บทที่ บทที่ 23 · Chapter XXIII

“But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?” said Lady Bertram. “How came she

to think of asking Fanny? Fanny never dines there, you know, in this

sort of way. I cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not want to go.

Fanny, you do not want to go, do you?”

“If you put such a question to her,” cried Edmund, preventing his

cousin’s speaking, “Fanny will immediately say No; but I am sure, my

dear mother, she would like to go; and I can see no reason why she

should not.”

“I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her? She never

did before. She used to ask your sisters now and then, but she never

asked Fanny.”

“If you cannot do without me, ma’am—” said Fanny, in a self-denying

tone.

“But my mother will have my father with her all the evening.”

“To be sure, so I shall.”

“Suppose you take my father’s opinion, ma’am.”

“That’s well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas, as

soon as he comes in, whether I can do without her.”

“As you please, ma’am, on that head; but I meant my father’s opinion as

to the _propriety_ of the invitation’s being accepted or not; and I

think he will consider it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by

Fanny, that being the _first_ invitation it should be accepted.”

“I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very much surprised

that Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all.”

There was nothing more to be said, or that could be said to any

purpose, till Sir Thomas were present; but the subject involving, as it

did, her own evening’s comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in

Lady Bertram’s mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking in

for a minute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room, she

called him back again, when he had almost closed the door, with “Sir

Thomas, stop a moment—I have something to say to you.”

Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising her

voice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came back. Her

story began; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear

herself the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more than her

nerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew—more anxious perhaps than

she ought to be—for what was it after all whether she went or staid?

but if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and

with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and at

last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly

submissive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It

began, on Lady Bertram’s part, with—“I have something to tell you that

will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner.”

“Well,” said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise.

“Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?”

“She will be late,” said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; “but what is

your difficulty?”

Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his

mother’s story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, “So

strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her.”

“But is it not very natural,” observed Edmund, “that Mrs. Grant should

wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?”

“Nothing can be more natural,” said Sir Thomas, after a short

deliberation; “nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything,

in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant’s shewing civility to Miss

Price, to Lady Bertram’s niece, could never want explanation. The only

surprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_ time of its

being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional

answer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that she

must wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see

no reason why she should be denied the indulgence.”

“But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?”

“Indeed I think you may.”

“She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here.”

“Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us,

and I shall certainly be at home.”

“Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund.”

The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way

to his own.

“Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest

hesitation on your uncle’s side. He had but one opinion. You are to

go.”

“Thank you, I am _so_ glad,” was Fanny’s instinctive reply; though when

she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,

“And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or

hearing something there to pain me?”

In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an

engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in

hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined

out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three

people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of

preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor

assistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings and

directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to

anybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence

of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very ill

humour, and seemed intent only on lessening her niece’s pleasure, both

present and future, as much as possible.

“Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention

and indulgence! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for

thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to

look upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that

there is no real occasion for your going into company in this sort of

way, or ever dining out at all; and it is what you must not depend upon

ever being repeated. Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is

meant as any particular compliment to _you_; the compliment is intended

to your uncle and aunt and me. Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due to

_us_ to take a little notice of you, or else it would never have come

into her head, and you may be very certain that, if your cousin Julia

had been at home, you would not have been asked at all.”

Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all Mrs. Grant’s part of

the favour, that Fanny, who found herself expected to speak, could only

say that she was very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her,

and that she was endeavouring to put her aunt’s evening work in such a

state as to prevent her being missed.

“Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you, or you

would not be allowed to go. _I_ shall be here, so you may be quite easy

about your aunt. And I hope you will have a very _agreeable_ day, and

find it all mighty _delightful_. But I must observe that five is the

very awkwardest of all possible numbers to sit down to table; and I

cannot but be surprised that such an _elegant_ lady as Mrs. Grant

should not contrive better! And round their enormous great wide table,

too, which fills up the room so dreadfully! Had the doctor been

contented to take my dining-table when I came away, as anybody in their

senses would have done, instead of having that absurd new one of his

own, which is wider, literally wider than the dinner-table here, how

infinitely better it would have been! and how much more he would have

been respected! for people are never respected when they step out of

their proper sphere. Remember that, Fanny. Five—only five to be sitting

round that table. However, you will have dinner enough on it for ten, I

dare say.”

Mrs. Norris fetched breath, and went on again.

“The nonsense and folly of people’s stepping out of their rank and

trying to appear above themselves, makes me think it right to give

_you_ a hint, Fanny, now that you are going into company without any of

us; and I do beseech and entreat you not to be putting yourself

forward, and talking and giving your opinion as if you were one of your

cousins—as if you were dear Mrs. Rushworth or Julia. _That_ will never

do, believe me. Remember, wherever you are, you must be the lowest and

last; and though Miss Crawford is in a manner at home at the Parsonage,

you are not to be taking place of her. And as to coming away at night,

you are to stay just as long as Edmund chuses. Leave him to settle

_that_.”

“Yes, ma’am, I should not think of anything else.”

“And if it should rain, which I think exceedingly likely, for I never

saw it more threatening for a wet evening in my life, you must manage

as well as you can, and not be expecting the carriage to be sent for

you. I certainly do not go home to-night, and, therefore, the carriage

will not be out on my account; so you must make up your mind to what

may happen, and take your things accordingly.”

Her niece thought it perfectly reasonable. She rated her own claims to

comfort as low even as Mrs. Norris could; and when Sir Thomas soon

afterwards, just opening the door, said, “Fanny, at what time would you

have the carriage come round?” she felt a degree of astonishment which

made it impossible for her to speak.

“My dear Sir Thomas!” cried Mrs. Norris, red with anger, “Fanny can

walk.”

“Walk!” repeated Sir Thomas, in a tone of most unanswerable dignity,

and coming farther into the room. “My niece walk to a dinner engagement

at this time of the year! Will twenty minutes after four suit you?”

“Yes, sir,” was Fanny’s humble answer, given with the feelings almost

of a criminal towards Mrs. Norris; and not bearing to remain with her

in what might seem a state of triumph, she followed her uncle out of

the room, having staid behind him only long enough to hear these words

spoken in angry agitation—

“Quite unnecessary! a great deal too kind! But Edmund goes; true, it is

upon Edmund’s account. I observed he was hoarse on Thursday night.”

But this could not impose on Fanny. She felt that the carriage was for

herself, and herself alone: and her uncle’s consideration of her,

coming immediately after such representations from her aunt, cost her

some tears of gratitude when she was alone.

The coachman drove round to a minute; another minute brought down the

gentleman; and as the lady had, with a most scrupulous fear of being

late, been many minutes seated in the drawing-room, Sir Thomas saw them

off in as good time as his own correctly punctual habits required.

“Now I must look at you, Fanny,” said Edmund, with the kind smile of an

affectionate brother, “and tell you how I like you; and as well as I

can judge by this light, you look very nicely indeed. What have you got

on?”

“The new dress that my uncle was so good as to give me on my cousin’s

marriage. I hope it is not too fine; but I thought I ought to wear it

as soon as I could, and that I might not have such another opportunity

all the winter. I hope you do not think me too fine.”

“A woman can never be too fine while she is all in white. No, I see no

finery about you; nothing but what is perfectly proper. Your gown seems

very pretty. I like these glossy spots. Has not Miss Crawford a gown

something the same?”

In approaching the Parsonage they passed close by the stable-yard and

coach-house.

“Heyday!” said Edmund, “here’s company, here’s a carriage! who have

they got to meet us?” And letting down the side-glass to distinguish,

“’Tis Crawford’s, Crawford’s barouche, I protest! There are his own two

men pushing it back into its old quarters. He is here, of course. This

is quite a surprise, Fanny. I shall be very glad to see him.”

There was no occasion, there was no time for Fanny to say how very

differently she felt; but the idea of having such another to observe

her was a great increase of the trepidation with which she performed

the very awful ceremony of walking into the drawing-room.

In the drawing-room Mr. Crawford certainly was, having been just long

enough arrived to be ready for dinner; and the smiles and pleased looks

of the three others standing round him, shewed how welcome was his

sudden resolution of coming to them for a few days on leaving Bath. A

very cordial meeting passed between him and Edmund; and with the

exception of Fanny, the pleasure was general; and even to _her_ there

might be some advantage in his presence, since every addition to the

party must rather forward her favourite indulgence of being suffered to

sit silent and unattended to. She was soon aware of this herself; for

though she must submit, as her own propriety of mind directed, in spite

of her aunt Norris’s opinion, to being the principal lady in company,

and to all the little distinctions consequent thereon, she found, while

they were at table, such a happy flow of conversation prevailing, in

which she was not required to take any part—there was so much to be

said between the brother and sister about Bath, so much between the two

young men about hunting, so much of politics between Mr. Crawford and

Dr. Grant, and of everything and all together between Mr. Crawford and

Mrs. Grant, as to leave her the fairest prospect of having only to

listen in quiet, and of passing a very agreeable day. She could not

compliment the newly arrived gentleman, however, with any appearance of

interest, in a scheme for extending his stay at Mansfield, and sending

for his hunters from Norfolk, which, suggested by Dr. Grant, advised by

Edmund, and warmly urged by the two sisters, was soon in possession of

his mind, and which he seemed to want to be encouraged even by her to

resolve on. Her opinion was sought as to the probable continuance of

the open weather, but her answers were as short and indifferent as

civility allowed. She could not wish him to stay, and would much rather

not have him speak to her.

Her two absent cousins, especially Maria, were much in her thoughts on

seeing him; but no embarrassing remembrance affected _his_ spirits.

Here he was again on the same ground where all had passed before, and

apparently as willing to stay and be happy without the Miss Bertrams,

as if he had never known Mansfield in any other state. She heard them

spoken of by him only in a general way, till they were all re-assembled

in the drawing-room, when Edmund, being engaged apart in some matter of

business with Dr. Grant, which seemed entirely to engross them, and

Mrs. Grant occupied at the tea-table, he began talking of them with

more particularity to his other sister. With a significant smile, which

made Fanny quite hate him, he said, “So! Rushworth and his fair bride

are at Brighton, I understand; happy man!”

“Yes, they have been there about a fortnight, Miss Price, have they

not? And Julia is with them.”

“And Mr. Yates, I presume, is not far off.”

“Mr. Yates! Oh! we hear nothing of Mr. Yates. I do not imagine he

figures much in the letters to Mansfield Park; do you, Miss Price? I

think my friend Julia knows better than to entertain her father with

Mr. Yates.”

“Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty speeches!” continued Crawford.

“Nobody can ever forget them. Poor fellow! I see him now—his toil and

his despair. Well, I am much mistaken if his lovely Maria will ever

want him to make two-and-forty speeches to her”; adding, with a

momentary seriousness, “She is too good for him—much too good.” And

then changing his tone again to one of gentle gallantry, and addressing

Fanny, he said, “You were Mr. Rushworth’s best friend. Your kindness

and patience can never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience in

trying to make it possible for him to learn his part—in trying to give

him a brain which nature had denied—to mix up an understanding for him

out of the superfluity of your own! _He_ might not have sense enough

himself to estimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had

honour from all the rest of the party.”

Fanny coloured, and said nothing.

“It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!” he exclaimed, breaking forth

again, after a few minutes’ musing. “I shall always look back on our

theatricals with exquisite pleasure. There was such an interest, such

an animation, such a spirit diffused. Everybody felt it. We were all

alive. There was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every hour

of the day. Always some little objection, some little doubt, some

little anxiety to be got over. I never was happier.”

With silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself, “Never

happier!—never happier than when doing what you must know was not

justifiable!—never happier than when behaving so dishonourably and

unfeelingly! Oh! what a corrupted mind!”

“We were unlucky, Miss Price,” he continued, in a lower tone, to avoid

the possibility of being heard by Edmund, and not at all aware of her

feelings, “we certainly were very unlucky. Another week, only one other

week, would have been enough for us. I think if we had had the disposal

of events—if Mansfield Park had had the government of the winds just

for a week or two, about the equinox, there would have been a

difference. Not that we would have endangered his safety by any

tremendous weather—but only by a steady contrary wind, or a calm. I

think, Miss Price, we would have indulged ourselves with a week’s calm

in the Atlantic at that season.”

He seemed determined to be answered; and Fanny, averting her face,

said, with a firmer tone than usual, “As far as _I_ am concerned, sir,

I would not have delayed his return for a day. My uncle disapproved it

all so entirely when he did arrive, that in my opinion everything had

gone quite far enough.”

She had never spoken so much at once to him in her life before, and

never so angrily to any one; and when her speech was over, she trembled

and blushed at her own daring. He was surprised; but after a few

moments’ silent consideration of her, replied in a calmer, graver tone,

and as if the candid result of conviction, “I believe you are right. It

was more pleasant than prudent. We were getting too noisy.” And then

turning the conversation, he would have engaged her on some other

subject, but her answers were so shy and reluctant that he could not

advance in any.

Miss Crawford, who had been repeatedly eyeing Dr. Grant and Edmund, now

observed, “Those gentlemen must have some very interesting point to

discuss.”

“The most interesting in the world,” replied her brother—“how to make

money; how to turn a good income into a better. Dr. Grant is giving

Bertram instructions about the living he is to step into so soon. I

find he takes orders in a few weeks. They were at it in the

dining-parlour. I am glad to hear Bertram will be so well off. He will

have a very pretty income to make ducks and drakes with, and earned

without much trouble. I apprehend he will not have less than seven

hundred a year. Seven hundred a year is a fine thing for a younger

brother; and as of course he will still live at home, it will be all

for his _menus_ _plaisirs_; and a sermon at Christmas and Easter, I

suppose, will be the sum total of sacrifice.”

His sister tried to laugh off her feelings by saying, “Nothing amuses

me more than the easy manner with which everybody settles the abundance

of those who have a great deal less than themselves. You would look

rather blank, Henry, if your _menus_ _plaisirs_ were to be limited to

seven hundred a year.”

“Perhaps I might; but all _that_ you know is entirely comparative.

Birthright and habit must settle the business. Bertram is certainly

well off for a cadet of even a baronet’s family. By the time he is four

or five and twenty he will have seven hundred a year, and nothing to do

for it.”

Miss Crawford _could_ have said that there would be a something to do

and to suffer for it, which she could not think lightly of; but she

checked herself and let it pass; and tried to look calm and unconcerned

when the two gentlemen shortly afterwards joined them.

“Bertram,” said Henry Crawford, “I shall make a point of coming to

Mansfield to hear you preach your first sermon. I shall come on purpose

to encourage a young beginner. When is it to be? Miss Price, will not

you join me in encouraging your cousin? Will not you engage to attend

with your eyes steadily fixed on him the whole time—as I shall do—not

to lose a word; or only looking off just to note down any sentence

preeminently beautiful? We will provide ourselves with tablets and a

pencil. When will it be? You must preach at Mansfield, you know, that

Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram may hear you.”

“I shall keep clear of you, Crawford, as long as I can,” said Edmund;

“for you would be more likely to disconcert me, and I should be more

sorry to see you trying at it than almost any other man.”

“Will he not feel this?” thought Fanny. “No, he can feel nothing as he

ought.”

The party being now all united, and the chief talkers attracting each

other, she remained in tranquillity; and as a whist-table was formed

after tea—formed really for the amusement of Dr. Grant, by his

attentive wife, though it was not to be supposed so—and Miss Crawford

took her harp, she had nothing to do but to listen; and her

tranquillity remained undisturbed the rest of the evening, except when

Mr. Crawford now and then addressed to her a question or observation,

which she could not avoid answering. Miss Crawford was too much vexed

by what had passed to be in a humour for anything but music. With that

she soothed herself and amused her friend.

The assurance of Edmund’s being so soon to take orders, coming upon her

like a blow that had been suspended, and still hoped uncertain and at a

distance, was felt with resentment and mortification. She was very

angry with him. She had thought her influence more. She _had_ begun to

think of him; she felt that she had, with great regard, with almost

decided intentions; but she would now meet him with his own cool

feelings. It was plain that he could have no serious views, no true

attachment, by fixing himself in a situation which he must know she

would never stoop to. She would learn to match him in his indifference.

She would henceforth admit his attentions without any idea beyond

immediate amusement. If _he_ could so command his affections, _hers_

should do her no harm.