his own cool
feelings. It was plain that he could have no serious views, no true
attachment, by fixing himself in a situation which he must know she
would never stoop to. She would learn to match him in his indifference.
She would henceforth admit his attentions without any idea beyond
immediate amusement. If _he_ could so command his affections, _hers_
should do her no harm.
CHAPTER XXIV
Henry Crawford had quite made up his mind by the next morning to give
another fortnight to Mansfield, and having sent for his hunters, and
written a few lines of explanation to the Admiral, he looked round at
his sister as he sealed and threw the letter from him, and seeing the
coast clear of the rest of the family, said, with a smile, “And how do
you think I mean to amuse myself, Mary, on the days that I do not hunt?
I am grown too old to go out more than three times a week; but I have a
plan for the intermediate days, and what do you think it is?”
“To walk and ride with me, to be sure.”
“Not exactly, though I shall be happy to do both, but _that_ would be
exercise only to my body, and I must take care of my mind. Besides,
_that_ would be all recreation and indulgence, without the wholesome
alloy of labour, and I do not like to eat the bread of idleness. No, my
plan is to make Fanny Price in love with me.”
“Fanny Price! Nonsense! No, no. You ought to be satisfied with her two
cousins.”
“But I cannot be satisfied without Fanny Price, without making a small
hole in Fanny Price’s heart. You do not seem properly aware of her
claims to notice. When we talked of her last night, you none of you
seemed sensible of the wonderful improvement that has taken place in
her looks within the last six weeks. You see her every day, and
therefore do not notice it; but I assure you she is quite a different
creature from what she was in the autumn. She was then merely a quiet,
modest, not plain-looking girl, but she is now absolutely pretty. I
used to think she had neither complexion nor countenance; but in that
soft skin of hers, so frequently tinged with a blush as it was
yesterday, there is decided beauty; and from what I observed of her
eyes and mouth, I do not despair of their being capable of expression
enough when she has anything to express. And then, her air, her manner,
her _tout_ _ensemble_, is so indescribably improved! She must be grown
two inches, at least, since October.”
“Phoo! phoo! This is only because there were no tall women to compare
her with, and because she has got a new gown, and you never saw her so
well dressed before. She is just what she was in October, believe me.
The truth is, that she was the only girl in company for you to notice,
and you must have a somebody. I have always thought her pretty—not
strikingly pretty—but ‘pretty enough,’ as people say; a sort of beauty
that grows on one. Her eyes should be darker, but she has a sweet
smile; but as for this wonderful degree of improvement, I am sure it
may all be resolved into a better style of dress, and your having
nobody else to look at; and therefore, if you do set about a flirtation
with her, you never will persuade me that it is in compliment to her
beauty, or that it proceeds from anything but your own idleness and
folly.”
Her brother gave only a smile to this accusation, and soon afterwards
said, “I do not quite know what to make of Miss Fanny. I do not
understand her. I could not tell what she would be at yesterday. What
is her character? Is she solemn? Is she queer? Is she prudish? Why did
she draw back and look so grave at me? I could hardly get her to speak.
I never was so long in company with a girl in my life, trying to
entertain her, and succeed so ill! Never met with a girl who looked so
grave on me! I must try to get the better of this. Her looks say, ‘I
will not like you, I am determined not to like you’; and I say she
shall.”
“Foolish fellow! And so this is her attraction after all! This it is,
her not caring about you, which gives her such a soft skin, and makes
her so much taller, and produces all these charms and graces! I do
desire that you will not be making her really unhappy; a _little_ love,
perhaps, may animate and do her good, but I will not have you plunge
her deep, for she is as good a little creature as ever lived, and has a
great deal of feeling.”
“It can be but for a fortnight,” said Henry; “and if a fortnight can
kill her, she must have a constitution which nothing could save. No, I
will not do her any harm, dear little soul! I only want her to look
kindly on me, to give me smiles as well as blushes, to keep a chair for
me by herself wherever we are, and be all animation when I take it and
talk to her; to think as I think, be interested in all my possessions
and pleasures, try to keep me longer at Mansfield, and feel when I go
away that she shall be never happy again. I want nothing more.”
“Moderation itself!” said Mary. “I can have no scruples now. Well, you
will have opportunities enough of endeavouring to recommend yourself,
for we are a great deal together.”
And without attempting any farther remonstrance, she left Fanny to her
fate, a fate which, had not Fanny’s heart been guarded in a way