Chapter Chapter 31 · Chapter XXXI

Henry Crawford was at Mansfield Park again the next morning, and at an

earlier hour than common visiting warrants. The two ladies were

together in the breakfast-room, and, fortunately for him, Lady Bertram

was on the very point of quitting it as he entered. She was almost at

the door, and not chusing by any means to take so much trouble in vain,

she still went on, after a civil reception, a short sentence about

being waited for, and a “Let Sir Thomas know” to the servant.

Henry, overjoyed to have her go, bowed and watched her off, and without

losing another moment, turned instantly to Fanny, and, taking out some

letters, said, with a most animated look, “I must acknowledge myself

infinitely obliged to any creature who gives me such an opportunity of

seeing you alone: I have been wishing it more than you can have any

idea. Knowing as I do what your feelings as a sister are, I could

hardly have borne that any one in the house should share with you in

the first knowledge of the news I now bring. He is made. Your brother

is a lieutenant. I have the infinite satisfaction of congratulating you

on your brother’s promotion. Here are the letters which announce it,

this moment come to hand. You will, perhaps, like to see them.”

Fanny could not speak, but he did not want her to speak. To see the

expression of her eyes, the change of her complexion, the progress of

her feelings, their doubt, confusion, and felicity, was enough. She

took the letters as he gave them. The first was from the Admiral to

inform his nephew, in a few words, of his having succeeded in the

object he had undertaken, the promotion of young Price, and enclosing

two more, one from the Secretary of the First Lord to a friend, whom

the Admiral had set to work in the business, the other from that friend

to himself, by which it appeared that his lordship had the very great

happiness of attending to the recommendation of Sir Charles; that Sir

Charles was much delighted in having such an opportunity of proving his

regard for Admiral Crawford, and that the circumstance of Mr. William

Price’s commission as Second Lieutenant of H.M. Sloop Thrush being made

out was spreading general joy through a wide circle of great people.

While her hand was trembling under these letters, her eye running from

one to the other, and her heart swelling with emotion, Crawford thus

continued, with unfeigned eagerness, to express his interest in the

event—

“I will not talk of my own happiness,” said he, “great as it is, for I

think only of yours. Compared with you, who has a right to be happy? I

have almost grudged myself my own prior knowledge of what you ought to

have known before all the world. I have not lost a moment, however. The

post was late this morning, but there has not been since a moment’s

delay. How impatient, how anxious, how wild I have been on the subject,

I will not attempt to describe; how severely mortified, how cruelly

disappointed, in not having it finished while I was in London! I was

kept there from day to day in the hope of it, for nothing less dear to

me than such an object would have detained me half the time from

Mansfield. But though my uncle entered into my wishes with all the

warmth I could desire, and exerted himself immediately, there were

difficulties from the absence of one friend, and the engagements of

another, which at last I could no longer bear to stay the end of, and

knowing in what good hands I left the cause, I came away on Monday,

trusting that many posts would not pass before I should be followed by

such very letters as these. My uncle, who is the very best man in the

world, has exerted himself, as I knew he would, after seeing your

brother. He was delighted with him. I would not allow myself yesterday

to say how delighted, or to repeat half that the Admiral said in his

praise. I deferred it all till his praise should be proved the praise

of a friend, as this day _does_ prove it. _Now_ I may say that even I

could not require William Price to excite a greater interest, or be

followed by warmer wishes and higher commendation, than were most

voluntarily bestowed by my uncle after the evening they had passed

together.”

“Has this been all _your_ doing, then?” cried Fanny. “Good heaven! how

very, very kind! Have you really—was it by _your_ desire? I beg your

pardon, but I am bewildered. Did Admiral Crawford apply? How was it? I

am stupefied.”

Henry was most happy to make it more intelligible, by beginning at an

earlier stage, and explaining very particularly what he had done. His

last journey to London had been undertaken with no other view than that

of introducing her brother in Hill Street, and prevailing on the

Admiral to exert whatever interest he might have for getting him on.

This had been his business. He had communicated it to no creature: he

had not breathed a syllable of it even to Mary; while uncertain of the

issue, he could not have borne any participation of his feelings, but

this had been his business; and he spoke with such a glow of what his

solicitude had been, and used such strong expressions, was so abounding

in the _deepest_ _interest_, in _twofold_ _motives_, in _views_ _and_

_wishes_ _more_ _than_ _could_ _be_ _told_, that Fanny could not have

remained insensible of his drift, had she been able to attend; but her

heart was so full and her senses still so astonished, that she could

listen but imperfectly even to what he told her of William, and saying

only when he paused, “How kind! how very kind! Oh, Mr. Crawford, we are

infinitely obliged to you! Dearest, dearest William!” She jumped up and

moved in haste towards the door, crying out, “I will go to my uncle. My

uncle ought to know it as soon as possible.” But this could not be

suffered. The opportunity was too fair, and his feelings too impatient.

He was after her immediately. “She must not go, she must allow him five

minutes longer,” and he took her hand and led her back to her seat, and

was in the middle of his farther explanation, before she had suspected

for what she was detained. When she did understand it, however, and

found herself expected to believe that she had created sensations which

his heart had never known before, and that everything he had done for

William was to be placed to the account of his excessive and unequalled

attachment to her, she was exceedingly distressed, and for some moments

unable to speak. She considered it all as nonsense, as mere trifling

and gallantry, which meant only to deceive for the hour; she could not

but feel that it was treating her improperly and unworthily, and in

such a way as she had not deserved; but it was like himself, and

entirely of a piece with what she had seen before; and she would not

allow herself to shew half the displeasure she felt, because he had

been conferring an obligation, which no want of delicacy on his part

could make a trifle to her. While her heart was still bounding with joy

and gratitude on William’s behalf, she could not be severely resentful

of anything that injured only herself; and after having twice drawn

back her hand, and twice attempted in vain to turn away from him, she

got up, and said only, with much agitation, “Don’t, Mr. Crawford, pray

don’t! I beg you would not. This is a sort of talking which is very

unpleasant to me. I must go away. I cannot bear it.” But he was still

talking on, describing his affection, soliciting a return, and,

finally, in words so plain as to bear but one meaning even to her,

offering himself, hand, fortune, everything, to her acceptance. It was

so; he had said it. Her astonishment and confusion increased; and

though still not knowing how to suppose him serious, she could hardly

stand. He pressed for an answer.

“No, no, no!” she cried, hiding her face. “This is all nonsense. Do not

distress me. I can hear no more of this. Your kindness to William makes

me more obliged to you than words can express; but I do not want, I

cannot bear, I must not listen to such—No, no, don’t think of me. But

you are _not_ thinking of me. I know it is all nothing.”

She had burst away from him, and at that moment Sir Thomas was heard

speaking to a servant in his way towards the room they were in. It was

no time for farther assurances or entreaty, though to part with her at

a moment when her modesty alone seemed, to his sanguine and preassured

mind, to stand in the way of the happiness he sought, was a cruel

necessity. She rushed out at an opposite door from the one her uncle

was approaching, and was walking up and down the East room in the

utmost confusion of contrary feeling, before Sir Thomas’s politeness or

apologies were over, or he had reached the beginning of the joyful

intelligence which his visitor came to communicate.

She was feeling, thinking, trembling about everything; agitated, happy,

miserable, infinitely obliged, absolutely angry. It was all beyond

belief! He was inexcusable, incomprehensible! But such were his habits

that he could do nothing without a mixture of evil. He had previously

made her the happiest of human beings, and now he had insulted—she knew

not what to say, how to class, or how to regard it. She would not have

him be serious, and yet what could excuse the use of such words and

offers, if they meant but to trifle?

But William was a lieutenant. _That_ was a fact beyond a doubt, and

without an alloy. She would think of it for ever and forget all the

rest. Mr. Crawford would certainly never address her so again: he must

have seen how unwelcome it was to her; and in that case, how gratefully

she could esteem him for his friendship to William!

She would not stir farther from the East room than the head of the

great staircase, till she had satisfied herself of Mr. Crawford’s

having left the house; but when convinced of his being gone, she was

eager to go down and be with her uncle, and have all the happiness of

his joy as well as her own, and all the benefit of his information or

his conjectures as to what would now be William’s destination. Sir

Thomas was as joyful as she could desire, and very kind and

communicative; and she had so comfortable a talk with him about William

as to make her feel as if nothing had occurred to vex her, till she

found, towards the close, that Mr. Crawford was engaged to return and

dine there that very day. This was a most unwelcome hearing, for though

he might think nothing of what had passed, it would be quite

distressing to her to see him again so soon.

She tried to get the better of it; tried very hard, as the dinner hour

approached, to feel and appear as usual; but it was quite impossible

for her not to look most shy and uncomfortable when their visitor

entered the room. She could not have supposed it in the power of any

concurrence of circumstances to give her so many painful sensations on

the first day of hearing of William’s promotion.

Mr. Crawford was not only in the room—he was soon close to her. He had

a note to deliver from his sister. Fanny could not look at him, but

there was no consciousness of past folly in his voice. She opened her

note immediately, glad to have anything to do, and happy, as she read

it, to feel that the fidgetings of her aunt Norris, who was also to

dine there, screened her a little from view.

“MY DEAR FANNY,—for so I may now always call you, to the infinite

relief of a tongue that has been stumbling at _Miss_ _Price_ for at

least the last six weeks—I cannot let my brother go without sending you

a few lines of general congratulation, and giving my most joyful

consent and approval. Go on, my dear Fanny, and without fear; there can

be no difficulties worth naming. I chuse to suppose that the assurance

of my consent will be something; so you may smile upon him with your

sweetest smiles this afternoon, and send him back to me even happier

than he goes.

Yours affectionately,

M. C.”

These were not expressions to do Fanny any good; for though she read in

too much haste and confusion to form the clearest judgment of Miss

Crawford’s meaning, it was evident that she meant to compliment her on

her brother’s attachment, and even to _appear_ to believe it serious.

She did not know what to do, or what to think. There was wretchedness

in the idea of its being serious; there was perplexity and agitation

every way. She was distressed whenever Mr. Crawford spoke to her, and

he spoke to her much too often; and she was afraid there was a

something in his voice and manner in addressing her very different from

what they were when he talked to the others. Her comfort in that day’s

dinner was quite destroyed: she could hardly eat anything; and when Sir

Thomas good-humouredly observed that joy had taken away her appetite,

she was ready to sink with shame, from the dread of Mr. Crawford’s

interpretation; for though nothing could have tempted her to turn her

eyes to the right hand, where he sat, she felt that _his_ were

immediately directed towards her.

She was more silent than ever. She would hardly join even when William

was the subject, for his commission came all from the right hand too,

and there was pain in the connexion.

She thought Lady Bertram sat longer than ever, and began to be in

despair of ever getting away; but at last they were in the

drawing-room, and she was able to think as she would, while her aunts

finished the subject of William’s appointment in their own style.

Mrs. Norris seemed as much delighted with the saving it would be to Sir

Thomas as with any part of it. “_Now_ William would be able to keep

himself, which would make a vast difference to his uncle, for it was

unknown how much he had cost his uncle; and, indeed, it would make some

difference in _her_ presents too. She was very glad that she had given

William what she did at parting, very glad, indeed, that it had been in

her power, without material inconvenience, just at that time to give

him something rather considerable; that is, for _her_, with _her_

limited means, for now it would all be useful in helping to fit up his

cabin. She knew he must be at some expense, that he would have many

things to buy, though to be sure his father and mother would be able to

put him in the way of getting everything very cheap; but she was very

glad she had contributed her mite towards it.”

“I am glad you gave him something considerable,” said Lady Bertram,

with most unsuspicious calmness, “for _I_ gave him only £10.”

“Indeed!” cried Mrs. Norris, reddening. “Upon my word, he must have

gone off with his pockets well lined, and at no expense for his journey

to London either!”

“Sir Thomas told me £10 would be enough.”

Mrs. Norris, being not at all inclined to question its sufficiency,

began to take the matter in another point.

“It is amazing,” said she, “how much young people cost their friends,

what with bringing them up and putting them out in the world! They

little think how much it comes to, or what their parents, or their

uncles and aunts, pay for them in the course of the year. Now, here are

my sister Price’s children; take them all together, I dare say nobody

would believe what a sum they cost Sir Thomas every year, to say

nothing of what _I_ do for them.”

“Very true, sister, as you say. But, poor things! they cannot help it;

and you know it makes very little difference to Sir Thomas. Fanny,

William must not forget my shawl if he goes to the East Indies; and I

shall give him a commission for anything else that is worth having. I

wish he may go to the East Indies, that I may have my shawl. I think I

will have two shawls, Fanny.”

Fanny, meanwhile, speaking only when she could not help it, was very

earnestly trying to understand what Mr. and Miss Crawford were at.

There was everything in the world _against_ their being serious but his

words and manner. Everything natural, probable, reasonable, was against

it; all their habits and ways of thinking, and all her own demerits.

How could _she_ have excited serious attachment in a man who had seen

so many, and been admired by so many, and flirted with so many,

infinitely her superiors; who seemed so little open to serious

impressions, even where pains had been taken to please him; who thought

so slightly, so carelessly, so unfeelingly on all such points; who was

everything to everybody, and seemed to find no one essential to him?

And farther, how could it be supposed that his sister, with all her

high and worldly notions of matrimony, would be forwarding anything of

a serious nature in such a quarter? Nothing could be more unnatural in

either. Fanny was ashamed of her own doubts. Everything might be

possible rather than serious attachment, or serious approbation of it

toward her. She had quite convinced herself of this before Sir Thomas

and Mr. Crawford joined them. The difficulty was in maintaining the

conviction quite so absolutely after Mr. Crawford was in the room; for

once or twice a look seemed forced on her which she did not know how to

class among the common meaning; in any other man, at least, she would

have said that it meant something very earnest, very pointed. But she

still tried to believe it no more than what he might often have

expressed towards her cousins and fifty other women.

She thought he was wishing to speak to her unheard by the rest. She

fancied he was trying for it the whole evening at intervals, whenever

Sir Thomas was out of the room, or at all engaged with Mrs. Norris, and

she carefully refused him every opportunity.

At last—it seemed an at last to Fanny’s nervousness, though not

remarkably late—he began to talk of going away; but the comfort of the

sound was impaired by his turning to her the next moment, and saying,

“Have you nothing to send to Mary? No answer to her note? She will be

disappointed if she receives nothing from you. Pray write to her, if it

be only a line.”

“Oh yes! certainly,” cried Fanny, rising in haste, the haste of

embarrassment and of wanting to get away—“I will write directly.”

She went accordingly to the table, where she was in the habit of

writing for her aunt, and prepared her materials without knowing what

in the world to say. She had read Miss Crawford’s note only once, and

how to reply to anything so imperfectly understood was most

distressing. Quite unpractised in such sort of note-writing, had there

been time for scruples and fears as to style she would have felt them

in abundance: but something must be instantly written; and with only

one decided feeling, that of wishing not to appear to think anything

really intended, she wrote thus, in great trembling both of spirits and

hand—

“I am very much obliged to you, my dear Miss Crawford, for your kind

congratulations, as far as they relate to my dearest William. The rest

of your note I know means nothing; but I am so unequal to anything of

the sort, that I hope you will excuse my begging you to take no farther

notice. I have seen too much of Mr. Crawford not to understand his

manners; if he understood me as well, he would, I dare say, behave

differently. I do not know what I write, but it would be a great favour

of you never to mention the subject again. With thanks for the honour

of your note,

I remain, dear Miss Crawford,

&c., &c.”

The conclusion was scarcely intelligible from increasing fright, for

she found that Mr. Crawford, under pretence of receiving the note, was

coming towards her.

“You cannot think I mean to hurry you,” said he, in an undervoice,

perceiving the amazing trepidation with which she made up the note,

“you cannot think I have any such object. Do not hurry yourself, I

entreat.”

“Oh! I thank you; I have quite done, just done; it will be ready in a

moment; I am very much obliged to you; if you will be so good as to

give _that_ to Miss Crawford.”

The note was held out, and must be taken; and as she instantly and with

averted eyes walked towards the fireplace, where sat the others, he had

nothing to do but to go in good earnest.

Fanny thought she had never known a day of greater agitation, both of

pain and pleasure; but happily the pleasure was not of a sort to die

with the day; for every day would restore the knowledge of William’s

advancement, whereas the pain, she hoped, would return no more. She had

no doubt that her note must appear excessively ill-written, that the

language would disgrace a child, for her distress had allowed no

arrangement; but at least it would assure them both of her being

neither imposed on nor gratified by Mr. Crawford’s attentions.