Chapter: On reaching home Fanny went immediately upstairs to deposit this
unexpected acquisition, this doubtful good of a necklace, in some
favourite box in the East room, which held all her smaller treasures;
but on opening the door, what was her surprise to find her cousin Edmund
there writing at the table! Such a sight having never occurred before,
was almost as wonderful as it was welcome.

"Fanny," said he directly, leaving his seat and his pen, and meeting her
with something in his hand, "I beg your pardon for being here. I came
to look for you, and after waiting a little while in hope of your coming
in, was making use of your inkstand to explain my errand. You will find
the beginning of a note to yourself; but I can now speak my business,
which is merely to beg your acceptance of this little trifle--a chain
for William's cross. You ought to have had it a week ago, but there has
been a delay from my brother's not being in town by several days so soon
as I expected; and I have only just now received it at Northampton. I
hope you will like the chain itself, Fanny. I endeavoured to consult the
simplicity of your taste; but, at any rate, I know you will be kind to
my intentions, and consider it, as it really is, a token of the love of
one of your oldest friends."

And so saying, he was hurrying away, before Fanny, overpowered by a
thousand feelings of pain and pleasure, could attempt to speak; but
quickened by one sovereign wish, she then called out, "Oh! cousin, stop
a moment, pray stop!"

He turned back.

"I cannot attempt to thank you," she continued, in a very agitated
manner; "thanks are out of the question. I feel much more than I can
possibly express. Your goodness in thinking of me in such a way is
beyond--"

"If that is all you have to say, Fanny" smiling and turning away again.

"No, no, it is not. I want to consult you."

Almost unconsciously she had now undone the parcel he had just put
into her hand, and seeing before her, in all the niceness of jewellers'
packing, a plain gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she could not
help bursting forth again, "Oh, this is beautiful indeed! This is the
very thing, precisely what I wished for! This is the only ornament I
have ever had a desire to possess. It will exactly suit my cross. They
must and shall be worn together. It comes, too, in such an acceptable
moment. Oh, cousin, you do not know how acceptable it is."

"My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too much. I am most
happy that you like the chain, and that it should be here in time for
to-morrow; but your thanks are far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I
have no pleasure in the world superior to that of contributing to yours.
No, I can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so unalloyed. It
is without a drawback."

Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour
without saying another word; but Edmund, after waiting a moment, obliged
her to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying, "But what
is it that you want to consult me about?"

It was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly longing to
return, and hoped to obtain his approbation of her doing. She gave the
history of her recent visit, and now her raptures might well be over;
for Edmund was so struck with the circumstance, so delighted with what
Miss Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidence of conduct
between them, that Fanny could not but admit the superior power of one
pleasure over his own mind, though it might have its drawback. It was
some time before she could get his attention to her plan, or any answer
to her demand of his opinion: he was in a reverie of fond reflection,
uttering only now and then a few half-sentences of praise; but when
he did awake and understand, he was very decided in opposing what she
wished.

"Return the necklace! No, my dear Fanny, upon no account. It would be
mortifying her severely. There can hardly be a more unpleasant sensation
than the having anything returned on our hands which we have given with
a reasonable hope of its contributing to the comfort of a friend. Why
should she lose a pleasure which she has shewn herself so deserving of?"

"If it had been given to me in the first instance," said Fanny, "I
should not have thought of returning it; but being her brother's
present, is not it fair to suppose that she would rather not part with
it, when it is not wanted?"

"She must not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable, at least: and its
having been originally her brother's gift makes no difference; for as
she was not prevented from offering, nor you from taking it on that
account, it ought not to prevent you from keeping it. No doubt it is
handsomer than mine, and fitter for a ballroom."

"No, it is not handsomer, not at all handsomer in its way, and, for
my purpose, not half so fit. The chain will agree with William's cross
beyond all comparison better than the necklace."

"For one night, Fanny, for only one night, if it _be_ a sacrifice; I am
sure you will, upon consideration, make that sacrifice rather than give
pain to one who has been so studious of your comfort. Miss Crawford's
attentions to you have been--not more than you were justly entitled
to--I am the last person to think that _could_ _be_, but they have been
invariable; and to be returning them with what must have something the
_air_ of ingratitude, though I know it could never have the _meaning_,
is not in your nature, I am sure. Wear the necklace, as you are engaged
to do, to-morrow evening, and let the chain, which was not ordered with
any reference to the ball, be kept for commoner occasions. This is my
advice. I would not have the shadow of a coolness between the two whose
intimacy I have been observing with the greatest pleasure, and in whose
characters there is so much general resemblance in true generosity
and natural delicacy as to make the few slight differences, resulting
principally from situation, no reasonable hindrance to a perfect
friendship. I would not have the shadow of a coolness arise," he
repeated, his voice sinking a little, "between the two dearest objects I
have on earth."

He was gone as he spoke; and Fanny remained to tranquillise herself as
she could. She was one of his two dearest--that must support her. But
the other: the first! She had never heard him speak so openly before,
and though it told her no more than what she had long perceived, it was
a stab, for it told of his own convictions and views. They were
decided. He would marry Miss Crawford. It was a stab, in spite of every
long-standing expectation; and she was obliged to repeat again and
again, that she was one of his two dearest, before the words gave her
any sensation. Could she believe Miss Crawford to deserve him, it would
be--oh, how different would it be--how far more tolerable! But he was
deceived in her: he gave her merits which she had not; her faults were
what they had ever been, but he saw them no longer. Till she had shed
many tears over this deception, Fanny could not subdue her agitation;
and the dejection which followed could only be relieved by the influence
of fervent prayers for his happiness.

It was her intention, as she felt it to be her duty, to try to overcome
all that was excessive, all that bordered on selfishness, in her
affection for Edmund. To call or to fancy it a loss, a disappointment,
would be a presumption for which she had not words strong enough to
satisfy her own humility. To think of him as Miss Crawford might be
justified in thinking, would in her be insanity. To her he could be
nothing under any circumstances; nothing dearer than a friend. Why did
such an idea occur to her even enough to be reprobated and forbidden? It
ought not to have touched on the confines of her imagination. She would
endeavour to be rational, and to deserve the right of judging of Miss
Crawford's character, and the privilege of true solicitude for him by a
sound intellect and an honest heart.

She had all the heroism of principle, and was determined to do her duty;
but having also many of the feelings of youth and nature, let her not
be much wondered at, if, after making all these good resolutions on the
side of self-government, she seized the scrap of paper on which Edmund
had begun writing to her, as a treasure beyond all her hopes, and
reading with the tenderest emotion these words, "My very dear Fanny,
you must do me the favour to accept" locked it up with the chain, as the
dearest part of the gift. It was the only thing approaching to a letter
which she had ever received from him; she might never receive another;
it was impossible that she ever should receive another so perfectly
gratifying in the occasion and the style. Two lines more prized had
never fallen from the pen of the most distinguished author--never
more completely blessed the researches of the fondest biographer. The
enthusiasm of a woman's love is even beyond the biographer's. To her,
the handwriting itself, independent of anything it may convey, is a
blessedness. Never were such characters cut by any other human being as
Edmund's commonest handwriting gave! This specimen, written in haste
as it was, had not a fault; and there was a felicity in the flow of the
first four words, in the arrangement of "My very dear Fanny," which she
could have looked at for ever.

Having regulated her thoughts and comforted her feelings by this happy
mixture of reason and weakness, she was able in due time to go down
and resume her usual employments near her aunt Bertram, and pay her the
usual observances without any apparent want of spirits.

Thursday, predestined to hope and enjoyment, came; and opened with
more kindness to Fanny than such self-willed, unmanageable days often
volunteer, for soon after breakfast a very friendly note was brought
from Mr. Crawford to William, stating that as he found himself obliged
to go to London on the morrow for a few days, he could not help trying
to procure a companion; and therefore hoped that if William could
make up his mind to leave Mansfield half a day earlier than had been
proposed, he would accept a place in his carriage. Mr. Crawford meant to
be in town by his uncle's accustomary late dinner-hour, and William
was invited to dine with him at the Admiral's. The proposal was a very
pleasant one to William himself, who enjoyed the idea of travelling post
with four horses, and such a good-humoured, agreeable friend; and, in
likening it to going up with despatches, was saying at once everything
in favour of its happiness and dignity which his imagination could
suggest; and Fanny, from a different motive, was exceedingly pleased;
for the original plan was that William should go up by the mail from
Northampton the following night, which would not have allowed him an
hour's rest before he must have got into a Portsmouth coach; and though
this offer of Mr. Crawford's would rob her of many hours of his company,
she was too happy in having William spared from the fatigue of such
a journey, to think of anything else. Sir Thomas approved of it for
another reason. His nephew's introduction to Admiral Crawford might be
of service. The Admiral, he believed, had interest. Upon the whole, it
was a very joyous note. Fanny's spirits lived on it half the morning,
deriving some accession of pleasure from its writer being himself to go
away.

As for the ball, so near at hand, she had too many agitations and fears
to have half the enjoyment in anticipation which she ought to have had,
or must have been supposed to have by the many young ladies looking
forward to the same event in situations more at ease, but under
circumstances of less novelty, less interest, less peculiar
gratification, than would be attributed to her. Miss Price, known
only by name to half the people invited, was now to make her first
appearance, and must be regarded as the queen of the evening. Who could
be happier than Miss Price? But Miss Price had not been brought up to
the trade of _coming_ _out_; and had she known in what light this ball
was, in general, considered respecting her, it would very much have
lessened her comfort by increasing the fears she already had of doing
wrong and being looked at. To dance without much observation or any
extraordinary fatigue, to have strength and partners for about half the
evening, to dance a little with Edmund, and not a great deal with Mr.
Crawford, to see William enjoy himself, and be able to keep away
from her aunt Norris, was the height of her ambition, and seemed to
comprehend her greatest possibility of happiness. As these were the best
of her hopes, they could not always prevail; and in the course of a long
morning, spent principally with her two aunts, she was often under the
influence of much less sanguine views. William, determined to make this
last day a day of thorough enjoyment, was out snipe-shooting; Edmund,
she had too much reason to suppose, was at the Parsonage; and left
alone to bear the worrying of Mrs. Norris, who was cross because the
housekeeper would have her own way with the supper, and whom _she_ could
not avoid though the housekeeper might, Fanny was worn down at last to
think everything an evil belonging to the ball, and when sent off with
a parting worry to dress, moved as languidly towards her own room, and
felt as incapable of happiness as if she had been allowed no share in
it.

As she walked slowly upstairs she thought of yesterday; it had been
about the same hour that she had returned from the Parsonage, and
found Edmund in the East room. "Suppose I were to find him there again
to-day!" said she to herself, in a fond indulgence of fancy.

"Fanny," said a voice at that moment near her. Starting and looking up,
she saw, across the lobby she had just reached, Edmund himself, standing
at the head of a different staircase. He came towards her. "You look
tired and fagged, Fanny. You have been walking too far."

"No, I have not been out at all."

"Then you have had fatigues within doors, which are worse. You had
better have gone out."

Fanny, not liking to complain, found it easiest to make no answer; and
though he looked at her with his usual kindness, she believed he had
soon ceased to think of her countenance. He did not appear in spirits:
something unconnected with her was probably amiss. They proceeded
upstairs together, their rooms being on the same floor above.

"I come from Dr. Grant's," said Edmund presently. "You may guess my
errand there, Fanny." And he looked so conscious, that Fanny could think
but of one errand, which turned her too sick for speech. "I wished to
engage Miss Crawford for the two first dances," was the explanation that
followed, and brought Fanny to life again, enabling her, as she found
she was expected to speak, to utter something like an inquiry as to the
result.

"Yes," he answered, "she is engaged to me; but" (with a smile that did
not sit easy) "she says it is to be the last time that she ever will
dance with me. She is not serious. I think, I hope, I am sure she is
not serious; but I would rather not hear it. She never has danced with a
clergyman, she says, and she never _will_. For my own sake, I could wish
there had been no ball just at--I mean not this very week, this very
day; to-morrow I leave home."

Fanny struggled for speech, and said, "I am very sorry that anything has
occurred to distress you. This ought to be a day of pleasure. My uncle
meant it so."

"Oh yes, yes! and it will be a day of pleasure. It will all end right. I
am only vexed for a moment. In fact, it is not that I consider the ball
as ill-timed; what does it signify? But, Fanny," stopping her, by taking
her hand, and speaking low and seriously, "you know what all this means.
You see how it is; and could tell me, perhaps better than I could tell
you, how and why I am vexed. Let me talk to you a little. You are a
kind, kind listener. I have been pained by her manner this morning, and
cannot get the better of it. I know her disposition to be as sweet and
faultless as your own, but the influence of her former companions
makes her seem--gives to her conversation, to her professed opinions,
sometimes a tinge of wrong. She does not _think_ evil, but she speaks
it, speaks it in playfulness; and though I know it to be playfulness, it
grieves me to the soul."

"The effect of education," said Fanny gently.

Edmund could not but agree to it. "Yes, that uncle and aunt! They have
injured the finest mind; for sometimes, Fanny, I own to you, it does
appear more than manner: it appears as if the mind itself was tainted."

Fanny imagined this to be an appeal to her judgment, and therefore,
after a moment's consideration, said, "If you only want me as a
listener, cousin, I will be as useful as I can; but I am not qualified
for an adviser. Do not ask advice of _me_. I am not competent."

"You are right, Fanny, to protest against such an office, but you need
not be afraid. It is a subject on which I should never ask advice; it
is the sort of subject on which it had better never be asked; and few,
I imagine, do ask it, but when they want to be influenced against their
conscience. I only want to talk to you."

"One thing more. Excuse the liberty; but take care _how_ you talk to me.
Do not tell me anything now, which hereafter you may be sorry for. The
time may come--"

The colour rushed into her cheeks as she spoke.

"Dearest Fanny!" cried Edmund, pressing her hand to his lips with
almost as much warmth as if it had been Miss Crawford's, "you are all
considerate thought! But it is unnecessary here. The time will never
come. No such time as you allude to will ever come. I begin to think it
most improbable: the chances grow less and less; and even if it should,
there will be nothing to be remembered by either you or me that we need
be afraid of, for I can never be ashamed of my own scruples; and if they
are removed, it must be by changes that will only raise her character
the more by the recollection of the faults she once had. You are the
only being upon earth to whom I should say what I have said; but you
have always known my opinion of her; you can bear me witness, Fanny,
that I have never been blinded. How many a time have we talked over
her little errors! You need not fear me; I have almost given up every
serious idea of her; but I must be a blockhead indeed, if, whatever
befell me, I could think of your kindness and sympathy without the
sincerest gratitude."

He had said enough to shake the experience of eighteen. He had said
enough to give Fanny some happier feelings than she had lately known,
and with a brighter look, she answered, "Yes, cousin, I am convinced
that _you_ would be incapable of anything else, though perhaps some
might not. I cannot be afraid of hearing anything you wish to say. Do
not check yourself. Tell me whatever you like."

They were now on the second floor, and the appearance of a housemaid
prevented any farther conversation. For Fanny's present comfort it was
concluded, perhaps, at the happiest moment: had he been able to talk
another five minutes, there is no saying that he might not have talked
away all Miss Crawford's faults and his own despondence. But as it was,
they parted with looks on his side of grateful affection, and with
some very precious sensations on hers. She had felt nothing like it for
hours. Since the first joy from Mr. Crawford's note to William had worn
away, she had been in a state absolutely the reverse; there had been
no comfort around, no hope within her. Now everything was smiling.
William's good fortune returned again upon her mind, and seemed of
greater value than at first. The ball, too--such an evening of pleasure
before her! It was now a real animation; and she began to dress for it
with much of the happy flutter which belongs to a ball. All went well:
she did not dislike her own looks; and when she came to the necklaces
again, her good fortune seemed complete, for upon trial the one given
her by Miss Crawford would by no means go through the ring of the cross.
She had, to oblige Edmund, resolved to wear it; but it was too large for
the purpose. His, therefore, must be worn; and having, with delightful
feelings, joined the chain and the cross--those memorials of the two
most beloved of her heart, those dearest tokens so formed for each other
by everything real and imaginary--and put them round her neck, and seen
and felt how full of William and Edmund they were, she was able, without
an effort, to resolve on wearing Miss Crawford's necklace too. She
acknowledged it to be right. Miss Crawford had a claim; and when it was
no longer to encroach on, to interfere with the stronger claims, the
truer kindness of another, she could do her justice even with pleasure
to herself. The necklace really looked very well; and Fanny left her
room at last, comfortably satisfied with herself and all about her.

Her aunt Bertram had recollected her on this occasion with an unusual
degree of wakefulness. It had really occurred to her, unprompted, that
Fanny, preparing for a ball, might be glad of better help than the upper
housemaid's, and when dressed herself, she actually sent her own maid to
assist her; too late, of course, to be of any use. Mrs. Chapman had just
reached the attic floor, when Miss Price came out of her room completely
dressed, and only civilities were necessary; but Fanny felt her aunt's
attention almost as much as Lady Bertram or Mrs. Chapman could do
themselves.

 Fanny quickly goes to her room and finds Edmund there writing her a note. Fanny is excited to see him, as usual. Edmund explains that he has a gift for her: it's a chain for William's cross. Fanny is thrilled yet horrified because she already has a chain now from Mary/Henry. Fanny gushes her thanks and then asks Edmund his advice about the Great Necklace Debate. Edmund is really happy to hear about Mary's kind act and insists that she wear that chain. Fanny says that she likes Edmund's better and would feel better returning Mary's necklace. Edmund tells her that it would be super rude to return the chain and would hurt Mary's feelings. He says he wants her and Mary to be close friends since they are the two people he loves most in the world. Fanny's happy that he loves her, but not happy with the way that he loves her. She agonizes over what to do about he necklaces and over the fact that Edmund loves Mary. Fanny gives herself a pep talk and says that she doesn't have a right to think of Edmund as she does, and that she should be rational in order to have the right to judge people like Mary. For all of her low self-esteem, Fanny definitely displays a bit of an ego here. About ten seconds after Fanny resolves to get over Edmund she picks up Edmund's note and happily freaks out over the fact that he wrote her name. Fanny is about one step away from scrawling Mrs. Edmund Bertram in a notebook and doodling hearts. The day of the ball arrives. Exciting times. Henry offers to take William back to Portsmouth himself, though this will mean that William has to leave a little earlier than planned. Fanny's pretty sad that he's going but is glad he won't have to use public transportation on his trip. Sir Thomas is also a fan of the plan since William will get to meet Henry's Uncle Admiral on the course of their road trip. Fanny starts worrying about how the ball will go and gets a bit depressed. But then Edmund runs into her and tells her they'll have to dance together and Fanny's mood does and abrupt U-turn. Edmund is bummed because Mary told him that she's never danced with a clergyman and never will. He can't tell if she was joking or not and starts talking to Fanny about his problems with Mary. Fanny tells him to stop talking since this will be awkward later when they get engaged. Well she hints at that at least. Edmund gets the drift and tells her that's a nice thought but he doubts he'll be marring Mary now. Their conversation gets cut short but Fanny goes away happy. She also finds out that Mary's necklace doesn't fit the cross so she gets to wear Edmund's gift. But feeling charitable, she decides to wear Mary's chain too and just have two necklaces. Tres chic, Fanny. Lady Bertram nicely sent a maid up to help Fanny, but Fanny was already dressed so it wasn't necessary.

