Bab Bab 26 · Chapter XXVI

William’s desire of seeing Fanny dance made more than a momentary

impression on his uncle. The hope of an opportunity, which Sir Thomas

had then given, was not given to be thought of no more. He remained

steadily inclined to gratify so amiable a feeling; to gratify anybody

else who might wish to see Fanny dance, and to give pleasure to the

young people in general; and having thought the matter over, and taken

his resolution in quiet independence, the result of it appeared the

next morning at breakfast, when, after recalling and commending what

his nephew had said, he added, “I do not like, William, that you should

leave Northamptonshire without this indulgence. It would give me

pleasure to see you both dance. You spoke of the balls at Northampton.

Your cousins have occasionally attended them; but they would not

altogether suit us now. The fatigue would be too much for your aunt. I

believe we must not think of a Northampton ball. A dance at home would

be more eligible; and if—”

“Ah, my dear Sir Thomas!” interrupted Mrs. Norris, “I knew what was

coming. I knew what you were going to say. If dear Julia were at home,

or dearest Mrs. Rushworth at Sotherton, to afford a reason, an occasion

for such a thing, you would be tempted to give the young people a dance

at Mansfield. I know you would. If _they_ were at home to grace the

ball, a ball you would have this very Christmas. Thank your uncle,

William, thank your uncle!”

“My daughters,” replied Sir Thomas, gravely interposing, “have their

pleasures at Brighton, and I hope are very happy; but the dance which I

think of giving at Mansfield will be for their cousins. Could we be all

assembled, our satisfaction would undoubtedly be more complete, but the

absence of some is not to debar the others of amusement.”

Mrs. Norris had not another word to say. She saw decision in his looks,

and her surprise and vexation required some minutes’ silence to be

settled into composure. A ball at such a time! His daughters absent and

herself not consulted! There was comfort, however, soon at hand. _She_

must be the doer of everything: Lady Bertram would of course be spared

all thought and exertion, and it would all fall upon _her_. She should

have to do the honours of the evening; and this reflection quickly

restored so much of her good-humour as enabled her to join in with the

others, before their happiness and thanks were all expressed.

Edmund, William, and Fanny did, in their different ways, look and speak

as much grateful pleasure in the promised ball as Sir Thomas could

desire. Edmund’s feelings were for the other two. His father had never

conferred a favour or shewn a kindness more to his satisfaction.

Lady Bertram was perfectly quiescent and contented, and had no

objections to make. Sir Thomas engaged for its giving her very little

trouble; and she assured him “that she was not at all afraid of the

trouble; indeed, she could not imagine there would be any.”

Mrs. Norris was ready with her suggestions as to the rooms he would

think fittest to be used, but found it all prearranged; and when she

would have conjectured and hinted about the day, it appeared that the

day was settled too. Sir Thomas had been amusing himself with shaping a

very complete outline of the business; and as soon as she would listen

quietly, could read his list of the families to be invited, from whom

he calculated, with all necessary allowance for the shortness of the

notice, to collect young people enough to form twelve or fourteen

couple: and could detail the considerations which had induced him to

fix on the 22nd as the most eligible day. William was required to be at

Portsmouth on the 24th; the 22nd would therefore be the last day of his

visit; but where the days were so few it would be unwise to fix on any

earlier. Mrs. Norris was obliged to be satisfied with thinking just the

same, and with having been on the point of proposing the 22nd herself,

as by far the best day for the purpose.

The ball was now a settled thing, and before the evening a proclaimed

thing to all whom it concerned. Invitations were sent with despatch,

and many a young lady went to bed that night with her head full of

happy cares as well as Fanny. To her the cares were sometimes almost

beyond the happiness; for young and inexperienced, with small means of

choice and no confidence in her own taste, the “how she should be

dressed” was a point of painful solicitude; and the almost solitary

ornament in her possession, a very pretty amber cross which William had

brought her from Sicily, was the greatest distress of all, for she had

nothing but a bit of ribbon to fasten it to; and though she had worn it

in that manner once, would it be allowable at such a time in the midst

of all the rich ornaments which she supposed all the other young ladies

would appear in? And yet not to wear it! William had wanted to buy her

a gold chain too, but the purchase had been beyond his means, and

therefore not to wear the cross might be mortifying him. These were

anxious considerations; enough to sober her spirits even under the

prospect of a ball given principally for her gratification.

The preparations meanwhile went on, and Lady Bertram continued to sit

on her sofa without any inconvenience from them. She had some extra

visits from the housekeeper, and her maid was rather hurried in making

up a new dress for her: Sir Thomas gave orders, and Mrs. Norris ran

about; but all this gave _her_ no trouble, and as she had foreseen,

“there was, in fact, no trouble in the business.”

Edmund was at this time particularly full of cares: his mind being

deeply occupied in the consideration of two important events now at

hand, which were to fix his fate in life—ordination and

matrimony—events of such a serious character as to make the ball, which

would be very quickly followed by one of them, appear of less moment in

his eyes than in those of any other person in the house. On the 23rd he

was going to a friend near Peterborough, in the same situation as

himself, and they were to receive ordination in the course of the

Christmas week. Half his destiny would then be determined, but the

other half might not be so very smoothly wooed. His duties would be

established, but the wife who was to share, and animate, and reward

those duties, might yet be unattainable. He knew his own mind, but he

was not always perfectly assured of knowing Miss Crawford’s. There were

points on which they did not quite agree; there were moments in which

she did not seem propitious; and though trusting altogether to her

affection, so far as to be resolved—almost resolved—on bringing it to a

decision within a very short time, as soon as the variety of business

before him were arranged, and he knew what he had to offer her, he had

many anxious feelings, many doubting hours as to the result. His

conviction of her regard for him was sometimes very strong; he could

look back on a long course of encouragement, and she was as perfect in

disinterested attachment as in everything else. But at other times

doubt and alarm intermingled with his hopes; and when he thought of her

acknowledged disinclination for privacy and retirement, her decided

preference of a London life, what could he expect but a determined

rejection? unless it were an acceptance even more to be deprecated,

demanding such sacrifices of situation and employment on his side as

conscience must forbid.

The issue of all depended on one question. Did she love him well enough

to forego what had used to be essential points? Did she love him well

enough to make them no longer essential? And this question, which he

was continually repeating to himself, though oftenest answered with a

“Yes,” had sometimes its “No.”

Miss Crawford was soon to leave Mansfield, and on this circumstance the

“no” and the “yes” had been very recently in alternation. He had seen

her eyes sparkle as she spoke of the dear friend’s letter, which

claimed a long visit from her in London, and of the kindness of Henry,

in engaging to remain where he was till January, that he might convey

her thither; he had heard her speak of the pleasure of such a journey

with an animation which had “no” in every tone. But this had occurred

on the first day of its being settled, within the first hour of the

burst of such enjoyment, when nothing but the friends she was to visit

was before her. He had since heard her express herself differently,

with other feelings, more chequered feelings: he had heard her tell

Mrs. Grant that she should leave her with regret; that she began to

believe neither the friends nor the pleasures she was going to were

worth those she left behind; and that though she felt she must go, and

knew she should enjoy herself when once away, she was already looking

forward to being at Mansfield again. Was there not a “yes” in all this?

With such matters to ponder over, and arrange, and re-arrange, Edmund

could not, on his own account, think very much of the evening which the

rest of the family were looking forward to with a more equal degree of

strong interest. Independent of his two cousins’ enjoyment in it, the

evening was to him of no higher value than any other appointed meeting

of the two families might be. In every meeting there was a hope of

receiving farther confirmation of Miss Crawford’s attachment; but the

whirl of a ballroom, perhaps, was not particularly favourable to the

excitement or expression of serious feelings. To engage her early for

the two first dances was all the command of individual happiness which

he felt in his power, and the only preparation for the ball which he

could enter into, in spite of all that was passing around him on the

subject, from morning till night.

Thursday was the day of the ball; and on Wednesday morning Fanny, still

unable to satisfy herself as to what she ought to wear, determined to

seek the counsel of the more enlightened, and apply to Mrs. Grant and

her sister, whose acknowledged taste would certainly bear her

blameless; and as Edmund and William were gone to Northampton, and she

had reason to think Mr. Crawford likewise out, she walked down to the

Parsonage without much fear of wanting an opportunity for private

discussion; and the privacy of such a discussion was a most important

part of it to Fanny, being more than half-ashamed of her own

solicitude.

She met Miss Crawford within a few yards of the Parsonage, just setting

out to call on her, and as it seemed to her that her friend, though

obliged to insist on turning back, was unwilling to lose her walk, she

explained her business at once, and observed, that if she would be so

kind as to give her opinion, it might be all talked over as well

without doors as within. Miss Crawford appeared gratified by the

application, and after a moment’s thought, urged Fanny’s returning with

her in a much more cordial manner than before, and proposed their going

up into her room, where they might have a comfortable coze, without

disturbing Dr. and Mrs. Grant, who were together in the drawing-room.

It was just the plan to suit Fanny; and with a great deal of gratitude

on her side for such ready and kind attention, they proceeded indoors,

and upstairs, and were soon deep in the interesting subject. Miss

Crawford, pleased with the appeal, gave her all her best judgment and

taste, made everything easy by her suggestions, and tried to make

everything agreeable by her encouragement. The dress being settled in

all its grander parts—“But what shall you have by way of necklace?”

said Miss Crawford. “Shall not you wear your brother’s cross?” And as

she spoke she was undoing a small parcel, which Fanny had observed in

her hand when they met. Fanny acknowledged her wishes and doubts on

this point: she did not know how either to wear the cross, or to

refrain from wearing it. She was answered by having a small trinket-box

placed before her, and being requested to chuse from among several gold

chains and necklaces. Such had been the parcel with which Miss Crawford

was provided, and such the object of her intended visit: and in the

kindest manner she now urged Fanny’s taking one for the cross and to

keep for her sake, saying everything she could think of to obviate the

scruples which were making Fanny start back at first with a look of

horror at the proposal.

“You see what a collection I have,” said she; “more by half than I ever

use or think of. I do not offer them as new. I offer nothing but an old

necklace. You must forgive the liberty, and oblige me.”

Fanny still resisted, and from her heart. The gift was too valuable.

But Miss Crawford persevered, and argued the case with so much

affectionate earnestness through all the heads of William and the

cross, and the ball, and herself, as to be finally successful. Fanny

found herself obliged to yield, that she might not be accused of pride

or indifference, or some other littleness; and having with modest

reluctance given her consent, proceeded to make the selection. She

looked and looked, longing to know which might be least valuable; and

was determined in her choice at last, by fancying there was one

necklace more frequently placed before her eyes than the rest. It was

of gold, prettily worked; and though Fanny would have preferred a

longer and a plainer chain as more adapted for her purpose, she hoped,

in fixing on this, to be chusing what Miss Crawford least wished to

keep. Miss Crawford smiled her perfect approbation; and hastened to

complete the gift by putting the necklace round her, and making her see

how well it looked. Fanny had not a word to say against its

becomingness, and, excepting what remained of her scruples, was

exceedingly pleased with an acquisition so very apropos. She would

rather, perhaps, have been obliged to some other person. But this was

an unworthy feeling. Miss Crawford had anticipated her wants with a

kindness which proved her a real friend. “When I wear this necklace I

shall always think of you,” said she, “and feel how very kind you

were.”

“You must think of somebody else too, when you wear that necklace,”

replied Miss Crawford. “You must think of Henry, for it was his choice

in the first place. He gave it to me, and with the necklace I make over

to you all the duty of remembering the original giver. It is to be a

family remembrancer. The sister is not to be in your mind without

bringing the brother too.”

Fanny, in great astonishment and confusion, would have returned the

present instantly. To take what had been the gift of another person, of

a brother too, impossible! it must not be! and with an eagerness and

embarrassment quite diverting to her companion, she laid down the

necklace again on its cotton, and seemed resolved either to take

another or none at all. Miss Crawford thought she had never seen a

prettier consciousness. “My dear child,” said she, laughing, “what are

you afraid of? Do you think Henry will claim the necklace as mine, and

fancy you did not come honestly by it? or are you imagining he would be

too much flattered by seeing round your lovely throat an ornament which

his money purchased three years ago, before he knew there was such a

throat in the world? or perhaps”—looking archly—“you suspect a

confederacy between us, and that what I am now doing is with his

knowledge and at his desire?”

With the deepest blushes Fanny protested against such a thought.

“Well, then,” replied Miss Crawford more seriously, but without at all

believing her, “to convince me that you suspect no trick, and are as

unsuspicious of compliment as I have always found you, take the

necklace and say no more about it. Its being a gift of my brother’s

need not make the smallest difference in your accepting it, as I assure

you it makes none in my willingness to part with it. He is always

giving me something or other. I have such innumerable presents from him

that it is quite impossible for me to value or for him to remember

half. And as for this necklace, I do not suppose I have worn it six

times: it is very pretty, but I never think of it; and though you would

be most heartily welcome to any other in my trinket-box, you have

happened to fix on the very one which, if I have a choice, I would

rather part with and see in your possession than any other. Say no more

against it, I entreat you. Such a trifle is not worth half so many

words.”

Fanny dared not make any farther opposition; and with renewed but less

happy thanks accepted the necklace again, for there was an expression

in Miss Crawford’s eyes which she could not be satisfied with.

It was impossible for her to be insensible of Mr. Crawford’s change of

manners. She had long seen it. He evidently tried to please her: he was

gallant, he was attentive, he was something like what he had been to

her cousins: he wanted, she supposed, to cheat her of her tranquillity

as he had cheated them; and whether he might not have some concern in

this necklace—she could not be convinced that he had not, for Miss

Crawford, complaisant as a sister, was careless as a woman and a

friend.

Reflecting and doubting, and feeling that the possession of what she

had so much wished for did not bring much satisfaction, she now walked

home again, with a change rather than a diminution of cares since her

treading that path before.