CHAPTER XXXVI

Edmund now believed himself perfectly acquainted with all that Fanny

could tell, or could leave to be conjectured of her sentiments, and he

was satisfied. It had been, as he before presumed, too hasty a measure

on Crawford's side, and time must be given to make the idea first

familiar, and then agreeable to her. She must be used to the

consideration of his being in love with her, and then a return of

affection might not be very distant.

He gave this opinion as the result of the conversation to his father;

and recommended there being nothing more said to her: no farther

attempts to influence or persuade; but that everything should be left to

Crawford's assiduities, and the natural workings of her own mind.

Sir Thomas promised that it should be so. Edmund's account of Fanny's

disposition he could believe to be just; he supposed she had all those

feelings, but he must consider it as very unfortunate that she _had_;

for, less willing than his son to trust to the future, he could not

help fearing that if such very long allowances of time and habit were

necessary for her, she might not have persuaded herself into receiving

his addresses properly before the young man's inclination for paying

them were over. There was nothing to be done, however, but to submit

quietly and hope the best.

The promised visit from "her friend," as Edmund called Miss Crawford,

was a formidable threat to Fanny, and she lived in continual terror of

it. As a sister, so partial and so angry, and so little scrupulous of

what she said, and in another light so triumphant and secure, she was in

every way an object of painful alarm. Her displeasure, her penetration,

and her happiness were all fearful to encounter; and the dependence of

having others present when they met was Fanny's only support in looking

forward to it. She absented herself as little as possible from Lady

Bertram, kept away from the East room, and took no solitary walk in the

shrubbery, in her caution to avoid any sudden attack.

She succeeded. She was safe in the breakfast-room, with her aunt, when

Miss Crawford did come; and the first misery over, and Miss Crawford

looking and speaking with much less particularity of expression than she

had anticipated, Fanny began to hope there would be nothing worse to be

endured than a half-hour of moderate agitation. But here she hoped too

much; Miss Crawford was not the slave of opportunity. She was determined

to see Fanny alone, and therefore said to her tolerably soon, in a low

voice, "I must speak to you for a few minutes somewhere"; words that

Fanny felt all over her, in all her pulses and all her nerves. Denial

was impossible. Her habits of ready submission, on the contrary, made

her almost instantly rise and lead the way out of the room. She did it

with wretched feelings, but it was inevitable.

They were no sooner in the hall than all restraint of countenance was

over on Miss Crawford's side. She immediately shook her head at Fanny

with arch, yet affectionate reproach, and taking her hand, seemed hardly

able to help beginning directly. She said nothing, however, but, "Sad,

sad girl! I do not know when I shall have done scolding you," and had

discretion enough to reserve the rest till they might be secure of

having four walls to themselves. Fanny naturally turned upstairs, and

took her guest to the apartment which was now always fit for comfortable

use; opening the door, however, with a most aching heart, and feeling

that she had a more distressing scene before her than ever that spot had

yet witnessed. But the evil ready to burst on her was at least delayed

by the sudden change in Miss Crawford's ideas; by the strong effect on

her mind which the finding herself in the East room again produced.

"Ha!" she cried, with instant animation, "am I here again? The East

room! Once only was I in this room before"; and after stopping to look

about her, and seemingly to retrace all that had then passed, she added,

"Once only before. Do you remember it? I came to rehearse. Your cousin

came too; and we had a rehearsal. You were our audience and prompter.

A delightful rehearsal. I shall never forget it. Here we were, just in

this part of the room: here was your cousin, here was I, here were the

chairs. Oh! why will such things ever pass away?"

Happily for her companion, she wanted no answer. Her mind was entirely

self-engrossed. She was in a reverie of sweet remembrances.

"The scene we were rehearsing was so very remarkable! The subject of

it so very--very--what shall I say? He was to be describing and

recommending matrimony to me. I think I see him now, trying to be as

demure and composed as Anhalt ought, through the two long speeches.

'When two sympathetic hearts meet in the marriage state, matrimony

may be called a happy life.' I suppose no time can ever wear out the

impression I have of his looks and voice as he said those words. It was

curious, very curious, that we should have such a scene to play! If I

had the power of recalling any one week of my existence, it should be

that week--that acting week. Say what you would, Fanny, it should be

_that_; for I never knew such exquisite happiness in any other. His

sturdy spirit to bend as it did! Oh! it was sweet beyond expression. But

alas, that very evening destroyed it all. That very evening brought your

most unwelcome uncle. Poor Sir Thomas, who was glad to see you? Yet,

Fanny, do not imagine I would now speak disrespectfully of Sir Thomas,

though I certainly did hate him for many a week. No, I do him justice

now. He is just what the head of such a family should be. Nay, in sober

sadness, I believe I now love you all." And having said so, with a

degree of tenderness and consciousness which Fanny had never seen in her

before, and now thought only too becoming, she turned away for a moment

to recover herself. "I have had a little fit since I came into this

room, as you may perceive," said she presently, with a playful smile,

"but it is over now; so let us sit down and be comfortable; for as to

scolding you, Fanny, which I came fully intending to do, I have not

the heart for it when it comes to the point." And embracing her very

affectionately, "Good, gentle Fanny! when I think of this being the

last time of seeing you for I do not know how long, I feel it quite

impossible to do anything but love you."

Fanny was affected. She had not foreseen anything of this, and her

feelings could seldom withstand the melancholy influence of the word

"last." She cried as if she had loved Miss Crawford more than she

possibly could; and Miss Crawford, yet farther softened by the sight of

such emotion, hung about her with fondness, and said, "I hate to leave

you. I shall see no one half so amiable where I am going. Who says we

shall not be sisters? I know we shall. I feel that we are born to

be connected; and those tears convince me that you feel it too, dear

Fanny."

Fanny roused herself, and replying only in part, said, "But you are

only going from one set of friends to another. You are going to a very

particular friend."

"Yes, very true. Mrs. Fraser has been my intimate friend for years. But

I have not the least inclination to go near her. I can think only of the

friends I am leaving: my excellent sister, yourself, and the Bertrams in

general. You have all so much more _heart_ among you than one finds in

the world at large. You all give me a feeling of being able to trust and

confide in you, which in common intercourse one knows nothing of. I wish

I had settled with Mrs. Fraser not to go to her till after Easter, a

much better time for the visit, but now I cannot put her off. And when

I have done with her I must go to her sister, Lady Stornaway, because

_she_ was rather my most particular friend of the two, but I have not

cared much for _her_ these three years."

After this speech the two girls sat many minutes silent, each

thoughtful: Fanny meditating on the different sorts of friendship in the

world, Mary on something of less philosophic tendency. _She_ first spoke

again.

"How perfectly I remember my resolving to look for you upstairs, and

setting off to find my way to the East room, without having an idea

whereabouts it was! How well I remember what I was thinking of as I came

along, and my looking in and seeing you here sitting at this table at

work; and then your cousin's astonishment, when he opened the door, at

seeing me here! To be sure, your uncle's returning that very evening!

There never was anything quite like it."

Another short fit of abstraction followed, when, shaking it off, she

thus attacked her companion.

"Why, Fanny, you are absolutely in a reverie. Thinking, I hope, of one

who is always thinking of you. Oh! that I could transport you for a

short time into our circle in town, that you might understand how your

power over Henry is thought of there! Oh! the envyings and heartburnings

of dozens and dozens; the wonder, the incredulity that will be felt at

hearing what you have done! For as to secrecy, Henry is quite the hero

of an old romance, and glories in his chains. You should come to London

to know how to estimate your conquest. If you were to see how he is

courted, and how I am courted for his sake! Now, I am well aware that

I shall not be half so welcome to Mrs. Fraser in consequence of his

situation with you. When she comes to know the truth she will, very

likely, wish me in Northamptonshire again; for there is a daughter of

Mr. Fraser, by a first wife, whom she is wild to get married, and

wants Henry to take. Oh! she has been trying for him to such a degree.

Innocent and quiet as you sit here, you cannot have an idea of the

_sensation_ that you will be occasioning, of the curiosity there will

be to see you, of the endless questions I shall have to answer! Poor

Margaret Fraser will be at me for ever about your eyes and your teeth,

and how you do your hair, and who makes your shoes. I wish Margaret were

married, for my poor friend's sake, for I look upon the Frasers to be

about as unhappy as most other married people. And yet it was a most

desirable match for Janet at the time. We were all delighted. She could

not do otherwise than accept him, for he was rich, and she had nothing;

but he turns out ill-tempered and _exigeant_, and wants a young woman,

a beautiful young woman of five-and-twenty, to be as steady as himself.

And my friend does not manage him well; she does not seem to know how

to make the best of it. There is a spirit of irritation which, to say

nothing worse, is certainly very ill-bred. In their house I shall call

to mind the conjugal manners of Mansfield Parsonage with respect. Even

Dr. Grant does shew a thorough confidence in my sister, and a certain

consideration for her judgment, which makes one feel there _is_

attachment; but of that I shall see nothing with the Frasers. I shall

be at Mansfield for ever, Fanny. My own sister as a wife, Sir Thomas

Bertram as a husband, are my standards of perfection. Poor Janet has

been sadly taken in, and yet there was nothing improper on her side:

she did not run into the match inconsiderately; there was no want of

foresight. She took three days to consider of his proposals, and during

those three days asked the advice of everybody connected with her whose

opinion was worth having, and especially applied to my late dear aunt,

whose knowledge of the world made her judgment very generally and

deservedly looked up to by all the young people of her acquaintance, and

she was decidedly in favour of Mr. Fraser. This seems as if nothing were

a security for matrimonial comfort. I have not so much to say for my

friend Flora, who jilted a very nice young man in the Blues for the sake

of that horrid Lord Stornaway, who has about as much sense, Fanny, as

Mr. Rushworth, but much worse-looking, and with a blackguard character.

I _had_ my doubts at the time about her being right, for he has not even

the air of a gentleman, and now I am sure she was wrong. By the bye,

Flora Ross was dying for Henry the first winter she came out. But were I

to attempt to tell you of all the women whom I have known to be in love

with him, I should never have done. It is you, only you, insensible

Fanny, who can think of him with anything like indifference. But are you

so insensible as you profess yourself? No, no, I see you are not."

There was, indeed, so deep a blush over Fanny's face at that moment as

might warrant strong suspicion in a predisposed mind.

"Excellent creature! I will not tease you. Everything shall take its

course. But, dear Fanny, you must allow that you were not so absolutely

unprepared to have the question asked as your cousin fancies. It is not

possible but that you must have had some thoughts on the subject, some

surmises as to what might be. You must have seen that he was trying to

please you by every attention in his power. Was not he devoted to you

at the ball? And then before the ball, the necklace! Oh! you received

it just as it was meant. You were as conscious as heart could desire. I

remember it perfectly."

"Do you mean, then, that your brother knew of the necklace beforehand?

Oh! Miss Crawford, _that_ was not fair."

"Knew of it! It was his own doing entirely, his own thought. I am

ashamed to say that it had never entered my head, but I was delighted to

act on his proposal for both your sakes."

"I will not say," replied Fanny, "that I was not half afraid at the time

of its being so, for there was something in your look that frightened

me, but not at first; I was as unsuspicious of it at first--indeed,

indeed I was. It is as true as that I sit here. And had I had an idea

of it, nothing should have induced me to accept the necklace. As to your

brother's behaviour, certainly I was sensible of a particularity: I had

been sensible of it some little time, perhaps two or three weeks; but

then I considered it as meaning nothing: I put it down as simply being

his way, and was as far from supposing as from wishing him to have any

serious thoughts of me. I had not, Miss Crawford, been an inattentive

observer of what was passing between him and some part of this family in

the summer and autumn. I was quiet, but I was not blind. I could not

but see that Mr. Crawford allowed himself in gallantries which did mean

nothing."

"Ah! I cannot deny it. He has now and then been a sad flirt, and

cared very little for the havoc he might be making in young ladies'

affections. I have often scolded him for it, but it is his only fault;

and there is this to be said, that very few young ladies have any

affections worth caring for. And then, Fanny, the glory of fixing one

who has been shot at by so many; of having it in one's power to pay off

the debts of one's sex! Oh! I am sure it is not in woman's nature to

refuse such a triumph."

Fanny shook her head. "I cannot think well of a man who sports with any

woman's feelings; and there may often be a great deal more suffered than

a stander-by can judge of."

"I do not defend him. I leave him entirely to your mercy, and when he

has got you at Everingham, I do not care how much you lecture him. But

this I will say, that his fault, the liking to make girls a little

in love with him, is not half so dangerous to a wife's happiness as a

tendency to fall in love himself, which he has never been addicted to.

And I do seriously and truly believe that he is attached to you in a way

that he never was to any woman before; that he loves you with all his

heart, and will love you as nearly for ever as possible. If any man ever

loved a woman for ever, I think Henry will do as much for you."

Fanny could not avoid a faint smile, but had nothing to say.

"I cannot imagine Henry ever to have been happier," continued Mary

presently, "than when he had succeeded in getting your brother's

commission."

She had made a sure push at Fanny's feelings here.

"Oh! yes. How very, very kind of him."

"I know he must have exerted himself very much, for I know the parties

he had to move. The Admiral hates trouble, and scorns asking favours;

and there are so many young men's claims to be attended to in the same

way, that a friendship and energy, not very determined, is easily put

by. What a happy creature William must be! I wish we could see him."

Poor Fanny's mind was thrown into the most distressing of all its

varieties. The recollection of what had been done for William was always

the most powerful disturber of every decision against Mr. Crawford; and

she sat thinking deeply of it till Mary, who had been first watching

her complacently, and then musing on something else, suddenly called

her attention by saying: "I should like to sit talking with you here all

day, but we must not forget the ladies below, and so good-bye, my dear,

my amiable, my excellent Fanny, for though we shall nominally part in

the breakfast-parlour, I must take leave of you here. And I do take

leave, longing for a happy reunion, and trusting that when we meet

again, it will be under circumstances which may open our hearts to each

other without any remnant or shadow of reserve."

A very, very kind embrace, and some agitation of manner, accompanied

these words.

"I shall see your cousin in town soon: he talks of being there tolerably

soon; and Sir Thomas, I dare say, in the course of the spring; and your

eldest cousin, and the Rushworths, and Julia, I am sure of meeting again

and again, and all but you. I have two favours to ask, Fanny: one is

your correspondence. You must write to me. And the other, that you will

often call on Mrs. Grant, and make her amends for my being gone."

The first, at least, of these favours Fanny would rather not have been

asked; but it was impossible for her to refuse the correspondence; it

was impossible for her even not to accede to it more readily than

her own judgment authorised. There was no resisting so much apparent

affection. Her disposition was peculiarly calculated to value a fond

treatment, and from having hitherto known so little of it, she was the

more overcome by Miss Crawford's. Besides, there was gratitude towards

her, for having made their _tete-a-tete_ so much less painful than her

fears had predicted.

It was over, and she had escaped without reproaches and without

detection. Her secret was still her own; and while that was the case,

she thought she could resign herself to almost everything.

In the evening there was another parting. Henry Crawford came and

sat some time with them; and her spirits not being previously in the

strongest state, her heart was softened for a while towards him, because

he really seemed to feel. Quite unlike his usual self, he scarcely said

anything. He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny must grieve for him,

though hoping she might never see him again till he were the husband of

some other woman.

When it came to the moment of parting, he would take her hand, he would

not be denied it; he said nothing, however, or nothing that she heard,

and when he had left the room, she was better pleased that such a token

of friendship had passed.

On the morrow the Crawfords were gone.