Chapter: 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.



The conference was neither so short nor so conclusive as the lady had
designed. The gentleman was not so easily satisfied. He had all the
disposition to persevere that Sir Thomas could wish him. He had vanity,
which strongly inclined him in the first place to think she did love
him, though she might not know it herself; and which, secondly, when
constrained at last to admit that she did know her own present feelings,
convinced him that he should be able in time to make those feelings what
he wished.

He was in love, very much in love; and it was a love which, operating
on an active, sanguine spirit, of more warmth than delicacy, made her
affection appear of greater consequence because it was withheld, and
determined him to have the glory, as well as the felicity, of forcing
her to love him.

He would not despair: he would not desist. He had every well-grounded
reason for solid attachment; he knew her to have all the worth that
could justify the warmest hopes of lasting happiness with her; her
conduct at this very time, by speaking the disinterestedness and
delicacy of her character (qualities which he believed most rare
indeed), was of a sort to heighten all his wishes, and confirm all his
resolutions. He knew not that he had a pre-engaged heart to attack.
Of _that_ he had no suspicion. He considered her rather as one who
had never thought on the subject enough to be in danger; who had been
guarded by youth, a youth of mind as lovely as of person; whose modesty
had prevented her from understanding his attentions, and who was still
overpowered by the suddenness of addresses so wholly unexpected, and the
novelty of a situation which her fancy had never taken into account.

Must it not follow of course, that, when he was understood, he should
succeed? He believed it fully. Love such as his, in a man like himself,
must with perseverance secure a return, and at no great distance; and
he had so much delight in the idea of obliging her to love him in a very
short time, that her not loving him now was scarcely regretted. A little
difficulty to be overcome was no evil to Henry Crawford. He rather
derived spirits from it. He had been apt to gain hearts too easily. His
situation was new and animating.

To Fanny, however, who had known too much opposition all her life to
find any charm in it, all this was unintelligible. She found that he did
mean to persevere; but how he could, after such language from her as she
felt herself obliged to use, was not to be understood. She told him that
she did not love him, could not love him, was sure she never should love
him; that such a change was quite impossible; that the subject was most
painful to her; that she must entreat him never to mention it again, to
allow her to leave him at once, and let it be considered as concluded
for ever. And when farther pressed, had added, that in her opinion their
dispositions were so totally dissimilar as to make mutual affection
incompatible; and that they were unfitted for each other by nature,
education, and habit. All this she had said, and with the earnestness
of sincerity; yet this was not enough, for he immediately denied there
being anything uncongenial in their characters, or anything unfriendly
in their situations; and positively declared, that he would still love,
and still hope!

Fanny knew her own meaning, but was no judge of her own manner. Her
manner was incurably gentle; and she was not aware how much it concealed
the sternness of her purpose. Her diffidence, gratitude, and softness
made every expression of indifference seem almost an effort of
self-denial; seem, at least, to be giving nearly as much pain to herself
as to him. Mr. Crawford was no longer the Mr. Crawford who, as the
clandestine, insidious, treacherous admirer of Maria Bertram, had been
her abhorrence, whom she had hated to see or to speak to, in whom she
could believe no good quality to exist, and whose power, even of being
agreeable, she had barely acknowledged. He was now the Mr. Crawford who
was addressing herself with ardent, disinterested love; whose feelings
were apparently become all that was honourable and upright, whose views
of happiness were all fixed on a marriage of attachment; who was
pouring out his sense of her merits, describing and describing again his
affection, proving as far as words could prove it, and in the language,
tone, and spirit of a man of talent too, that he sought her for her
gentleness and her goodness; and to complete the whole, he was now the
Mr. Crawford who had procured William's promotion!

Here was a change, and here were claims which could not but operate!
She might have disdained him in all the dignity of angry virtue, in
the grounds of Sotherton, or the theatre at Mansfield Park; but he
approached her now with rights that demanded different treatment.
She must be courteous, and she must be compassionate. She must have
a sensation of being honoured, and whether thinking of herself or her
brother, she must have a strong feeling of gratitude. The effect of the
whole was a manner so pitying and agitated, and words intermingled with
her refusal so expressive of obligation and concern, that to a temper of
vanity and hope like Crawford's, the truth, or at least the strength
of her indifference, might well be questionable; and he was not so
irrational as Fanny considered him, in the professions of persevering,
assiduous, and not desponding attachment which closed the interview.

It was with reluctance that he suffered her to go; but there was no look
of despair in parting to belie his words, or give her hopes of his being
less unreasonable than he professed himself.

Now she was angry. Some resentment did arise at a perseverance so
selfish and ungenerous. Here was again a want of delicacy and regard for
others which had formerly so struck and disgusted her. Here was again
a something of the same Mr. Crawford whom she had so reprobated before.
How evidently was there a gross want of feeling and humanity where his
own pleasure was concerned; and alas! how always known no principle to
supply as a duty what the heart was deficient in! Had her own affections
been as free as perhaps they ought to have been, he never could have
engaged them.

So thought Fanny, in good truth and sober sadness, as she sat musing
over that too great indulgence and luxury of a fire upstairs: wondering
at the past and present; wondering at what was yet to come, and in a
nervous agitation which made nothing clear to her but the persuasion of
her being never under any circumstances able to love Mr. Crawford, and
the felicity of having a fire to sit over and think of it.

Sir Thomas was obliged, or obliged himself, to wait till the morrow for
a knowledge of what had passed between the young people. He then saw
Mr. Crawford, and received his account. The first feeling was
disappointment: he had hoped better things; he had thought that an
hour's entreaty from a young man like Crawford could not have worked so
little change on a gentle-tempered girl like Fanny; but there was speedy
comfort in the determined views and sanguine perseverance of the lover;
and when seeing such confidence of success in the principal, Sir Thomas
was soon able to depend on it himself.

Nothing was omitted, on his side, of civility, compliment, or kindness,
that might assist the plan. Mr. Crawford's steadiness was honoured, and
Fanny was praised, and the connexion was still the most desirable in the
world. At Mansfield Park Mr. Crawford would always be welcome; he had
only to consult his own judgment and feelings as to the frequency of his
visits, at present or in future. In all his niece's family and friends,
there could be but one opinion, one wish on the subject; the influence
of all who loved her must incline one way.

Everything was said that could encourage, every encouragement received
with grateful joy, and the gentlemen parted the best of friends.

Satisfied that the cause was now on a footing the most proper and
hopeful, Sir Thomas resolved to abstain from all farther importunity
with his niece, and to shew no open interference. Upon her disposition
he believed kindness might be the best way of working. Entreaty should
be from one quarter only. The forbearance of her family on a point,
respecting which she could be in no doubt of their wishes, might be
their surest means of forwarding it. Accordingly, on this principle, Sir
Thomas took the first opportunity of saying to her, with a mild gravity,
intended to be overcoming, "Well, Fanny, I have seen Mr. Crawford again,
and learn from him exactly how matters stand between you. He is a most
extraordinary young man, and whatever be the event, you must feel that
you have created an attachment of no common character; though, young
as you are, and little acquainted with the transient, varying, unsteady
nature of love, as it generally exists, you cannot be struck as I
am with all that is wonderful in a perseverance of this sort against
discouragement. With him it is entirely a matter of feeling: he claims
no merit in it; perhaps is entitled to none. Yet, having chosen so
well, his constancy has a respectable stamp. Had his choice been less
unexceptionable, I should have condemned his persevering."

"Indeed, sir," said Fanny, "I am very sorry that Mr. Crawford should
continue to know that it is paying me a very great compliment, and I
feel most undeservedly honoured; but I am so perfectly convinced, and I
have told him so, that it never will be in my power--"

"My dear," interrupted Sir Thomas, "there is no occasion for this. Your
feelings are as well known to me as my wishes and regrets must be
to you. There is nothing more to be said or done. From this hour the
subject is never to be revived between us. You will have nothing to
fear, or to be agitated about. You cannot suppose me capable of trying
to persuade you to marry against your inclinations. Your happiness and
advantage are all that I have in view, and nothing is required of you
but to bear with Mr. Crawford's endeavours to convince you that they may
not be incompatible with his. He proceeds at his own risk. You are on
safe ground. I have engaged for your seeing him whenever he calls, as
you might have done had nothing of this sort occurred. You will see
him with the rest of us, in the same manner, and, as much as you
can, dismissing the recollection of everything unpleasant. He leaves
Northamptonshire so soon, that even this slight sacrifice cannot be
often demanded. The future must be very uncertain. And now, my dear
Fanny, this subject is closed between us."

The promised departure was all that Fanny could think of with much
satisfaction. Her uncle's kind expressions, however, and forbearing
manner, were sensibly felt; and when she considered how much of the
truth was unknown to him, she believed she had no right to wonder at
the line of conduct he pursued. He, who had married a daughter to Mr.
Rushworth: romantic delicacy was certainly not to be expected from him.
She must do her duty, and trust that time might make her duty easier
than it now was.

She could not, though only eighteen, suppose Mr. Crawford's attachment
would hold out for ever; she could not but imagine that steady,
unceasing discouragement from herself would put an end to it in time.
How much time she might, in her own fancy, allot for its dominion, is
another concern. It would not be fair to inquire into a young lady's
exact estimate of her own perfections.

In spite of his intended silence, Sir Thomas found himself once more
obliged to mention the subject to his niece, to prepare her briefly for
its being imparted to her aunts; a measure which he would still have
avoided, if possible, but which became necessary from the totally
opposite feelings of Mr. Crawford as to any secrecy of proceeding. He
had no idea of concealment. It was all known at the Parsonage, where
he loved to talk over the future with both his sisters, and it would be
rather gratifying to him to have enlightened witnesses of the progress
of his success. When Sir Thomas understood this, he felt the necessity
of making his own wife and sister-in-law acquainted with the business
without delay; though, on Fanny's account, he almost dreaded the
effect of the communication to Mrs. Norris as much as Fanny herself. He
deprecated her mistaken but well-meaning zeal. Sir Thomas, indeed, was,
by this time, not very far from classing Mrs. Norris as one of those
well-meaning people who are always doing mistaken and very disagreeable
things.

Mrs. Norris, however, relieved him. He pressed for the strictest
forbearance and silence towards their niece; she not only promised, but
did observe it. She only looked her increased ill-will. Angry she was:
bitterly angry; but she was more angry with Fanny for having received
such an offer than for refusing it. It was an injury and affront to
Julia, who ought to have been Mr. Crawford's choice; and, independently
of that, she disliked Fanny, because she had neglected her; and she
would have grudged such an elevation to one whom she had been always
trying to depress.

Sir Thomas gave her more credit for discretion on the occasion than she
deserved; and Fanny could have blessed her for allowing her only to see
her displeasure, and not to hear it.

Lady Bertram took it differently. She had been a beauty, and a
prosperous beauty, all her life; and beauty and wealth were all that
excited her respect. To know Fanny to be sought in marriage by a man of
fortune, raised her, therefore, very much in her opinion. By convincing
her that Fanny _was_ very pretty, which she had been doubting about
before, and that she would be advantageously married, it made her feel a
sort of credit in calling her niece.

"Well, Fanny," said she, as soon as they were alone together afterwards,
and she really had known something like impatience to be alone with her,
and her countenance, as she spoke, had extraordinary animation; "Well,
Fanny, I have had a very agreeable surprise this morning. I must just
speak of it _once_, I told Sir Thomas I must _once_, and then I
shall have done. I give you joy, my dear niece." And looking at her
complacently, she added, "Humph, we certainly are a handsome family!"

Fanny coloured, and doubted at first what to say; when, hoping to assail
her on her vulnerable side, she presently answered--

"My dear aunt, _you_ cannot wish me to do differently from what I have
done, I am sure. _You_ cannot wish me to marry; for you would miss me,
should not you? Yes, I am sure you would miss me too much for that."

"No, my dear, I should not think of missing you, when such an offer as
this comes in your way. I could do very well without you, if you were
married to a man of such good estate as Mr. Crawford. And you must be
aware, Fanny, that it is every young woman's duty to accept such a very
unexceptionable offer as this."

This was almost the only rule of conduct, the only piece of advice,
which Fanny had ever received from her aunt in the course of eight years
and a half. It silenced her. She felt how unprofitable contention would
be. If her aunt's feelings were against her, nothing could be hoped from
attacking her understanding. Lady Bertram was quite talkative.

"I will tell you what, Fanny," said she, "I am sure he fell in love with
you at the ball; I am sure the mischief was done that evening. You did
look remarkably well. Everybody said so. Sir Thomas said so. And you
know you had Chapman to help you to dress. I am very glad I sent
Chapman to you. I shall tell Sir Thomas that I am sure it was done
that evening." And still pursuing the same cheerful thoughts, she soon
afterwards added, "And will tell you what, Fanny, which is more than I
did for Maria: the next time Pug has a litter you shall have a puppy."



Edmund had great things to hear on his return. Many surprises were
awaiting him. The first that occurred was not least in interest: the
appearance of Henry Crawford and his sister walking together through the
village as he rode into it. He had concluded--he had meant them to be
far distant. His absence had been extended beyond a fortnight purposely
to avoid Miss Crawford. He was returning to Mansfield with spirits ready
to feed on melancholy remembrances, and tender associations, when her
own fair self was before him, leaning on her brother's arm, and he found
himself receiving a welcome, unquestionably friendly, from the woman
whom, two moments before, he had been thinking of as seventy miles off,
and as farther, much farther, from him in inclination than any distance
could express.

Her reception of him was of a sort which he could not have hoped
for, had he expected to see her. Coming as he did from such a purport
fulfilled as had taken him away, he would have expected anything rather
than a look of satisfaction, and words of simple, pleasant meaning.
It was enough to set his heart in a glow, and to bring him home in the
properest state for feeling the full value of the other joyful surprises
at hand.

William's promotion, with all its particulars, he was soon master of;
and with such a secret provision of comfort within his own breast to
help the joy, he found in it a source of most gratifying sensation and
unvarying cheerfulness all dinner-time.

After dinner, when he and his father were alone, he had Fanny's history;
and then all the great events of the last fortnight, and the present
situation of matters at Mansfield were known to him.

Fanny suspected what was going on. They sat so much longer than usual in
the dining-parlour, that she was sure they must be talking of her; and
when tea at last brought them away, and she was to be seen by Edmund
again, she felt dreadfully guilty. He came to her, sat down by her, took
her hand, and pressed it kindly; and at that moment she thought that,
but for the occupation and the scene which the tea-things afforded, she
must have betrayed her emotion in some unpardonable excess.

He was not intending, however, by such action, to be conveying to her
that unqualified approbation and encouragement which her hopes drew
from it. It was designed only to express his participation in all that
interested her, and to tell her that he had been hearing what quickened
every feeling of affection. He was, in fact, entirely on his father's
side of the question. His surprise was not so great as his father's at
her refusing Crawford, because, so far from supposing her to consider
him with anything like a preference, he had always believed it to
be rather the reverse, and could imagine her to be taken perfectly
unprepared, but Sir Thomas could not regard the connexion as more
desirable than he did. It had every recommendation to him; and while
honouring her for what she had done under the influence of her present
indifference, honouring her in rather stronger terms than Sir Thomas
could quite echo, he was most earnest in hoping, and sanguine in
believing, that it would be a match at last, and that, united by mutual
affection, it would appear that their dispositions were as exactly
fitted to make them blessed in each other, as he was now beginning
seriously to consider them. Crawford had been too precipitate. He had
not given her time to attach herself. He had begun at the wrong end.
With such powers as his, however, and such a disposition as hers, Edmund
trusted that everything would work out a happy conclusion. Meanwhile,
he saw enough of Fanny's embarrassment to make him scrupulously guard
against exciting it a second time, by any word, or look, or movement.

Crawford called the next day, and on the score of Edmund's return, Sir
Thomas felt himself more than licensed to ask him to stay dinner; it was
really a necessary compliment. He staid of course, and Edmund had then
ample opportunity for observing how he sped with Fanny, and what degree
of immediate encouragement for him might be extracted from her manners;
and it was so little, so very, very little--every chance, every
possibility of it, resting upon her embarrassment only; if there was
not hope in her confusion, there was hope in nothing else--that he was
almost ready to wonder at his friend's perseverance. Fanny was worth it
all; he held her to be worth every effort of patience, every exertion of
mind, but he did not think he could have gone on himself with any woman
breathing, without something more to warm his courage than his eyes
could discern in hers. He was very willing to hope that Crawford saw
clearer, and this was the most comfortable conclusion for his friend
that he could come to from all that he observed to pass before, and at,
and after dinner.

In the evening a few circumstances occurred which he thought more
promising. When he and Crawford walked into the drawing-room, his mother
and Fanny were sitting as intently and silently at work as if there
were nothing else to care for. Edmund could not help noticing their
apparently deep tranquillity.

"We have not been so silent all the time," replied his mother. "Fanny
has been reading to me, and only put the book down upon hearing you
coming." And sure enough there was a book on the table which had the air
of being very recently closed: a volume of Shakespeare. "She often
reads to me out of those books; and she was in the middle of a very
fine speech of that man's--what's his name, Fanny?--when we heard your
footsteps."

Crawford took the volume. "Let me have the pleasure of finishing that
speech to your ladyship," said he. "I shall find it immediately." And by
carefully giving way to the inclination of the leaves, he did find it,
or within a page or two, quite near enough to satisfy Lady Bertram, who
assured him, as soon as he mentioned the name of Cardinal Wolsey, that
he had got the very speech. Not a look or an offer of help had Fanny
given; not a syllable for or against. All her attention was for her
work. She seemed determined to be interested by nothing else. But taste
was too strong in her. She could not abstract her mind five minutes: she
was forced to listen; his reading was capital, and her pleasure in good
reading extreme. To _good_ reading, however, she had been long used:
her uncle read well, her cousins all, Edmund very well, but in Mr.
Crawford's reading there was a variety of excellence beyond what she had
ever met with. The King, the Queen, Buckingham, Wolsey, Cromwell, all
were given in turn; for with the happiest knack, the happiest power of
jumping and guessing, he could always alight at will on the best scene,
or the best speeches of each; and whether it were dignity, or pride, or
tenderness, or remorse, or whatever were to be expressed, he could do
it with equal beauty. It was truly dramatic. His acting had first taught
Fanny what pleasure a play might give, and his reading brought all his
acting before her again; nay, perhaps with greater enjoyment, for it
came unexpectedly, and with no such drawback as she had been used to
suffer in seeing him on the stage with Miss Bertram.

Edmund watched the progress of her attention, and was amused and
gratified by seeing how she gradually slackened in the needlework, which
at the beginning seemed to occupy her totally: how it fell from her hand
while she sat motionless over it, and at last, how the eyes which had
appeared so studiously to avoid him throughout the day were turned and
fixed on Crawford--fixed on him for minutes, fixed on him, in short,
till the attraction drew Crawford's upon her, and the book was closed,
and the charm was broken. Then she was shrinking again into herself,
and blushing and working as hard as ever; but it had been enough to give
Edmund encouragement for his friend, and as he cordially thanked him, he
hoped to be expressing Fanny's secret feelings too.

"That play must be a favourite with you," said he; "you read as if you
knew it well."

"It will be a favourite, I believe, from this hour," replied Crawford;
"but I do not think I have had a volume of Shakespeare in my hand before
since I was fifteen. I once saw Henry the Eighth acted, or I have heard
of it from somebody who did, I am not certain which. But Shakespeare
one gets acquainted with without knowing how. It is a part of an
Englishman's constitution. His thoughts and beauties are so spread
abroad that one touches them everywhere; one is intimate with him by
instinct. No man of any brain can open at a good part of one of his
plays without falling into the flow of his meaning immediately."

"No doubt one is familiar with Shakespeare in a degree," said Edmund,
"from one's earliest years. His celebrated passages are quoted
by everybody; they are in half the books we open, and we all talk
Shakespeare, use his similes, and describe with his descriptions; but
this is totally distinct from giving his sense as you gave it. To know
him in bits and scraps is common enough; to know him pretty thoroughly
is, perhaps, not uncommon; but to read him well aloud is no everyday
talent."

"Sir, you do me honour," was Crawford's answer, with a bow of mock
gravity.

Both gentlemen had a glance at Fanny, to see if a word of accordant
praise could be extorted from her; yet both feeling that it could not
be. Her praise had been given in her attention; _that_ must content
them.

Lady Bertram's admiration was expressed, and strongly too. "It was
really like being at a play," said she. "I wish Sir Thomas had been
here."

Crawford was excessively pleased. If Lady Bertram, with all her
incompetency and languor, could feel this, the inference of what her
niece, alive and enlightened as she was, must feel, was elevating.

"You have a great turn for acting, I am sure, Mr. Crawford," said her
ladyship soon afterwards; "and I will tell you what, I think you will
have a theatre, some time or other, at your house in Norfolk. I mean
when you are settled there. I do indeed. I think you will fit up a
theatre at your house in Norfolk."

"Do you, ma'am?" cried he, with quickness. "No, no, that will never be.
Your ladyship is quite mistaken. No theatre at Everingham! Oh no!" And
he looked at Fanny with an expressive smile, which evidently meant,
"That lady will never allow a theatre at Everingham."

Edmund saw it all, and saw Fanny so determined _not_ to see it, as to
make it clear that the voice was enough to convey the full meaning of
the protestation; and such a quick consciousness of compliment, such a
ready comprehension of a hint, he thought, was rather favourable than
not.

The subject of reading aloud was farther discussed. The two young men
were the only talkers, but they, standing by the fire, talked over the
too common neglect of the qualification, the total inattention to it,
in the ordinary school-system for boys, the consequently natural, yet in
some instances almost unnatural, degree of ignorance and uncouthness
of men, of sensible and well-informed men, when suddenly called to the
necessity of reading aloud, which had fallen within their notice, giving
instances of blunders, and failures with their secondary causes, the
want of management of the voice, of proper modulation and emphasis, of
foresight and judgment, all proceeding from the first cause: want of
early attention and habit; and Fanny was listening again with great
entertainment.

"Even in my profession," said Edmund, with a smile, "how little the
art of reading has been studied! how little a clear manner, and good
delivery, have been attended to! I speak rather of the past, however,
than the present. There is now a spirit of improvement abroad; but among
those who were ordained twenty, thirty, forty years ago, the larger
number, to judge by their performance, must have thought reading was
reading, and preaching was preaching. It is different now. The subject
is more justly considered. It is felt that distinctness and energy may
have weight in recommending the most solid truths; and besides, there is
more general observation and taste, a more critical knowledge diffused
than formerly; in every congregation there is a larger proportion who
know a little of the matter, and who can judge and criticise."

Edmund had already gone through the service once since his ordination;
and upon this being understood, he had a variety of questions from
Crawford as to his feelings and success; questions, which being made,
though with the vivacity of friendly interest and quick taste, without
any touch of that spirit of banter or air of levity which Edmund knew to
be most offensive to Fanny, he had true pleasure in satisfying; and
when Crawford proceeded to ask his opinion and give his own as to the
properest manner in which particular passages in the service should be
delivered, shewing it to be a subject on which he had thought before,
and thought with judgment, Edmund was still more and more pleased. This
would be the way to Fanny's heart. She was not to be won by all that
gallantry and wit and good-nature together could do; or, at least,
she would not be won by them nearly so soon, without the assistance of
sentiment and feeling, and seriousness on serious subjects.

"Our liturgy," observed Crawford, "has beauties, which not even a
careless, slovenly style of reading can destroy; but it has also
redundancies and repetitions which require good reading not to be felt.
For myself, at least, I must confess being not always so attentive as I
ought to be" (here was a glance at Fanny); "that nineteen times out of
twenty I am thinking how such a prayer ought to be read, and longing to
have it to read myself. Did you speak?" stepping eagerly to Fanny, and
addressing her in a softened voice; and upon her saying "No," he added,
"Are you sure you did not speak? I saw your lips move. I fancied you
might be going to tell me I ought to be more attentive, and not _allow_
my thoughts to wander. Are not you going to tell me so?"

"No, indeed, you know your duty too well for me to--even supposing--"

She stopt, felt herself getting into a puzzle, and could not be
prevailed on to add another word, not by dint of several minutes of
supplication and waiting. He then returned to his former station, and
went on as if there had been no such tender interruption.

"A sermon, well delivered, is more uncommon even than prayers well read.
A sermon, good in itself, is no rare thing. It is more difficult
to speak well than to compose well; that is, the rules and trick of
composition are oftener an object of study. A thoroughly good sermon,
thoroughly well delivered, is a capital gratification. I can never hear
such a one without the greatest admiration and respect, and more than
half a mind to take orders and preach myself. There is something in the
eloquence of the pulpit, when it is really eloquence, which is entitled
to the highest praise and honour. The preacher who can touch and affect
such an heterogeneous mass of hearers, on subjects limited, and long
worn threadbare in all common hands; who can say anything new or
striking, anything that rouses the attention without offending the
taste, or wearing out the feelings of his hearers, is a man whom one
could not, in his public capacity, honour enough. I should like to be
such a man."

Edmund laughed.

"I should indeed. I never listened to a distinguished preacher in my
life without a sort of envy. But then, I must have a London audience.
I could not preach but to the educated; to those who were capable of
estimating my composition. And I do not know that I should be fond of
preaching often; now and then, perhaps once or twice in the spring,
after being anxiously expected for half a dozen Sundays together; but
not for a constancy; it would not do for a constancy."

Here Fanny, who could not but listen, involuntarily shook her head,
and Crawford was instantly by her side again, entreating to know her
meaning; and as Edmund perceived, by his drawing in a chair, and sitting
down close by her, that it was to be a very thorough attack, that looks
and undertones were to be well tried, he sank as quietly as possible
into a corner, turned his back, and took up a newspaper, very sincerely
wishing that dear little Fanny might be persuaded into explaining away
that shake of the head to the satisfaction of her ardent lover; and as
earnestly trying to bury every sound of the business from himself in
murmurs of his own, over the various advertisements of "A most desirable
Estate in South Wales"; "To Parents and Guardians"; and a "Capital
season'd Hunter."

Fanny, meanwhile, vexed with herself for not having been as motionless
as she was speechless, and grieved to the heart to see Edmund's
arrangements, was trying by everything in the power of her modest,
gentle nature, to repulse Mr. Crawford, and avoid both his looks and
inquiries; and he, unrepulsable, was persisting in both.

"What did that shake of the head mean?" said he. "What was it meant to
express? Disapprobation, I fear. But of what? What had I been saying
to displease you? Did you think me speaking improperly, lightly,
irreverently on the subject? Only tell me if I was. Only tell me if
I was wrong. I want to be set right. Nay, nay, I entreat you; for one
moment put down your work. What did that shake of the head mean?"

In vain was her "Pray, sir, don't; pray, Mr. Crawford," repeated twice
over; and in vain did she try to move away. In the same low, eager
voice, and the same close neighbourhood, he went on, reurging the same
questions as before. She grew more agitated and displeased.

"How can you, sir? You quite astonish me; I wonder how you can--"

"Do I astonish you?" said he. "Do you wonder? Is there anything in
my present entreaty that you do not understand? I will explain to you
instantly all that makes me urge you in this manner, all that gives me
an interest in what you look and do, and excites my present curiosity. I
will not leave you to wonder long."

In spite of herself, she could not help half a smile, but she said
nothing.

"You shook your head at my acknowledging that I should not like to
engage in the duties of a clergyman always for a constancy. Yes, that
was the word. Constancy: I am not afraid of the word. I would spell it,
read it, write it with anybody. I see nothing alarming in the word. Did
you think I ought?"

"Perhaps, sir," said Fanny, wearied at last into speaking--"perhaps,
sir, I thought it was a pity you did not always know yourself as well as
you seemed to do at that moment."

Crawford, delighted to get her to speak at any rate, was determined
to keep it up; and poor Fanny, who had hoped to silence him by such an
extremity of reproof, found herself sadly mistaken, and that it was only
a change from one object of curiosity and one set of words to another.
He had always something to entreat the explanation of. The opportunity
was too fair. None such had occurred since his seeing her in her uncle's
room, none such might occur again before his leaving Mansfield. Lady
Bertram's being just on the other side of the table was a trifle,
for she might always be considered as only half-awake, and Edmund's
advertisements were still of the first utility.

"Well," said Crawford, after a course of rapid questions and reluctant
answers; "I am happier than I was, because I now understand more clearly
your opinion of me. You think me unsteady: easily swayed by the whim of
the moment, easily tempted, easily put aside. With such an opinion, no
wonder that. But we shall see. It is not by protestations that I shall
endeavour to convince you I am wronged; it is not by telling you that my
affections are steady. My conduct shall speak for me; absence, distance,
time shall speak for me. _They_ shall prove that, as far as you can be
deserved by anybody, I do deserve you. You are infinitely my superior
in merit; all _that_ I know. You have qualities which I had not before
supposed to exist in such a degree in any human creature. You have some
touches of the angel in you beyond what--not merely beyond what one
sees, because one never sees anything like it--but beyond what one
fancies might be. But still I am not frightened. It is not by equality
of merit that you can be won. That is out of the question. It is he
who sees and worships your merit the strongest, who loves you most
devotedly, that has the best right to a return. There I build my
confidence. By that right I do and will deserve you; and when once
convinced that my attachment is what I declare it, I know you too well
not to entertain the warmest hopes. Yes, dearest, sweetest Fanny. Nay"
(seeing her draw back displeased), "forgive me. Perhaps I have as yet
no right; but by what other name can I call you? Do you suppose you are
ever present to my imagination under any other? No, it is 'Fanny' that
I think of all day, and dream of all night. You have given the name such
reality of sweetness, that nothing else can now be descriptive of you."

Fanny could hardly have kept her seat any longer, or have refrained from
at least trying to get away in spite of all the too public opposition
she foresaw to it, had it not been for the sound of approaching relief,
the very sound which she had been long watching for, and long thinking
strangely delayed.

The solemn procession, headed by Baddeley, of tea-board, urn, and
cake-bearers, made its appearance, and delivered her from a grievous
imprisonment of body and mind. Mr. Crawford was obliged to move. She was
at liberty, she was busy, she was protected.

Edmund was not sorry to be admitted again among the number of those who
might speak and hear. But though the conference had seemed full long to
him, and though on looking at Fanny he saw rather a flush of vexation,
he inclined to hope that so much could not have been said and listened
to without some profit to the speaker.



Edmund had determined that it belonged entirely to Fanny to chuse
whether her situation with regard to Crawford should be mentioned
between them or not; and that if she did not lead the way, it should
never be touched on by him; but after a day or two of mutual reserve, he
was induced by his father to change his mind, and try what his influence
might do for his friend.

A day, and a very early day, was actually fixed for the Crawfords'
departure; and Sir Thomas thought it might be as well to make one
more effort for the young man before he left Mansfield, that all his
professions and vows of unshaken attachment might have as much hope to
sustain them as possible.

Sir Thomas was most cordially anxious for the perfection of Mr.
Crawford's character in that point. He wished him to be a model of
constancy; and fancied the best means of effecting it would be by not
trying him too long.

Edmund was not unwilling to be persuaded to engage in the business; he
wanted to know Fanny's feelings. She had been used to consult him in
every difficulty, and he loved her too well to bear to be denied her
confidence now; he hoped to be of service to her, he thought he must be
of service to her; whom else had she to open her heart to? If she did
not need counsel, she must need the comfort of communication. Fanny
estranged from him, silent and reserved, was an unnatural state of
things; a state which he must break through, and which he could easily
learn to think she was wanting him to break through.

"I will speak to her, sir: I will take the first opportunity of speaking
to her alone," was the result of such thoughts as these; and upon Sir
Thomas's information of her being at that very time walking alone in the
shrubbery, he instantly joined her.

"I am come to walk with you, Fanny," said he. "Shall I?" Drawing her
arm within his. "It is a long while since we have had a comfortable walk
together."

She assented to it all rather by look than word. Her spirits were low.

"But, Fanny," he presently added, "in order to have a comfortable walk,
something more is necessary than merely pacing this gravel together. You
must talk to me. I know you have something on your mind. I know what you
are thinking of. You cannot suppose me uninformed. Am I to hear of it
from everybody but Fanny herself?"

Fanny, at once agitated and dejected, replied, "If you hear of it from
everybody, cousin, there can be nothing for me to tell."

"Not of facts, perhaps; but of feelings, Fanny. No one but you can tell
me them. I do not mean to press you, however. If it is not what you wish
yourself, I have done. I had thought it might be a relief."

"I am afraid we think too differently for me to find any relief in
talking of what I feel."

"Do you suppose that we think differently? I have no idea of it. I dare
say that, on a comparison of our opinions, they would be found as much
alike as they have been used to be: to the point--I consider Crawford's
proposals as most advantageous and desirable, if you could return his
affection. I consider it as most natural that all your family should
wish you could return it; but that, as you cannot, you have done exactly
as you ought in refusing him. Can there be any disagreement between us
here?"

"Oh no! But I thought you blamed me. I thought you were against me. This
is such a comfort!"

"This comfort you might have had sooner, Fanny, had you sought it. But
how could you possibly suppose me against you? How could you imagine me
an advocate for marriage without love? Were I even careless in general
on such matters, how could you imagine me so where your happiness was at
stake?"

"My uncle thought me wrong, and I knew he had been talking to you."

"As far as you have gone, Fanny, I think you perfectly right. I may be
sorry, I may be surprised--though hardly _that_, for you had not had
time to attach yourself--but I think you perfectly right. Can it admit
of a question? It is disgraceful to us if it does. You did not love him;
nothing could have justified your accepting him."

Fanny had not felt so comfortable for days and days.

"So far your conduct has been faultless, and they were quite mistaken
who wished you to do otherwise. But the matter does not end here.
Crawford's is no common attachment; he perseveres, with the hope of
creating that regard which had not been created before. This, we know,
must be a work of time. But" (with an affectionate smile) "let him
succeed at last, Fanny, let him succeed at last. You have proved
yourself upright and disinterested, prove yourself grateful and
tender-hearted; and then you will be the perfect model of a woman which
I have always believed you born for."

"Oh! never, never, never! he never will succeed with me." And she spoke
with a warmth which quite astonished Edmund, and which she blushed at
the recollection of herself, when she saw his look, and heard him
reply, "Never! Fanny!--so very determined and positive! This is not like
yourself, your rational self."

"I mean," she cried, sorrowfully correcting herself, "that I _think_ I
never shall, as far as the future can be answered for; I think I never
shall return his regard."

"I must hope better things. I am aware, more aware than Crawford can be,
that the man who means to make you love him (you having due notice of
his intentions) must have very uphill work, for there are all your early
attachments and habits in battle array; and before he can get your heart
for his own use he has to unfasten it from all the holds upon things
animate and inanimate, which so many years' growth have confirmed, and
which are considerably tightened for the moment by the very idea
of separation. I know that the apprehension of being forced to quit
Mansfield will for a time be arming you against him. I wish he had not
been obliged to tell you what he was trying for. I wish he had known you
as well as I do, Fanny. Between us, I think we should have won you. My
theoretical and his practical knowledge together could not have failed.
He should have worked upon my plans. I must hope, however, that time,
proving him (as I firmly believe it will) to deserve you by his steady
affection, will give him his reward. I cannot suppose that you have not
the _wish_ to love him--the natural wish of gratitude. You must have
some feeling of that sort. You must be sorry for your own indifference."

"We are so totally unlike," said Fanny, avoiding a direct answer, "we
are so very, very different in all our inclinations and ways, that
I consider it as quite impossible we should ever be tolerably happy
together, even if I _could_ like him. There never were two people more
dissimilar. We have not one taste in common. We should be miserable."

"You are mistaken, Fanny. The dissimilarity is not so strong. You are
quite enough alike. You _have_ tastes in common. You have moral and
literary tastes in common. You have both warm hearts and benevolent
feelings; and, Fanny, who that heard him read, and saw you listen to
Shakespeare the other night, will think you unfitted as companions? You
forget yourself: there is a decided difference in your tempers, I allow.
He is lively, you are serious; but so much the better: his spirits will
support yours. It is your disposition to be easily dejected and to fancy
difficulties greater than they are. His cheerfulness will counteract
this. He sees difficulties nowhere: and his pleasantness and gaiety will
be a constant support to you. Your being so far unlike, Fanny, does not
in the smallest degree make against the probability of your happiness
together: do not imagine it. I am myself convinced that it is rather a
favourable circumstance. I am perfectly persuaded that the tempers
had better be unlike: I mean unlike in the flow of the spirits, in
the manners, in the inclination for much or little company, in the
propensity to talk or to be silent, to be grave or to be gay. Some
opposition here is, I am thoroughly convinced, friendly to matrimonial
happiness. I exclude extremes, of course; and a very close resemblance
in all those points would be the likeliest way to produce an extreme.
A counteraction, gentle and continual, is the best safeguard of manners
and conduct."

Full well could Fanny guess where his thoughts were now: Miss Crawford's
power was all returning. He had been speaking of her cheerfully from the
hour of his coming home. His avoiding her was quite at an end. He had
dined at the Parsonage only the preceding day.

After leaving him to his happier thoughts for some minutes, Fanny,
feeling it due to herself, returned to Mr. Crawford, and said, "It
is not merely in _temper_ that I consider him as totally unsuited to
myself; though, in _that_ respect, I think the difference between us too
great, infinitely too great: his spirits often oppress me; but there is
something in him which I object to still more. I must say, cousin, that
I cannot approve his character. I have not thought well of him from the
time of the play. I then saw him behaving, as it appeared to me, so
very improperly and unfeelingly--I may speak of it now because it is all
over--so improperly by poor Mr. Rushworth, not seeming to care how he
exposed or hurt him, and paying attentions to my cousin Maria, which--in
short, at the time of the play, I received an impression which will
never be got over."

"My dear Fanny," replied Edmund, scarcely hearing her to the end, "let
us not, any of us, be judged by what we appeared at that period of
general folly. The time of the play is a time which I hate to recollect.
Maria was wrong, Crawford was wrong, we were all wrong together; but
none so wrong as myself. Compared with me, all the rest were blameless.
I was playing the fool with my eyes open."

"As a bystander," said Fanny, "perhaps I saw more than you did; and I do
think that Mr. Rushworth was sometimes very jealous."

"Very possibly. No wonder. Nothing could be more improper than the whole
business. I am shocked whenever I think that Maria could be capable of
it; but, if she could undertake the part, we must not be surprised at
the rest."

"Before the play, I am much mistaken if _Julia_ did not think he was
paying her attentions."

"Julia! I have heard before from some one of his being in love with
Julia; but I could never see anything of it. And, Fanny, though I hope I
do justice to my sisters' good qualities, I think it very possible that
they might, one or both, be more desirous of being admired by Crawford,
and might shew that desire rather more unguardedly than was perfectly
prudent. I can remember that they were evidently fond of his society;
and with such encouragement, a man like Crawford, lively, and it may
be, a little unthinking, might be led on to--there could be nothing very
striking, because it is clear that he had no pretensions: his heart was
reserved for you. And I must say, that its being for you has raised him
inconceivably in my opinion. It does him the highest honour; it shews
his proper estimation of the blessing of domestic happiness and pure
attachment. It proves him unspoilt by his uncle. It proves him, in
short, everything that I had been used to wish to believe him, and
feared he was not."

"I am persuaded that he does not think, as he ought, on serious
subjects."

"Say, rather, that he has not thought at all upon serious subjects,
which I believe to be a good deal the case. How could it be otherwise,
with such an education and adviser? Under the disadvantages, indeed,
which both have had, is it not wonderful that they should be what they
are? Crawford's _feelings_, I am ready to acknowledge, have hitherto
been too much his guides. Happily, those feelings have generally been
good. You will supply the rest; and a most fortunate man he is to attach
himself to such a creature--to a woman who, firm as a rock in her own
principles, has a gentleness of character so well adapted to recommend
them. He has chosen his partner, indeed, with rare felicity. He will
make you happy, Fanny; I know he will make you happy; but you will make
him everything."

"I would not engage in such a charge," cried Fanny, in a shrinking
accent; "in such an office of high responsibility!"

"As usual, believing yourself unequal to anything! fancying everything
too much for you! Well, though I may not be able to persuade you into
different feelings, you will be persuaded into them, I trust. I confess
myself sincerely anxious that you may. I have no common interest in
Crawford's well-doing. Next to your happiness, Fanny, his has the first
claim on me. You are aware of my having no common interest in Crawford."

Fanny was too well aware of it to have anything to say; and they walked
on together some fifty yards in mutual silence and abstraction. Edmund
first began again--

"I was very much pleased by her manner of speaking of it yesterday,
particularly pleased, because I had not depended upon her seeing
everything in so just a light. I knew she was very fond of you; but yet
I was afraid of her not estimating your worth to her brother quite as
it deserved, and of her regretting that he had not rather fixed on
some woman of distinction or fortune. I was afraid of the bias of those
worldly maxims, which she has been too much used to hear. But it was
very different. She spoke of you, Fanny, just as she ought. She desires
the connexion as warmly as your uncle or myself. We had a long talk
about it. I should not have mentioned the subject, though very anxious
to know her sentiments; but I had not been in the room five minutes
before she began introducing it with all that openness of heart, and
sweet peculiarity of manner, that spirit and ingenuousness which are so
much a part of herself. Mrs. Grant laughed at her for her rapidity."

"Was Mrs. Grant in the room, then?"

"Yes, when I reached the house I found the two sisters together by
themselves; and when once we had begun, we had not done with you, Fanny,
till Crawford and Dr. Grant came in."

"It is above a week since I saw Miss Crawford."

"Yes, she laments it; yet owns it may have been best. You will see her,
however, before she goes. She is very angry with you, Fanny; you must be
prepared for that. She calls herself very angry, but you can imagine her
anger. It is the regret and disappointment of a sister, who thinks her
brother has a right to everything he may wish for, at the first moment.
She is hurt, as you would be for William; but she loves and esteems you
with all her heart."

"I knew she would be very angry with me."

"My dearest Fanny," cried Edmund, pressing her arm closer to him, "do
not let the idea of her anger distress you. It is anger to be talked
of rather than felt. Her heart is made for love and kindness, not for
resentment. I wish you could have overheard her tribute of praise;
I wish you could have seen her countenance, when she said that you
_should_ be Henry's wife. And I observed that she always spoke of you
as 'Fanny,' which she was never used to do; and it had a sound of most
sisterly cordiality."

"And Mrs. Grant, did she say--did she speak; was she there all the
time?"

"Yes, she was agreeing exactly with her sister. The surprise of your
refusal, Fanny, seems to have been unbounded. That you could refuse such
a man as Henry Crawford seems more than they can understand. I said what
I could for you; but in good truth, as they stated the case--you must
prove yourself to be in your senses as soon as you can by a different
conduct; nothing else will satisfy them. But this is teasing you. I have
done. Do not turn away from me."

"I _should_ have thought," said Fanny, after a pause of recollection and
exertion, "that every woman must have felt the possibility of a man's
not being approved, not being loved by some one of her sex at least, let
him be ever so generally agreeable. Let him have all the perfections
in the world, I think it ought not to be set down as certain that a man
must be acceptable to every woman he may happen to like himself. But,
even supposing it is so, allowing Mr. Crawford to have all the claims
which his sisters think he has, how was I to be prepared to meet him
with any feeling answerable to his own? He took me wholly by surprise.
I had not an idea that his behaviour to me before had any meaning; and
surely I was not to be teaching myself to like him only because he was
taking what seemed very idle notice of me. In my situation, it would
have been the extreme of vanity to be forming expectations on Mr.
Crawford. I am sure his sisters, rating him as they do, must have
thought it so, supposing he had meant nothing. How, then, was I to
be--to be in love with him the moment he said he was with me? How was I
to have an attachment at his service, as soon as it was asked for? His
sisters should consider me as well as him. The higher his deserts, the
more improper for me ever to have thought of him. And, and--we think
very differently of the nature of women, if they can imagine a woman so
very soon capable of returning an affection as this seems to imply."

"My dear, dear Fanny, now I have the truth. I know this to be the truth;
and most worthy of you are such feelings. I had attributed them to you
before. I thought I could understand you. You have now given exactly
the explanation which I ventured to make for you to your friend and Mrs.
Grant, and they were both better satisfied, though your warm-hearted
friend was still run away with a little by the enthusiasm of her
fondness for Henry. I told them that you were of all human creatures the
one over whom habit had most power and novelty least; and that the very
circumstance of the novelty of Crawford's addresses was against him.
Their being so new and so recent was all in their disfavour; that you
could tolerate nothing that you were not used to; and a great deal more
to the same purpose, to give them a knowledge of your character. Miss
Crawford made us laugh by her plans of encouragement for her brother.
She meant to urge him to persevere in the hope of being loved in time,
and of having his addresses most kindly received at the end of about ten
years' happy marriage."

Fanny could with difficulty give the smile that was here asked for. Her
feelings were all in revolt. She feared she had been doing wrong: saying
too much, overacting the caution which she had been fancying necessary;
in guarding against one evil, laying herself open to another; and to
have Miss Crawford's liveliness repeated to her at such a moment, and on
such a subject, was a bitter aggravation.

Edmund saw weariness and distress in her face, and immediately resolved
to forbear all farther discussion; and not even to mention the name
of Crawford again, except as it might be connected with what _must_ be
agreeable to her. On this principle, he soon afterwards observed--"They
go on Monday. You are sure, therefore, of seeing your friend either
to-morrow or Sunday. They really go on Monday; and I was within a trifle
of being persuaded to stay at Lessingby till that very day! I had almost
promised it. What a difference it might have made! Those five or six
days more at Lessingby might have been felt all my life."

"You were near staying there?"

"Very. I was most kindly pressed, and had nearly consented. Had I
received any letter from Mansfield, to tell me how you were all going
on, I believe I should certainly have staid; but I knew nothing that
had happened here for a fortnight, and felt that I had been away long
enough."

"You spent your time pleasantly there?"

"Yes; that is, it was the fault of my own mind if I did not. They were
all very pleasant. I doubt their finding me so. I took uneasiness with
me, and there was no getting rid of it till I was in Mansfield again."

"The Miss Owens--you liked them, did not you?"

"Yes, very well. Pleasant, good-humoured, unaffected girls. But I am
spoilt, Fanny, for common female society. Good-humoured, unaffected
girls will not do for a man who has been used to sensible women. They
are two distinct orders of being. You and Miss Crawford have made me too
nice."

Still, however, Fanny was oppressed and wearied; he saw it in her looks,
it could not be talked away; and attempting it no more, he led her
directly, with the kind authority of a privileged guardian, into the
house.



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.

 Fanny hopes that she has discouraged Henry Crawford permanently. To her dismay, though, he comes to see her uncle, Sir Thomas, to plead his case. Fanny is upstairs in the nursery when her uncle comes to talk to her. He is startled that she has no fire in the cold upstairs room  and tells her that she will have one from now on. He also asks her to come downstairs with him to talk to Henry, who is waiting. Fanny cannot believe Henry has had the nerve to repeat his proposals after her denial the night before. Sir Thomas does not understand why Fanny is rejecting such a charming and wealthy young man, and she does not want to tell him about Henry's dalliances with Maria and Julia. He is a bit worried that her affections are directed elsewhere--towards Edmund--but she tells him she loves no other. Sir Thomas accuses her of ingratitude, and her tears and pleading convince him she may be softened towards Henry. He tells her that she will meet with Henry the following day to explain herself. Henry does indeed show up the next day to try once again. His expressions of sincerity make an impression on Sir Thomas. Again he reminds Fanny of his role in William's promotion, and Fanny is hard-pressed to deny him given this fact. But deny him she does. Sir Thomas tells her that he will respect her wishes, but that he will inform Mrs. Norris and Lady Bertram of the proposal; he also tells her that she will receive Henry for as long as he stays in the neighborhood of Mansfield Park. Mrs. Norris is enraged and barely speaks to Fanny; Lady Bertram tells her she ought to have accepted the proposal. Lady Bertram's vanity is flattered by the proposal, though, and she compliments herself both on sending her own maid to dress Fanny the night of the ball  and on having such a good-looking family. Edmund returns to Mansfield after his ordination. He is disconcerted to see Mary Crawford still at the Parsonage; he had stayed away longer in hopes that she would leave before he returned. Sir Thomas informs Edmund of Henry's proposal to Fanny; Edmund is gentle with her but, as a friend of Henry's, encourages her to accept the proposal. The night after Edmund's return, Henry comes to Mansfield Park for dinner. After dinner, he reads from Shakespeare for the entertainment of Lady Bertram. Although he claims that Shakespeare is not one of his favorites, he reads exquisitely, and the group is impressed with his dramatic skills. Fanny is reminded of the play that was to be put on in Sir Thomas's absence. Edmund and Henry have a conversation about delivering sermons, and Henry lavishes Fanny with unwanted attention. Edmund hopes Fanny will be able to get rid of him, but he does nothing to help her. The Crawfords are to leave Mansfield, and Sir Thomas is eager for Fanny to change her mind. He asks Edmund to intervene. Edmund reluctantly agrees. Fanny's emotions are turbulent as she talks to Edmund about the situation. He tells her that he agrees with her conduct, but he urges her to reconsider. She becomes quite passionate, clearly moved by her feelings for Edmund himself, in her refusals even to think of Henry Crawford. She reminds Edmund of Henry's attention to Maria; he brushes her concerns off. So, of course, on the subject turns to Mary Crawford. Edmund is pleased that Mary seems so eager to see her brother marry Fanny. Fanny is moved to make a declaration of near-feminist principles: "I think it ought not to be set down as certain, that a man must be acceptable to every woman he may happen to like himself." Unfortunately, Edmund misinterprets Fanny's words and tells her that he has told Mary and Mrs. Grant that Henry simply needs to be persistent in his addresses to earn her love. Mary comes to see Fanny before she leaves Mansfield. She jestingly scolds Fanny for rejecting Henry's proposals, but cannot keep from talking about Edmund. She reminisces about the scene from the play that she and Edmund rehearsed with Fanny's help, and she tells Fanny that she does not want to leave Mansfield. She gives Fanny a brief account of the friends she is going to visit; they seem to be a corrupted, overly sophisticated lot--all unhappily married, and all at one time or another conveniently in love with Henry Crawford. She then gives Fanny a piece of shocking news: the necklace she gave to Fanny was intended as a gift from Henry; Fanny was duped into taking it. Again Mary attests to Henry's sincerity, and again Fanny is reminded of Henry's aid to William's career. That night, the Crawfords take leave of Mansfield. Henry seems miserable, and Fanny softens toward him for a moment, but not enough to consider accepting him. The next morning, the Crawfords leave.

