Mansfield Park
the wish to do it. Her mind was in too much confusion. She had changed
her position; and, with her eyes fixed intently on one of the windows,
was listening to her uncle in the utmost perturbation and dismay. For a
moment he ceased, but she had barely become conscious of it, when,
rising from his chair, he said, “And now, Fanny, having performed one
part of my commission, and shewn you everything placed on a basis the
most assured and satisfactory, I may execute the remainder by
prevailing on you to accompany me downstairs, where, though I cannot
but presume on having been no unacceptable companion myself, I must
submit to your finding one still better worth listening to. Mr.
Crawford, as you have perhaps foreseen, is yet in the house. He is in
my room, and hoping to see you there.”
There was a look, a start, an exclamation on hearing this, which
astonished Sir Thomas; but what was his increase of astonishment on
hearing her exclaim—“Oh! no, sir, I cannot, indeed I cannot go down to
him. Mr. Crawford ought to know—he must know that: I told him enough
yesterday to convince him; he spoke to me on this subject yesterday,
and I told him without disguise that it was very disagreeable to me,
and quite out of my power to return his good opinion.”
“I do not catch your meaning,” said Sir Thomas, sitting down again.
“Out of your power to return his good opinion? What is all this? I know
he spoke to you yesterday, and (as far as I understand) received as
much encouragement to proceed as a well-judging young woman could
permit herself to give. I was very much pleased with what I collected
to have been your behaviour on the occasion; it shewed a discretion
highly to be commended. But now, when he has made his overtures so
properly, and honourably—what are your scruples _now_?”
“You are mistaken, sir,” cried Fanny, forced by the anxiety of the
moment even to tell her uncle that he was wrong; “you are quite
mistaken. How could Mr. Crawford say such a thing? I gave him no
encouragement yesterday. On the contrary, I told him, I cannot
recollect my exact words, but I am sure I told him that I would not
listen to him, that it was very unpleasant to me in every respect, and
that I begged him never to talk to me in that manner again. I am sure I
said as much as that and more; and I should have said still more, if I
had been quite certain of his meaning anything seriously; but I did not
like to be, I could not bear to be, imputing more than might be
intended. I thought it might all pass for nothing with _him_.”
She could say no more; her breath was almost gone.
“Am I to understand,” said Sir Thomas, after a few moments’ silence,
“that you mean to _refuse_ Mr. Crawford?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Refuse him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Refuse Mr. Crawford! Upon what plea? For what reason?”
“I—I cannot like him, sir, well enough to marry him.”
“This is very strange!” said Sir Thomas, in a voice of calm
displeasure. “There is something in this which my comprehension does
not reach. Here is a young man wishing to pay his addresses to you,
with everything to recommend him: not merely situation in life,
fortune, and character, but with more than common agreeableness, with
address and conversation pleasing to everybody. And he is not an
acquaintance of to-day; you have now known him some time. His sister,
moreover, is your intimate friend, and he has been doing _that_ for
your brother, which I should suppose would have been almost sufficient
recommendation to you, had there been no other. It is very uncertain
when my interest might have got William on. He has done it already.”
“Yes,” said Fanny, in a faint voice, and looking down with fresh shame;
and she did feel almost ashamed of herself, after such a picture as her
uncle had drawn, for not liking Mr. Crawford.
“You must have been aware,” continued Sir Thomas presently, “you must
have been some time aware of a particularity in Mr. Crawford’s manners
to you. This cannot have taken you by surprise. You must have observed
his attentions; and though you always received them very properly (I
have no accusation to make on that head), I never perceived them to be
unpleasant to you. I am half inclined to think, Fanny, that you do not
quite know your own feelings.”
“Oh yes, sir! indeed I do. His attentions were always—what I did not
like.”
Sir Thomas looked at her with deeper surprise. “This is beyond me,”
said he. “This requires explanation. Young as you are, and having seen
scarcely any one, it is hardly possible that your affections—”
He paused and eyed her fixedly. He saw her lips formed into a _no_,
though the sound was inarticulate, but her face was like scarlet. That,
however, in so modest a girl, might be very compatible with innocence;
and chusing at least to appear satisfied, he quickly added, “No, no, I
know _that_ is quite out of the question; quite impossible. Well, there
is nothing more to be said.”
And for a few minutes he did say nothing. He was deep in thought. His
niece was deep in thought likewise, trying to harden and prepare
herself against farther questioning. She would rather die than own the
truth; and she hoped, by a little reflection, to fortify herself beyond
betraying it.
“Independently of the interest which Mr. Crawford’s _choice_ seemed to
justify” said Sir Thomas, beginning again, and very composedly, “his
wishing to marry at all so early is recommendatory to me. I am an
advocate for early marriages, where there are means in proportion, and
would have every young man, with a sufficient income, settle as soon
after four-and-twenty as he can. This is so much my opinion, that I am
sorry to think how little likely my own eldest son, your cousin, Mr.
Bertram, is to marry early; but at present, as far as I can judge,
matrimony makes no part of his plans or thoughts. I wish he were more
likely to fix.” Here was a glance at Fanny. “Edmund, I consider, from
his dispositions and habits, as much more likely to marry early than
his brother. _He_, indeed, I have lately thought, has seen the woman he
could love, which, I am convinced, my eldest son has not. Am I right?
Do you agree with me, my dear?”
“Yes, sir.”
It was gently, but it was calmly said, and Sir Thomas was easy on the
score of the cousins. But the removal of his alarm did his niece no
service: as her unaccountableness was confirmed his displeasure
increased; and getting up and walking about the room with a frown,
which Fanny could picture to herself, though she dared not lift up her
eyes, he shortly afterwards, and in a voice of authority, said, “Have
you any reason, child, to think ill of Mr. Crawford’s temper?”
“No, sir.”
She longed to add, “But of his principles I have”; but her heart sunk
under the appalling prospect of discussion, explanation, and probably
non-conviction. Her ill opinion of him was founded chiefly on
observations, which, for her cousins’ sake, she could scarcely dare
mention to their father. Maria and Julia, and especially Maria, were so
closely implicated in Mr. Crawford’s misconduct, that she could not
give his character, such as she believed it, without betraying them.
She had hoped that, to a man like her uncle, so discerning, so
honourable, so good, the simple acknowledgment of settled _dislike_ on
her side would have been sufficient. To her infinite grief she found it
was not.
Sir Thomas came towards the table where she sat in trembling
wretchedness, and with a good deal of cold sternness, said, “It is of
no use, I perceive, to talk to you. We had better put an end to this
most mortifying conference. Mr. Crawford must not be kept longer
waiting. I will, therefore, only add, as thinking it my duty to mark my
opinion of your conduct, that you have disappointed every expectation I
had formed, and proved yourself of a character the very reverse of what
I had supposed. For I _had_, Fanny, as I think my behaviour must have
shewn, formed a very favourable opinion of you from the period of my
return to England. I had thought you peculiarly free from wilfulness of
temper, self-conceit, and every tendency to that independence of spirit
which prevails so much in modern days, even in young women, and which
in young women is offensive and disgusting beyond all common offence.
But you have now shewn me that you can be wilful and perverse; that you
can and will decide for yourself, without any consideration or
deference for those who have surely some right to guide you, without
even asking their advice. You have shewn yourself very, very different
from anything that I had imagined. The advantage or disadvantage of
your family, of your parents, your brothers and sisters, never seems to
have had a moment’s share in your thoughts on this occasion. How _they_
might be benefited, how _they_ must rejoice in such an establishment
for you, is nothing to _you_. You think only of yourself, and because
you do not feel for Mr. Crawford exactly what a young heated fancy
imagines to be necessary for happiness, you resolve to refuse him at
once, without wishing even for a little time to consider of it, a
little more time for cool consideration, and for really examining your
own inclinations; and are, in a wild fit of folly, throwing away from
you such an opportunity of being settled in life, eligibly, honourably,
nobly settled, as will, probably, never occur to you again. Here is a
young man of sense, of character, of temper, of manners, and of
fortune, exceedingly attached to you, and seeking your hand in the most
handsome and disinterested way; and let me tell you, Fanny, that you
may live eighteen years longer in the world without being addressed by
a man of half Mr. Crawford’s estate, or a tenth part of his merits.
Gladly would I have bestowed either of my own daughters on him. Maria
is nobly married; but had Mr. Crawford sought Julia’s hand, I should
have given it to him with superior and more heartfelt satisfaction than
I gave Maria’s to Mr. Rushworth.” After half a moment’s pause: “And I
should have been very much surprised had either of my daughters, on
receiving a proposal of marriage at any time which might carry with it
only _half_ the eligibility of _this_, immediately and peremptorily,
and without paying my opinion or my regard the compliment of any
consultation, put a decided negative on it. I should have been much
surprised and much hurt by such a proceeding. I should have thought it
a gross violation of duty and respect. _You_ are not to be judged by
the same rule. You do not owe me the duty of a child. But, Fanny, if
your heart can acquit you of _ingratitude_—”
He ceased. Fanny was by this time crying so bitterly that, angry as he
was, he would not press that article farther. Her heart was almost
broke by such a picture of what she appeared to him; by such
accusations, so heavy, so multiplied, so rising in dreadful gradation!
Self-willed, obstinate, selfish, and ungrateful. He thought her all
this. She had deceived his expectations; she had lost his good opinion.
What was to become of her?
“I am very sorry,” said she inarticulately, through her tears, “I am
very sorry indeed.”
“Sorry! yes, I hope you are sorry; and you will probably have reason to
be long sorry for this day’s transactions.”
“If it were possible for me to do otherwise” said she, with another
strong effort; “but I am so perfectly convinced that I could never make
him happy, and that I should be miserable myself.”
Another burst of tears; but in spite of that burst, and in spite of
that great black word _miserable_, which served to introduce it, Sir
Thomas began to think a little relenting, a little change of
inclination, might have something to do with it; and to augur
favourably from the personal entreaty of the young man himself. He knew