Mansfield Park
little think how much it comes to, or what their parents, or their
uncles and aunts, pay for them in the course of the year. Now, here are
my sister Price’s children; take them all together, I dare say nobody
would believe what a sum they cost Sir Thomas every year, to say
nothing of what _I_ do for them.”
“Very true, sister, as you say. But, poor things! they cannot help it;
and you know it makes very little difference to Sir Thomas. Fanny,
William must not forget my shawl if he goes to the East Indies; and I
shall give him a commission for anything else that is worth having. I
wish he may go to the East Indies, that I may have my shawl. I think I
will have two shawls, Fanny.”
Fanny, meanwhile, speaking only when she could not help it, was very
earnestly trying to understand what Mr. and Miss Crawford were at.
There was everything in the world _against_ their being serious but his
words and manner. Everything natural, probable, reasonable, was against
it; all their habits and ways of thinking, and all her own demerits.
How could _she_ have excited serious attachment in a man who had seen
so many, and been admired by so many, and flirted with so many,
infinitely her superiors; who seemed so little open to serious
impressions, even where pains had been taken to please him; who thought
so slightly, so carelessly, so unfeelingly on all such points; who was
everything to everybody, and seemed to find no one essential to him?
And farther, how could it be supposed that his sister, with all her
high and worldly notions of matrimony, would be forwarding anything of
a serious nature in such a quarter? Nothing could be more unnatural in
either. Fanny was ashamed of her own doubts. Everything might be
possible rather than serious attachment, or serious approbation of it
toward her. She had quite convinced herself of this before Sir Thomas
and Mr. Crawford joined them. The difficulty was in maintaining the
conviction quite so absolutely after Mr. Crawford was in the room; for
once or twice a look seemed forced on her which she did not know how to
class among the common meaning; in any other man, at least, she would
have said that it meant something very earnest, very pointed. But she
still tried to believe it no more than what he might often have
expressed towards her cousins and fifty other women.
She thought he was wishing to speak to her unheard by the rest. She
fancied he was trying for it the whole evening at intervals, whenever
Sir Thomas was out of the room, or at all engaged with Mrs. Norris, and
she carefully refused him every opportunity.
At last—it seemed an at last to Fanny’s nervousness, though not
remarkably late—he began to talk of going away; but the comfort of the
sound was impaired by his turning to her the next moment, and saying,
“Have you nothing to send to Mary? No answer to her note? She will be
disappointed if she receives nothing from you. Pray write to her, if it
be only a line.”
“Oh yes! certainly,” cried Fanny, rising in haste, the haste of
embarrassment and of wanting to get away—“I will write directly.”
She went accordingly to the table, where she was in the habit of
writing for her aunt, and prepared her materials without knowing what
in the world to say. She had read Miss Crawford’s note only once, and
how to reply to anything so imperfectly understood was most
distressing. Quite unpractised in such sort of note-writing, had there
been time for scruples and fears as to style she would have felt them
in abundance: but something must be instantly written; and with only
one decided feeling, that of wishing not to appear to think anything
really intended, she wrote thus, in great trembling both of spirits and
hand—
“I am very much obliged to you, my dear Miss Crawford, for your kind
congratulations, as far as they relate to my dearest William. The rest
of your note I know means nothing; but I am so unequal to anything of
the sort, that I hope you will excuse my begging you to take no farther
notice. I have seen too much of Mr. Crawford not to understand his
manners; if he understood me as well, he would, I dare say, behave
differently. I do not know what I write, but it would be a great favour
of you never to mention the subject again. With thanks for the honour
of your note,
I remain, dear Miss Crawford,
&c., &c.”
The conclusion was scarcely intelligible from increasing fright, for
she found that Mr. Crawford, under pretence of receiving the note, was
coming towards her.
“You cannot think I mean to hurry you,” said he, in an undervoice,
perceiving the amazing trepidation with which she made up the note,
“you cannot think I have any such object. Do not hurry yourself, I
entreat.”
“Oh! I thank you; I have quite done, just done; it will be ready in a
moment; I am very much obliged to you; if you will be so good as to
give _that_ to Miss Crawford.”
The note was held out, and must be taken; and as she instantly and with
averted eyes walked towards the fireplace, where sat the others, he had
nothing to do but to go in good earnest.
Fanny thought she had never known a day of greater agitation, both of
pain and pleasure; but happily the pleasure was not of a sort to die
with the day; for every day would restore the knowledge of William’s
advancement, whereas the pain, she hoped, would return no more. She had
no doubt that her note must appear excessively ill-written, that the
language would disgrace a child, for her distress had allowed no
arrangement; but at least it would assure them both of her being
neither imposed on nor gratified by Mr. Crawford’s attentions.
CHAPTER XXXII
Fanny had by no means forgotten Mr. Crawford when she awoke the next
morning; but she remembered the purport of her note, and was not less
sanguine as to its effect than she had been the night before. If Mr.
Crawford would but go away! That was what she most earnestly desired:
go and take his sister with him, as he was to do, and as he returned to
Mansfield on purpose to do. And why it was not done already she could
not devise, for Miss Crawford certainly wanted no delay. Fanny had
hoped, in the course of his yesterday’s visit, to hear the day named;
but he had only spoken of their journey as what would take place ere
long.
Having so satisfactorily settled the conviction her note would convey,
she could not but be astonished to see Mr. Crawford, as she
accidentally did, coming up to the house again, and at an hour as early
as the day before. His coming might have nothing to do with her, but
she must avoid seeing him if possible; and being then on her way
upstairs, she resolved there to remain, during the whole of his visit,
unless actually sent for; and as Mrs. Norris was still in the house,
there seemed little danger of her being wanted.
She sat some time in a good deal of agitation, listening, trembling,
and fearing to be sent for every moment; but as no footsteps approached
the East room, she grew gradually composed, could sit down, and be able
to employ herself, and able to hope that Mr. Crawford had come and
would go without her being obliged to know anything of the matter.
Nearly half an hour had passed, and she was growing very comfortable,
when suddenly the sound of a step in regular approach was heard; a
heavy step, an unusual step in that part of the house: it was her
uncle’s; she knew it as well as his voice; she had trembled at it as
often, and began to tremble again, at the idea of his coming up to
speak to her, whatever might be the subject. It was indeed Sir Thomas
who opened the door and asked if she were there, and if he might come
in. The terror of his former occasional visits to that room seemed all
renewed, and she felt as if he were going to examine her again in
French and English.
She was all attention, however, in placing a chair for him, and trying
to appear honoured; and, in her agitation, had quite overlooked the
deficiencies of her apartment, till he, stopping short as he entered,
said, with much surprise, “Why have you no fire to-day?”
There was snow on the ground, and she was sitting in a shawl. She
hesitated.
“I am not cold, sir: I never sit here long at this time of year.”
“But you have a fire in general?”
“No, sir.”
“How comes this about? Here must be some mistake. I understood that you
had the use of this room by way of making you perfectly comfortable. In
your bedchamber I know you _cannot_ have a fire. Here is some great
misapprehension which must be rectified. It is highly unfit for you to
sit, be it only half an hour a day, without a fire. You are not strong.
You are chilly. Your aunt cannot be aware of this.”
Fanny would rather have been silent; but being obliged to speak, she
could not forbear, in justice to the aunt she loved best, from saying
something in which the words “my aunt Norris” were distinguishable.
“I understand,” cried her uncle, recollecting himself, and not wanting
to hear more: “I understand. Your aunt Norris has always been an
advocate, and very judiciously, for young people’s being brought up
without unnecessary indulgences; but there should be moderation in
everything. She is also very hardy herself, which of course will
influence her in her opinion of the wants of others. And on another
account, too, I can perfectly comprehend. I know what her sentiments
have always been. The principle was good in itself, but it may have
been, and I believe _has_ _been_, carried too far in your case. I am
aware that there has been sometimes, in some points, a misplaced
distinction; but I think too well of you, Fanny, to suppose you will
ever harbour resentment on that account. You have an understanding
which will prevent you from receiving things only in part, and judging
partially by the event. You will take in the whole of the past, you
will consider times, persons, and probabilities, and you will feel that
_they_ were not least your friends who were educating and preparing you
for that mediocrity of condition which _seemed_ to be your lot. Though
their caution may prove eventually unnecessary, it was kindly meant;
and of this you may be assured, that every advantage of affluence will
be doubled by the little privations and restrictions that may have been
imposed. I am sure you will not disappoint my opinion of you, by
failing at any time to treat your aunt Norris with the respect and
attention that are due to her. But enough of this. Sit down, my dear. I
must speak to you for a few minutes, but I will not detain you long.”
Fanny obeyed, with eyes cast down and colour rising. After a moment’s
pause, Sir Thomas, trying to suppress a smile, went on.
“You are not aware, perhaps, that I have had a visitor this morning. I
had not been long in my own room, after breakfast, when Mr. Crawford
was shewn in. His errand you may probably conjecture.”
Fanny’s colour grew deeper and deeper; and her uncle, perceiving that
she was embarrassed to a degree that made either speaking or looking up
quite impossible, turned away his own eyes, and without any farther
pause proceeded in his account of Mr. Crawford’s visit.
Mr. Crawford’s business had been to declare himself the lover of Fanny,
make decided proposals for her, and entreat the sanction of the uncle,
who seemed to stand in the place of her parents; and he had done it all
so well, so openly, so liberally, so properly, that Sir Thomas,
feeling, moreover, his own replies, and his own remarks to have been
very much to the purpose, was exceedingly happy to give the particulars
of their conversation; and little aware of what was passing in his
niece’s mind, conceived that by such details he must be gratifying her
far more than himself. He talked, therefore, for several minutes
without Fanny’s daring to interrupt him. She had hardly even attained