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 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 her to be very timid, and

exceedingly nervous; and thought it not improbable that her mind

might be in such a state as a little time, a little pressing, a little

patience, and a little impatience, a judicious mixture of all on the

lover's side, might work their usual effect on. If the gentleman would

but persevere, if he had but love enough to persevere, Sir Thomas began

to have hopes; and these reflections having passed across his mind and

cheered it, "Well," said he, in a tone of becoming gravity, but of less

anger, "well, child, dry up your tears. There is no use in these tears;

they can do no good. You must now come downstairs with me. Mr. Crawford

has been kept waiting too long already. You must give him your own

answer: we cannot expect him to be satisfied with less; and you only

can explain to him the grounds of that misconception of your sentiments,

which, unfortunately for himself, he certainly has imbibed. I am totally

unequal to it."

But Fanny shewed such reluctance, such misery, at the idea of going down

to him, that Sir Thomas, after a little consideration, judged it better

to indulge her. His hopes from both gentleman and lady suffered a small

depression in consequence; but when he looked at his niece, and saw the

state of feature and complexion which her crying had brought her

into, he thought there might be as much lost as gained by an immediate

interview. With a few words, therefore, of no particular meaning, he

walked off by himself, leaving his poor niece to sit and cry over what

had passed, with very wretched feelings.

Her mind was all disorder. The past, present, future, everything was

terrible. But her uncle's anger gave her the severest pain of all.

Selfish and ungrateful! to have appeared so to him! She was miserable

for ever. She had no one to take her part, to counsel, or speak for her.

Her only friend was absent. He might have softened his father; but all,

perhaps all, would think her selfish and ungrateful. She might have to

endure the reproach again and again; she might hear it, or see it, or

know it to exist for ever in every connexion about her. She could not

but feel some resentment against Mr. Crawford; yet, if he really loved

her, and were unhappy too! It was all wretchedness together.

In about a quarter of an hour her uncle returned; she was almost

ready to faint at the sight of him. He spoke calmly, however, without

austerity, without reproach, and she revived a little. There was

comfort, too, in his words, as well as his manner, for he began with,

"Mr. Crawford is gone: he has just left me. I need not repeat what has

passed. I do not want to add to anything you may now be feeling, by an

account of what he has felt. Suffice it, that he has behaved in the

most gentlemanlike and generous manner, and has confirmed me in a most

favourable opinion of his understanding, heart, and temper. Upon my

representation of what you were suffering, he immediately, and with the

greatest delicacy, ceased to urge to see you for the present."

Here Fanny, who had looked up, looked down again. "Of course," continued

her uncle, "it cannot be supposed but that he should request to speak

with you alone, be it only for five minutes; a request too natural,

a claim too just to be denied. But there is no time fixed; perhaps

to-morrow, or whenever your spirits are composed enough. For the present

you have only to tranquillise yourself. Check these tears; they do but

exhaust you. If, as I am willing to suppose, you wish to shew me any

observance, you will not give way to these emotions, but endeavour to

reason yourself into a stronger frame of mind. I advise you to go out:

the air will do you good; go out for an hour on the gravel; you will

have the shrubbery to yourself, and will be the better for air and

exercise. And, Fanny" (turning back again for a moment), "I shall make

no mention below of what has passed; I shall not even tell your aunt

Bertram. There is no occasion for spreading the disappointment; say

nothing about it yourself."

This was an order to be most joyfully obeyed; this was an act of

kindness which Fanny felt at her heart. To be spared from her aunt

Norris's interminable reproaches! he left her in a glow of gratitude.

Anything might be bearable rather than such reproaches. Even to see Mr.

Crawford would be less overpowering.

She walked out directly, as her uncle recommended, and followed his

advice throughout, as far as she could; did check her tears; did

earnestly try to compose her spirits and strengthen her mind. She wished

to prove to him that she did desire his comfort, and sought to regain

his favour; and he had given her another strong motive for exertion, in

keeping the whole affair from the knowledge of her aunts. Not to excite

suspicion by her look or manner was now an object worth attaining; and

she felt equal to almost anything that might save her from her aunt

Norris.

She was struck, quite struck, when, on returning from her walk and going

into the East room again, the first thing which caught her eye was a

fire lighted and burning. A fire! it seemed too much; just at that time

to be giving her such an indulgence was exciting even painful gratitude.

She wondered that Sir Thomas could have leisure to think of such a

trifle again; but she soon found, from the voluntary information of the

housemaid, who came in to attend it, that so it was to be every day. Sir

Thomas had given orders for it.

"I must be a brute, indeed, if I can be really ungrateful!" said she, in

soliloquy. "Heaven defend me from being ungrateful!"

She saw nothing more of her uncle, nor of her aunt Norris, till they met

at dinner. Her uncle's behaviour to her was then as nearly as possible

what it had been before; she was sure he did not mean there should be

any change, and that it was only her own conscience that could fancy

any; but her aunt was soon quarrelling with her; and when she found how

much and how unpleasantly her having only walked out without her aunt's

knowledge could be dwelt on, she felt all the reason she had to bless

the kindness which saved her from the same spirit of reproach, exerted

on a more momentous subject.

"If I had known you were going out, I should have got you just to go

as far as my house with some orders for Nanny," said she, "which I have

since, to my very great inconvenience, been obliged to go and carry

myself. I could very ill spare the time, and you might have saved me the

trouble, if you would only have been so good as to let us know you were

going out. It would have made no difference to you, I suppose, whether

you had walked in the shrubbery or gone to my house."

"I recommended the shrubbery to Fanny as the driest place," said Sir

Thomas.

"Oh!" said Mrs. Norris, with a moment's check, "that was very kind of

you, Sir Thomas; but you do not know how dry the path is to my house.

Fanny would have had quite as good a walk there, I assure you, with the

advantage of being of some use, and obliging her aunt: it is all her

fault. If she would but have let us know she was going out but there is

a something about Fanny, I have often observed it before--she likes to

go her own way to work; she does not like to be dictated to; she takes

her own independent walk whenever she can; she certainly has a little

spirit of secrecy, and independence, and nonsense, about her, which I

would advise her to get the better of."

As a general reflection on Fanny, Sir Thomas thought nothing could be

more unjust, though he had been so lately expressing the same sentiments

himself, and he tried to turn the conversation: tried repeatedly

before he could succeed; for Mrs. Norris had not discernment enough to

perceive, either now, or at any other time, to what degree he thought

well of his niece, or how very far he was from wishing to have his own

children's merits set off by the depreciation of hers. She was talking

_at_ Fanny, and resenting this private walk half through the dinner.

It was over, however, at last; and the evening set in with more

composure to Fanny, and more cheerfulness of spirits than she could

have hoped for after so stormy a morning; but she trusted, in the first

place, that she had done right: that her judgment had not misled her.

For the purity of her intentions she could answer; and she was willing

to hope, secondly, that her uncle's displeasure was abating, and would

abate farther as he considered the matter with more impartiality, and

felt, as a good man must feel, how wretched, and how unpardonable, how

hopeless, and how wicked it was to marry without affection.

When the meeting with which she was threatened for the morrow was past,

she could not but flatter herself that the subject would be finally

concluded, and Mr. Crawford once gone from Mansfield, that everything

would soon be as if no such subject had existed. She would not, could

not believe, that Mr. Crawford's affection for her could distress him

long; his mind was not of that sort. London would soon bring its cure.

In London he would soon learn to wonder at his infatuation, and be

thankful for the right reason in her which had saved him from its evil

consequences.

While Fanny's mind was engaged in these sort of hopes, her uncle was,

soon after tea, called out of the room; an occurrence too common to

strike her, and she thought nothing of it till the butler reappeared ten

minutes afterwards, and advancing decidedly towards herself, said,

"Sir Thomas wishes to speak with you, ma'am, in his own room." Then it

occurred to her what might be going on; a suspicion rushed over her mind

which drove the colour from her cheeks; but instantly rising, she was

preparing to obey, when Mrs. Norris called out, "Stay, stay, Fanny! what

are you about? where are you going? don't be in such a hurry. Depend

upon it, it is not you who are wanted; depend upon it, it is me"

(looking at the butler); "but you are so very eager to put yourself

forward. What should Sir Thomas want you for? It is me, Baddeley, you

mean; I am coming this moment. You mean me, Baddeley, I am sure; Sir

Thomas wants me, not Miss Price."

But Baddeley was stout. "No, ma'am, it is Miss Price; I am certain of

its being Miss Price." And there was a half-smile with the words, which

meant, "I do not think you would answer the purpose at all."

Mrs. Norris, much discontented, was obliged to compose herself to work

again; and Fanny, walking off in agitating consciousness, found herself,

as she anticipated, in another minute alone with Mr. Crawford.