Kabanata Kabanata 29 · Chapter XXIX

The ball was over, and the breakfast was soon over too; the last kiss

was given, and William was gone. Mr. Crawford had, as he foretold, been

very punctual, and short and pleasant had been the meal.

After seeing William to the last moment, Fanny walked back to the

breakfast-room with a very saddened heart to grieve over the melancholy

change; and there her uncle kindly left her to cry in peace,

conceiving, perhaps, that the deserted chair of each young man might

exercise her tender enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold pork bones

and mustard in William’s plate might but divide her feelings with the

broken egg-shells in Mr. Crawford’s. She sat and cried _con_ _amore_ as

her uncle intended, but it was _con_ _amore_ fraternal and no other.

William was gone, and she now felt as if she had wasted half his visit

in idle cares and selfish solicitudes unconnected with him.

Fanny’s disposition was such that she could never even think of her

aunt Norris in the meagreness and cheerlessness of her own small house,

without reproaching herself for some little want of attention to her

when they had been last together; much less could her feelings acquit

her of having done and said and thought everything by William that was

due to him for a whole fortnight.

It was a heavy, melancholy day. Soon after the second breakfast, Edmund

bade them good-bye for a week, and mounted his horse for Peterborough,

and then all were gone. Nothing remained of last night but

remembrances, which she had nobody to share in. She talked to her aunt

Bertram—she must talk to somebody of the ball; but her aunt had seen so

little of what had passed, and had so little curiosity, that it was

heavy work. Lady Bertram was not certain of anybody’s dress or

anybody’s place at supper but her own. “She could not recollect what it

was that she had heard about one of the Miss Maddoxes, or what it was

that Lady Prescott had noticed in Fanny: she was not sure whether

Colonel Harrison had been talking of Mr. Crawford or of William when he

said he was the finest young man in the room—somebody had whispered

something to her; she had forgot to ask Sir Thomas what it could be.”

And these were her longest speeches and clearest communications: the

rest was only a languid “Yes, yes; very well; did you? did he? I did

not see _that_; I should not know one from the other.” This was very

bad. It was only better than Mrs. Norris’s sharp answers would have

been; but she being gone home with all the supernumerary jellies to

nurse a sick maid, there was peace and good-humour in their little

party, though it could not boast much beside.

The evening was heavy like the day. “I cannot think what is the matter

with me,” said Lady Bertram, when the tea-things were removed. “I feel

quite stupid. It must be sitting up so late last night. Fanny, you must

do something to keep me awake. I cannot work. Fetch the cards; I feel

so very stupid.”

The cards were brought, and Fanny played at cribbage with her aunt till

bedtime; and as Sir Thomas was reading to himself, no sounds were heard

in the room for the next two hours beyond the reckonings of the

game—“And _that_ makes thirty-one; four in hand and eight in crib. You

are to deal, ma’am; shall I deal for you?” Fanny thought and thought

again of the difference which twenty-four hours had made in that room,

and all that part of the house. Last night it had been hope and smiles,

bustle and motion, noise and brilliancy, in the drawing-room, and out

of the drawing-room, and everywhere. Now it was languor, and all but

solitude.

A good night’s rest improved her spirits. She could think of William

the next day more cheerfully; and as the morning afforded her an

opportunity of talking over Thursday night with Mrs. Grant and Miss

Crawford, in a very handsome style, with all the heightenings of

imagination, and all the laughs of playfulness which are so essential

to the shade of a departed ball, she could afterwards bring her mind

without much effort into its everyday state, and easily conform to the

tranquillity of the present quiet week.

They were indeed a smaller party than she had ever known there for a

whole day together, and _he_ was gone on whom the comfort and

cheerfulness of every family meeting and every meal chiefly depended.

But this must be learned to be endured. He would soon be always gone;

and she was thankful that she could now sit in the same room with her

uncle, hear his voice, receive his questions, and even answer them,

without such wretched feelings as she had formerly known.

“We miss our two young men,” was Sir Thomas’s observation on both the

first and second day, as they formed their very reduced circle after

dinner; and in consideration of Fanny’s swimming eyes, nothing more was

said on the first day than to drink their good health; but on the

second it led to something farther. William was kindly commended and

his promotion hoped for. “And there is no reason to suppose,” added Sir

Thomas, “but that his visits to us may now be tolerably frequent. As to

Edmund, we must learn to do without him. This will be the last winter

of his belonging to us, as he has done.”

“Yes,” said Lady Bertram, “but I wish he was not going away. They are

all going away, I think. I wish they would stay at home.”

This wish was levelled principally at Julia, who had just applied for

permission to go to town with Maria; and as Sir Thomas thought it best

for each daughter that the permission should be granted, Lady Bertram,

though in her own good-nature she would not have prevented it, was

lamenting the change it made in the prospect of Julia’s return, which

would otherwise have taken place about this time. A great deal of good

sense followed on Sir Thomas’s side, tending to reconcile his wife to

the arrangement. Everything that a considerate parent _ought_ to feel

was advanced for her use; and everything that an affectionate mother

_must_ feel in promoting her children’s enjoyment was attributed to her

nature. Lady Bertram agreed to it all with a calm “Yes”; and at the end

of a quarter of an hour’s silent consideration spontaneously observed,

“Sir Thomas, I have been thinking—and I am very glad we took Fanny as

we did, for now the others are away we feel the good of it.”

Sir Thomas immediately improved this compliment by adding, “Very true.

We shew Fanny what a good girl we think her by praising her to her

face, she is now a very valuable companion. If we have been kind to

_her_, she is now quite as necessary to _us_.”

“Yes,” said Lady Bertram presently; “and it is a comfort to think that

we shall always have _her_.”

Sir Thomas paused, half smiled, glanced at his niece, and then gravely

replied, “She will never leave us, I hope, till invited to some other

home that may reasonably promise her greater happiness than she knows

here.”

“And _that_ is not very likely to be, Sir Thomas. Who should invite

her? Maria might be very glad to see her at Sotherton now and then, but

she would not think of asking her to live there; and I am sure she is

better off here; and besides, I cannot do without her.”

The week which passed so quietly and peaceably at the great house in

Mansfield had a very different character at the Parsonage. To the young

lady, at least, in each family, it brought very different feelings.

What was tranquillity and comfort to Fanny was tediousness and vexation

to Mary. Something arose from difference of disposition and habit: one

so easily satisfied, the other so unused to endure; but still more

might be imputed to difference of circumstances. In some points of

interest they were exactly opposed to each other. To Fanny’s mind,

Edmund’s absence was really, in its cause and its tendency, a relief.

To Mary it was every way painful. She felt the want of his society

every day, almost every hour, and was too much in want of it to derive

anything but irritation from considering the object for which he went.

He could not have devised anything more likely to raise his consequence

than this week’s absence, occurring as it did at the very time of her

brother’s going away, of William Price’s going too, and completing the

sort of general break-up of a party which had been so animated. She

felt it keenly. They were now a miserable trio, confined within doors

by a series of rain and snow, with nothing to do and no variety to hope

for. Angry as she was with Edmund for adhering to his own notions, and

acting on them in defiance of her (and she had been so angry that they

had hardly parted friends at the ball), she could not help thinking of

him continually when absent, dwelling on his merit and affection, and

longing again for the almost daily meetings they lately had. His

absence was unnecessarily long. He should not have planned such an

absence—he should not have left home for a week, when her own departure

from Mansfield was so near. Then she began to blame herself. She wished

she had not spoken so warmly in their last conversation. She was afraid

she had used some strong, some contemptuous expressions in speaking of

the clergy, and that should not have been. It was ill-bred; it was

wrong. She wished such words unsaid with all her heart.

Her vexation did not end with the week. All this was bad, but she had

still more to feel when Friday came round again and brought no Edmund;

when Saturday came and still no Edmund; and when, through the slight

communication with the other family which Sunday produced, she learned

that he had actually written home to defer his return, having promised

to remain some days longer with his friend.

If she had felt impatience and regret before—if she had been sorry for

what she said, and feared its too strong effect on him—she now felt and

feared it all tenfold more. She had, moreover, to contend with one

disagreeable emotion entirely new to her—jealousy. His friend Mr. Owen

had sisters; he might find them attractive. But, at any rate, his

staying away at a time when, according to all preceding plans, she was

to remove to London, meant something that she could not bear. Had Henry

returned, as he talked of doing, at the end of three or four days, she

should now have been leaving Mansfield. It became absolutely necessary

for her to get to Fanny and try to learn something more. She could not

live any longer in such solitary wretchedness; and she made her way to

the Park, through difficulties of walking which she had deemed

unconquerable a week before, for the chance of hearing a little in

addition, for the sake of at least hearing his name.

The first half-hour was lost, for Fanny and Lady Bertram were together,

and unless she had Fanny to herself she could hope for nothing. But at

last Lady Bertram left the room, and then almost immediately Miss

Crawford thus began, with a voice as well regulated as she could—“And

how do _you_ like your cousin Edmund’s staying away so long? Being the

only young person at home, I consider _you_ as the greatest sufferer.

You must miss him. Does his staying longer surprise you?”

“I do not know,” said Fanny hesitatingly. “Yes; I had not particularly

expected it.”

“Perhaps he will always stay longer than he talks of. It is the general

way all young men do.”

“He did not, the only time he went to see Mr. Owen before.”

“He finds the house more agreeable _now_. He is a very—a very pleasing

young man himself, and I cannot help being rather concerned at not

seeing him again before I go to London, as will now undoubtedly be the

case. I am looking for Henry every day, and as soon as he comes there

will be nothing to detain me at Mansfield. I should like to have seen

him once more, I confess. But you must give my compliments to him. Yes;

I think it must be compliments. Is not there a something wanted, Miss

Price, in our language—a something between compliments and—and love—to

suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have had together? So many

months’ acquaintance! But compliments may be sufficient here. Was his

letter a long one? Does he give you much account of what he is doing?

Is it Christmas gaieties that he is staying for?”

“I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle; but I believe

it was very short; indeed I am sure it was but a few lines. All that I

heard was that his friend had pressed him to stay longer, and that he

had agreed to do so. A _few_ days longer, or _some_ days longer; I am

not quite sure which.”

“Oh! if he wrote to his father; but I thought it might have been to

Lady Bertram or you. But if he wrote to his father, no wonder he was

concise. Who could write chat to Sir Thomas? If he had written to you,

there would have been more particulars. You would have heard of balls

and parties. He would have sent you a description of everything and

everybody. How many Miss Owens are there?”

“Three grown up.”

“Are they musical?”

“I do not at all know. I never heard.”

“That is the first question, you know,” said Miss Crawford, trying to

appear gay and unconcerned, “which every woman who plays herself is

sure to ask about another. But it is very foolish to ask questions

about any young ladies—about any three sisters just grown up; for one

knows, without being told, exactly what they are: all very accomplished

and pleasing, and one very pretty. There is a beauty in every family;

it is a regular thing. Two play on the pianoforte, and one on the harp;

and all sing, or would sing if they were taught, or sing all the better

for not being taught; or something like it.”

“I know nothing of the Miss Owens,” said Fanny calmly.

“You know nothing and you care less, as people say. Never did tone

express indifference plainer. Indeed, how can one care for those one

has never seen? Well, when your cousin comes back, he will find

Mansfield very quiet; all the noisy ones gone, your brother and mine

and myself. I do not like the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant now the time

draws near. She does not like my going.”

Fanny felt obliged to speak. “You cannot doubt your being missed by

many,” said she. “You will be very much missed.”

Miss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if wanting to hear or see more,

and then laughingly said, “Oh yes! missed as every noisy evil is missed

when it is taken away; that is, there is a great difference felt. But I

am not fishing; don’t compliment me. If I _am_ missed, it will appear.

I may be discovered by those who want to see me. I shall not be in any

doubtful, or distant, or unapproachable region.”

Now Fanny could not bring herself to speak, and Miss Crawford was

disappointed; for she had hoped to hear some pleasant assurance of her

power from one who she thought must know, and her spirits were clouded

again.

“The Miss Owens,” said she, soon afterwards; “suppose you were to have

one of the Miss Owens settled at Thornton Lacey; how should you like

it? Stranger things have happened. I dare say they are trying for it.

And they are quite in the right, for it would be a very pretty

establishment for them. I do not at all wonder or blame them. It is

everybody’s duty to do as well for themselves as they can. Sir Thomas

Bertram’s son is somebody; and now he is in their own line. Their

father is a clergyman, and their brother is a clergyman, and they are

all clergymen together. He is their lawful property; he fairly belongs

to them. You don’t speak, Fanny; Miss Price, you don’t speak. But

honestly now, do not you rather expect it than otherwise?”

“No,” said Fanny stoutly, “I do not expect it at all.”

“Not at all!” cried Miss Crawford with alacrity. “I wonder at that. But

I dare say you know exactly—I always imagine you are—perhaps you do not

think him likely to marry at all—or not at present.”

“No, I do not,” said Fanny softly, hoping she did not err either in the

belief or the acknowledgment of it.

Her companion looked at her keenly; and gathering greater spirit from

the blush soon produced from such a look, only said, “He is best off as

he is,” and turned the subject.