Mansfield Park
she saw, across the lobby she had just reached, Edmund himself,
standing at the head of a different staircase. He came towards her.
“You look tired and fagged, Fanny. You have been walking too far.”
“No, I have not been out at all.”
“Then you have had fatigues within doors, which are worse. You had
better have gone out.”
Fanny, not liking to complain, found it easiest to make no answer; and
though he looked at her with his usual kindness, she believed he had
soon ceased to think of her countenance. He did not appear in spirits:
something unconnected with her was probably amiss. They proceeded
upstairs together, their rooms being on the same floor above.
“I come from Dr. Grant’s,” said Edmund presently. “You may guess my
errand there, Fanny.” And he looked so conscious, that Fanny could
think but of one errand, which turned her too sick for speech. “I
wished to engage Miss Crawford for the two first dances,” was the
explanation that followed, and brought Fanny to life again, enabling
her, as she found she was expected to speak, to utter something like an
inquiry as to the result.
“Yes,” he answered, “she is engaged to me; but” (with a smile that did
not sit easy) “she says it is to be the last time that she ever will
dance with me. She is not serious. I think, I hope, I am sure she is
not serious; but I would rather not hear it. She never has danced with
a clergyman, she says, and she never _will_. For my own sake, I could
wish there had been no ball just at—I mean not this very week, this
very day; to-morrow I leave home.”
Fanny struggled for speech, and said, “I am very sorry that anything
has occurred to distress you. This ought to be a day of pleasure. My
uncle meant it so.”
“Oh yes, yes! and it will be a day of pleasure. It will all end right.
I am only vexed for a moment. In fact, it is not that I consider the
ball as ill-timed; what does it signify? 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