Mansfield Park
me than such an object would have detained me half the time from
Mansfield. But though my uncle entered into my wishes with all the
warmth I could desire, and exerted himself immediately, there were
difficulties from the absence of one friend, and the engagements of
another, which at last I could no longer bear to stay the end of, and
knowing in what good hands I left the cause, I came away on Monday,
trusting that many posts would not pass before I should be followed by
such very letters as these. My uncle, who is the very best man in the
world, has exerted himself, as I knew he would, after seeing your
brother. He was delighted with him. I would not allow myself yesterday
to say how delighted, or to repeat half that the Admiral said in his
praise. I deferred it all till his praise should be proved the praise
of a friend, as this day _does_ prove it. _Now_ I may say that even I
could not require William Price to excite a greater interest, or be
followed by warmer wishes and higher commendation, than were most
voluntarily bestowed by my uncle after the evening they had passed
together.”
“Has this been all _your_ doing, then?” cried Fanny. “Good heaven! how
very, very kind! Have you really—was it by _your_ desire? I beg your
pardon, but I am bewildered. Did Admiral Crawford apply? How was it? I
am stupefied.”
Henry was most happy to make it more intelligible, by beginning at an
earlier stage, and explaining very particularly what he had done. His
last journey to London had been undertaken with no other view than that
of introducing her brother in Hill Street, and prevailing on the
Admiral to exert whatever interest he might have for getting him on.
This had been his business. He had communicated it to no creature: he
had not breathed a syllable of it even to Mary; while uncertain of the
issue, he could not have borne any participation of his feelings, but
this had been his business; and he spoke with such a glow of what his
solicitude had been, and used such strong expressions, was so abounding
in the _deepest_ _interest_, in _twofold_ _motives_, in _views_ _and_
_wishes_ _more_ _than_ _could_ _be_ _told_, that Fanny could not have
remained insensible of his drift, had she been able to attend; but her
heart was so full and her senses still so astonished, that she could
listen but imperfectly even to what he told her of William, and saying
only when he paused, “How kind! how very kind! Oh, Mr. Crawford, we are
infinitely obliged to you! Dearest, dearest William!” She jumped up and
moved in haste towards the door, crying out, “I will go to my uncle. My
uncle ought to know it as soon as possible.” But this could not be
suffered. The opportunity was too fair, and his feelings too impatient.
He was after her immediately. “She must not go, she must allow him five
minutes longer,” and he took her hand and led her back to her seat, and
was in the middle of his farther explanation, before she had suspected
for what she was detained. When she did understand it, however, and
found herself expected to believe that she had created sensations which
his heart had never known before, and that everything he had done for
William was to be placed to the account of his excessive and unequalled
attachment to her, she was exceedingly distressed, and for some moments
unable to speak. She considered it all as nonsense, as mere trifling
and gallantry, which meant only to deceive for the hour; she could not
but feel that it was treating her improperly and unworthily, and in
such a way as she had not deserved; but it was like himself, and
entirely of a piece with what she had seen before; and she would not
allow herself to shew half the displeasure she felt, because he had
been conferring an obligation, which no want of delicacy on his part
could make a trifle to her. While her heart was still bounding with joy
and gratitude on William’s behalf, she could not be severely resentful
of anything that injured only herself; and after having twice drawn
back her hand, and twice attempted in vain to turn away from him, she
got up, and said only, with much agitation, “Don’t, Mr. Crawford, pray
don’t! I beg you would not. This is a sort of talking which is very
unpleasant to me. I must go away. I cannot bear it.” But he was still
talking on, describing his affection, soliciting a return, and,
finally, in words so plain as to bear but one meaning even to her,
offering himself, hand, fortune, everything, to her acceptance. It was
so; he had said it. Her astonishment and confusion increased; and
though still not knowing how to suppose him serious, she could hardly
stand. He pressed for an answer.
“No, no, no!” she cried, hiding her face. “This is all nonsense. Do not
distress me. I can hear no more of this. Your kindness to William makes
me more obliged to you than words can express; but I do not want, I
cannot bear, I must not listen to such—No, no, don’t think of me. But
you are _not_ thinking of me. I know it is all nothing.”
She had burst away from him, and at that moment Sir Thomas was heard
speaking to a servant in his way towards the room they were in. It was
no time for farther assurances or entreaty, though to part with her at
a moment when her modesty alone seemed, to his sanguine and preassured
mind, to stand in the way of the happiness he sought, was a cruel
necessity. She rushed out at an opposite door from the one her uncle
was approaching, and was walking up and down the East room in the
utmost confusion of contrary feeling, before Sir Thomas’s politeness or
apologies were over, or he had reached the beginning of the joyful
intelligence which his visitor came to communicate.
She was feeling, thinking, trembling about everything; agitated, happy,
miserable, infinitely obliged, absolutely angry. It was all beyond
belief! He was inexcusable, incomprehensible! But such were his habits
that he could do nothing without a mixture of evil. He had previously
made her the happiest of human beings, and now he had insulted—she knew
not what to say, how to class, or how to regard it. She would not have
him be serious, and yet what could excuse the use of such words and
offers, if they meant but to trifle?
But William was a lieutenant. _That_ was a fact beyond a doubt, and
without an alloy. She would think of it for ever and forget all the
rest. Mr. Crawford would certainly never address her so again: he must
have seen how unwelcome it was to her; and in that case, how gratefully
she could esteem him for his friendship to William!
She would not stir farther from the East room than the head of the
great staircase, till she had satisfied herself of Mr. Crawford’s
having left the house; but when convinced of his being gone, she was
eager to go down and be with her uncle, and have all the happiness of
his joy as well as her own, and all the benefit of his information or
his conjectures as to what would now be William’s destination. Sir
Thomas was as joyful as she could desire, and very kind and
communicative; and she had so comfortable a talk with him about William
as to make her feel as if nothing had occurred to vex her, till she
found, towards the close, that Mr. Crawford was engaged to return and
dine there that very day. This was a most unwelcome hearing, for though
he might think nothing of what had passed, it would be quite
distressing to her to see him again so soon.
She tried to get the better of it; tried very hard, as the dinner hour
approached, to feel and appear as usual; but it was quite impossible
for her not to look most shy and uncomfortable when their visitor
entered the room. She could not have supposed it in the power of any
concurrence of circumstances to give her so many painful sensations on
the first day of hearing of William’s promotion.
Mr. Crawford was not only in the room—he was soon close to her. He had
a note to deliver from his sister. Fanny could not look at him, but
there was no consciousness of past folly in his voice. She opened her
note immediately, glad to have anything to do, and happy, as she read
it, to feel that the fidgetings of her aunt Norris, who was also to
dine there, screened her a little from view.
“MY DEAR FANNY,—for so I may now always call you, to the infinite
relief of a tongue that has been stumbling at _Miss_ _Price_ for at
least the last six weeks—I cannot let my brother go without sending you
a few lines of general congratulation, and giving my most joyful
consent and approval. Go on, my dear Fanny, and without fear; there can
be no difficulties worth naming. I chuse to suppose that the assurance
of my consent will be something; so you may smile upon him with your
sweetest smiles this afternoon, and send him back to me even happier
than he goes.
Yours affectionately,
M. C.”
These were not expressions to do Fanny any good; for though she read in
too much haste and confusion to form the clearest judgment of Miss
Crawford’s meaning, it was evident that she meant to compliment her on
her brother’s attachment, and even to _appear_ to believe it serious.
She did not know what to do, or what to think. There was wretchedness
in the idea of its being serious; there was perplexity and agitation
every way. She was distressed whenever Mr. Crawford spoke to her, and
he spoke to her much too often; and she was afraid there was a
something in his voice and manner in addressing her very different from
what they were when he talked to the others. Her comfort in that day’s
dinner was quite destroyed: she could hardly eat anything; and when Sir
Thomas good-humouredly observed that joy had taken away her appetite,
she was ready to sink with shame, from the dread of Mr. Crawford’s
interpretation; for though nothing could have tempted her to turn her
eyes to the right hand, where he sat, she felt that _his_ were
immediately directed towards her.
She was more silent than ever. She would hardly join even when William
was the subject, for his commission came all from the right hand too,
and there was pain in the connexion.
She thought Lady Bertram sat longer than ever, and began to be in
despair of ever getting away; but at last they were in the
drawing-room, and she was able to think as she would, while her aunts
finished the subject of William’s appointment in their own style.
Mrs. Norris seemed as much delighted with the saving it would be to Sir
Thomas as with any part of it. “_Now_ William would be able to keep
himself, which would make a vast difference to his uncle, for it was
unknown how much he had cost his uncle; and, indeed, it would make some
difference in _her_ presents too. She was very glad that she had given
William what she did at parting, very glad, indeed, that it had been in
her power, without material inconvenience, just at that time to give
him something rather considerable; that is, for _her_, with _her_
limited means, for now it would all be useful in helping to fit up his
cabin. She knew he must be at some expense, that he would have many
things to buy, though to be sure his father and mother would be able to
put him in the way of getting everything very cheap; but she was very
glad she had contributed her mite towards it.”
“I am glad you gave him something considerable,” said Lady Bertram,
with most unsuspicious calmness, “for _I_ gave him only £10.”
“Indeed!” cried Mrs. Norris, reddening. “Upon my word, he must have
gone off with his pockets well lined, and at no expense for his journey
to London either!”
“Sir Thomas told me £10 would be enough.”
Mrs. Norris, being not at all inclined to question its sufficiency,
began to take the matter in another point.
“It is amazing,” said she, “how much young people cost their friends,
what with bringing them up and putting them out in the world! They