Mansfield Park
“Oh! shame, shame! But never mind it, William” (her own cheeks in a
glow of indignation as she spoke). “It is not worth minding. It is no
reflection on _you_; it is no more than what the greatest admirals have
all experienced, more or less, in their time. You must think of that,
you must try to make up your mind to it as one of the hardships which
fall to every sailor’s share, like bad weather and hard living, only
with this advantage, that there will be an end to it, that there will
come a time when you will have nothing of that sort to endure. When you
are a lieutenant! only think, William, when you are a lieutenant, how
little you will care for any nonsense of this kind.”
“I begin to think I shall never be a lieutenant, Fanny. Everybody gets
made but me.”
“Oh! my dear William, do not talk so; do not be so desponding. My uncle
says nothing, but I am sure he will do everything in his power to get
you made. He knows, as well as you do, of what consequence it is.”
She was checked by the sight of her uncle much nearer to them than she
had any suspicion of, and each found it necessary to talk of something
else.
“Are you fond of dancing, Fanny?”
“Yes, very; only I am soon tired.”
“I should like to go to a ball with you and see you dance. Have you
never any balls at Northampton? I should like to see you dance, and I’d
dance with you if you _would_, for nobody would know who I was here,
and I should like to be your partner once more. We used to jump about
together many a time, did not we? when the hand-organ was in the
street? I am a pretty good dancer in my way, but I dare say you are a
better.” And turning to his uncle, who was now close to them, “Is not
Fanny a very good dancer, sir?”
Fanny, in dismay at such an unprecedented question, did not know which
way to look, or how to be prepared for the answer. Some very grave
reproof, or at least the coldest expression of indifference, must be
coming to distress her brother, and sink her to the ground. But, on the
contrary, it was no worse than, “I am sorry to say that I am unable to
answer your question. I have never seen Fanny dance since she was a
little girl; but I trust we shall both think she acquits herself like a
gentlewoman when we do see her, which, perhaps, we may have an
opportunity of doing ere long.”
“I have had the pleasure of seeing your sister dance, Mr. Price,” said
Henry Crawford, leaning forward, “and will engage to answer every
inquiry which you can make on the subject, to your entire satisfaction.
But I believe” (seeing Fanny looked distressed) “it must be at some
other time. There is _one_ person in company who does not like to have
Miss Price spoken of.”
True enough, he had once seen Fanny dance; and it was equally true that
he would now have answered for her gliding about with quiet, light
elegance, and in admirable time; but, in fact, he could not for the
life of him recall what her dancing had been, and rather took it for
granted that she had been present than remembered anything about her.
He passed, however, for an admirer of her dancing; and Sir Thomas, by
no means displeased, prolonged the conversation on dancing in general,
and was so well engaged in describing the balls of Antigua, and
listening to what his nephew could relate of the different modes of
dancing which had fallen within his observation, that he had not heard
his carriage announced, and was first called to the knowledge of it by
the bustle of Mrs. Norris.
“Come, Fanny, Fanny, what are you about? We are going. Do not you see
your aunt is going? Quick, quick! I cannot bear to keep good old Wilcox
waiting. You should always remember the coachman and horses. My dear
Sir Thomas, we have settled it that the carriage should come back for
you, and Edmund and William.”
Sir Thomas could not dissent, as it had been his own arrangement,
previously communicated to his wife and sister; but _that_ seemed
forgotten by Mrs. Norris, who must fancy that she settled it all
herself.
Fanny’s last feeling in the visit was disappointment: for the shawl
which Edmund was quietly taking from the servant to bring and put round
her shoulders was seized by Mr. Crawford’s quicker hand, and she was
obliged to be indebted to his more prominent attention.
CHAPTER XXVI
William’s desire of seeing Fanny dance made more than a momentary
impression on his uncle. The hope of an opportunity, which Sir Thomas
had then given, was not given to be thought of no more. He remained
steadily inclined to gratify so amiable a feeling; to gratify anybody
else who might wish to see Fanny dance, and to give pleasure to the
young people in general; and having thought the matter over, and taken
his resolution in quiet independence, the result of it appeared the
next morning at breakfast, when, after recalling and commending what
his nephew had said, he added, “I do not like, William, that you should
leave Northamptonshire without this indulgence. It would give me
pleasure to see you both dance. You spoke of the balls at Northampton.
Your cousins have occasionally attended them; but they would not
altogether suit us now. The fatigue would be too much for your aunt. I
believe we must not think of a Northampton ball. A dance at home would
be more eligible; and if—”
“Ah, my dear Sir Thomas!” interrupted Mrs. Norris, “I knew what was
coming. I knew what you were going to say. If dear Julia were at home,
or dearest Mrs. Rushworth at Sotherton, to afford a reason, an occasion
for such a thing, you would be tempted to give the young people a dance
at Mansfield. I know you would. If _they_ were at home to grace the
ball, a ball you would have this very Christmas. Thank your uncle,
William, thank your uncle!”
“My daughters,” replied Sir Thomas, gravely interposing, “have their
pleasures at Brighton, and I hope are very happy; but the dance which I
think of giving at Mansfield will be for their cousins. Could we be all
assembled, our satisfaction would undoubtedly be more complete, but the
absence of some is not to debar the others of amusement.”
Mrs. Norris had not another word to say. She saw decision in his looks,
and her surprise and vexation required some minutes’ silence to be
settled into composure. A ball at such a time! His daughters absent and
herself not consulted! There was comfort, however, soon at hand. _She_
must be the doer of everything: Lady Bertram would of course be spared
all thought and exertion, and it would all fall upon _her_. She should
have to do the honours of the evening; and this reflection quickly
restored so much of her good-humour as enabled her to join in with the
others, before their happiness and thanks were all expressed.
Edmund, William, and Fanny did, in their different ways, look and speak
as much grateful pleasure in the promised ball as Sir Thomas could
desire. Edmund’s feelings were for the other two. His father had never
conferred a favour or shewn a kindness more to his satisfaction.
Lady Bertram was perfectly quiescent and contented, and had no
objections to make. Sir Thomas engaged for its giving her very little
trouble; and she assured him “that she was not at all afraid of the
trouble; indeed, she could not imagine there would be any.”
Mrs. Norris was ready with her suggestions as to the rooms he would
think fittest to be used, but found it all prearranged; and when she
would have conjectured and hinted about the day, it appeared that the
day was settled too. Sir Thomas had been amusing himself with shaping a
very complete outline of the business; and as soon as she would listen
quietly, could read his list of the families to be invited, from whom
he calculated, with all necessary allowance for the shortness of the
notice, to collect young people enough to form twelve or fourteen
couple: and could detail the considerations which had induced him to
fix on the 22nd as the most eligible day. William was required to be at
Portsmouth on the 24th; the 22nd would therefore be the last day of his
visit; but where the days were so few it would be unwise to fix on any
earlier. Mrs. Norris was obliged to be satisfied with thinking just the
same, and with having been on the point of proposing the 22nd herself,
as by far the best day for the purpose.
The ball was now a settled thing, and before the evening a proclaimed
thing to all whom it concerned. Invitations were sent with despatch,
and many a young lady went to bed that night with her head full of
happy cares as well as Fanny. To her the cares were sometimes almost
beyond the happiness; for young and inexperienced, with small means of
choice and no confidence in her own taste, the “how she should be
dressed” was a point of painful solicitude; and the almost solitary
ornament in her possession, a very pretty amber cross which William had
brought her from Sicily, was the greatest distress of all, for she had
nothing but a bit of ribbon to fasten it to; and though she had worn it
in that manner once, would it be allowable at such a time in the midst
of all the rich ornaments which she supposed all the other young ladies
would appear in? And yet not to wear it! William had wanted to buy her
a gold chain too, but the purchase had been beyond his means, and
therefore not to wear the cross might be mortifying him. These were
anxious considerations; enough to sober her spirits even under the
prospect of a ball given principally for her gratification.
The preparations meanwhile went on, and Lady Bertram continued to sit
on her sofa without any inconvenience from them. She had some extra
visits from the housekeeper, and her maid was rather hurried in making
up a new dress for her: Sir Thomas gave orders, and Mrs. Norris ran
about; but all this gave _her_ no trouble, and as she had foreseen,
“there was, in fact, no trouble in the business.”
Edmund was at this time particularly full of cares: his mind being
deeply occupied in the consideration of two important events now at
hand, which were to fix his fate in life—ordination and
matrimony—events of such a serious character as to make the ball, which
would be very quickly followed by one of them, appear of less moment in
his eyes than in those of any other person in the house. On the 23rd he
was going to a friend near Peterborough, in the same situation as
himself, and they were to receive ordination in the course of the
Christmas week. Half his destiny would then be determined, but the
other half might not be so very smoothly wooed. His duties would be
established, but the wife who was to share, and animate, and reward
those duties, might yet be unattainable. He knew his own mind, but he
was not always perfectly assured of knowing Miss Crawford’s. There were
points on which they did not quite agree; there were moments in which
she did not seem propitious; and though trusting altogether to her
affection, so far as to be resolved—almost resolved—on bringing it to a
decision within a very short time, as soon as the variety of business
before him were arranged, and he knew what he had to offer her, he had
many anxious feelings, many doubting hours as to the result. His
conviction of her regard for him was sometimes very strong; he could
look back on a long course of encouragement, and she was as perfect in
disinterested attachment as in everything else. But at other times
doubt and alarm intermingled with his hopes; and when he thought of her
acknowledged disinclination for privacy and retirement, her decided
preference of a London life, what could he expect but a determined
rejection? unless it were an acceptance even more to be deprecated,
demanding such sacrifices of situation and employment on his side as
conscience must forbid.
The issue of all depended on one question. Did she love him well enough