บทที่ บทที่ 28 · Chapter XXVIII

Her uncle and both her aunts were in the drawing-room when Fanny went

down. To the former she was an interesting object, and he saw with

pleasure the general elegance of her appearance, and her being in

remarkably good looks. The neatness and propriety of her dress was all

that he would allow himself to commend in her presence, but upon her

leaving the room again soon afterwards, he spoke of her beauty with

very decided praise.

“Yes,” said Lady Bertram, “she looks very well. I sent Chapman to her.”

“Look well! Oh, yes!” cried Mrs. Norris, “she has good reason to look

well with all her advantages: brought up in this family as she has

been, with all the benefit of her cousins’ manners before her. Only

think, my dear Sir Thomas, what extraordinary advantages you and I have

been the means of giving her. The very gown you have been taking notice

of is your own generous present to her when dear Mrs. Rushworth

married. What would she have been if we had not taken her by the hand?”

Sir Thomas said no more; but when they sat down to table the eyes of

the two young men assured him that the subject might be gently touched

again, when the ladies withdrew, with more success. Fanny saw that she

was approved; and the consciousness of looking well made her look still

better. From a variety of causes she was happy, and she was soon made

still happier; for in following her aunts out of the room, Edmund, who

was holding open the door, said, as she passed him, “You must dance

with me, Fanny; you must keep two dances for me; any two that you like,

except the first.” She had nothing more to wish for. She had hardly

ever been in a state so nearly approaching high spirits in her life.

Her cousins’ former gaiety on the day of a ball was no longer

surprising to her; she felt it to be indeed very charming, and was

actually practising her steps about the drawing-room as long as she

could be safe from the notice of her aunt Norris, who was entirely

taken up at first in fresh arranging and injuring the noble fire which

the butler had prepared.

Half an hour followed that would have been at least languid under any

other circumstances, but Fanny’s happiness still prevailed. It was but

to think of her conversation with Edmund, and what was the restlessness

of Mrs. Norris? What were the yawns of Lady Bertram?

The gentlemen joined them; and soon after began the sweet expectation

of a carriage, when a general spirit of ease and enjoyment seemed

diffused, and they all stood about and talked and laughed, and every

moment had its pleasure and its hope. Fanny felt that there must be a

struggle in Edmund’s cheerfulness, but it was delightful to see the

effort so successfully made.

When the carriages were really heard, when the guests began really to

assemble, her own gaiety of heart was much subdued: the sight of so

many strangers threw her back into herself; and besides the gravity and

formality of the first great circle, which the manners of neither Sir

Thomas nor Lady Bertram were of a kind to do away, she found herself

occasionally called on to endure something worse. She was introduced

here and there by her uncle, and forced to be spoken to, and to

curtsey, and speak again. This was a hard duty, and she was never

summoned to it without looking at William, as he walked about at his

ease in the background of the scene, and longing to be with him.

The entrance of the Grants and Crawfords was a favourable epoch. The

stiffness of the meeting soon gave way before their popular manners and

more diffused intimacies: little groups were formed, and everybody grew

comfortable. Fanny felt the advantage; and, drawing back from the toils

of civility, would have been again most happy, could she have kept her

eyes from wandering between Edmund and Mary Crawford. _She_ looked all

loveliness—and what might not be the end of it? Her own musings were

brought to an end on perceiving Mr. Crawford before her, and her

thoughts were put into another channel by his engaging her almost

instantly for the first two dances. Her happiness on this occasion was

very much _à la mortal_, finely chequered. To be secure of a partner at

first was a most essential good—for the moment of beginning was now

growing seriously near; and she so little understood her own claims as

to think that if Mr. Crawford had not asked her, she must have been the

last to be sought after, and should have received a partner only

through a series of inquiry, and bustle, and interference, which would

have been terrible; but at the same time there was a pointedness in his

manner of asking her which she did not like, and she saw his eye

glancing for a moment at her necklace, with a smile—she thought there

was a smile—which made her blush and feel wretched. And though there

was no second glance to disturb her, though his object seemed then to

be only quietly agreeable, she could not get the better of her

embarrassment, heightened as it was by the idea of his perceiving it,

and had no composure till he turned away to some one else. Then she

could gradually rise up to the genuine satisfaction of having a

partner, a voluntary partner, secured against the dancing began.

When the company were moving into the ballroom, she found herself for

the first time near Miss Crawford, whose eyes and smiles were

immediately and more unequivocally directed as her brother’s had been,

and who was beginning to speak on the subject, when Fanny, anxious to

get the story over, hastened to give the explanation of the second

necklace: the real chain. Miss Crawford listened; and all her intended

compliments and insinuations to Fanny were forgotten: she felt only one

thing; and her eyes, bright as they had been before, shewing they could

yet be brighter, she exclaimed with eager pleasure, “Did he? Did

Edmund? That was like himself. No other man would have thought of it. I

honour him beyond expression.” And she looked around as if longing to

tell him so. He was not near, he was attending a party of ladies out of

the room; and Mrs. Grant coming up to the two girls, and taking an arm

of each, they followed with the rest.

Fanny’s heart sunk, but there was no leisure for thinking long even of

Miss Crawford’s feelings. They were in the ballroom, the violins were

playing, and her mind was in a flutter that forbade its fixing on

anything serious. She must watch the general arrangements, and see how

everything was done.

In a few minutes Sir Thomas came to her, and asked if she were engaged;

and the “Yes, sir; to Mr. Crawford,” was exactly what he had intended

to hear. Mr. Crawford was not far off; Sir Thomas brought him to her,

saying something which discovered to Fanny, that _she_ was to lead the

way and open the ball; an idea that had never occurred to her before.

Whenever she had thought of the minutiae of the evening, it had been as

a matter of course that Edmund would begin with Miss Crawford; and the

impression was so strong, that though _her_ _uncle_ spoke the contrary,

she could not help an exclamation of surprise, a hint of her unfitness,

an entreaty even to be excused. To be urging her opinion against Sir

Thomas’s was a proof of the extremity of the case; but such was her

horror at the first suggestion, that she could actually look him in the

face and say that she hoped it might be settled otherwise; in vain,

however: Sir Thomas smiled, tried to encourage her, and then looked too

serious, and said too decidedly, “It must be so, my dear,” for her to

hazard another word; and she found herself the next moment conducted by

Mr. Crawford to the top of the room, and standing there to be joined by

the rest of the dancers, couple after couple, as they were formed.

She could hardly believe it. To be placed above so many elegant young

women! The distinction was too great. It was treating her like her

cousins! And her thoughts flew to those absent cousins with most

unfeigned and truly tender regret, that they were not at home to take

their own place in the room, and have their share of a pleasure which

would have been so very delightful to them. So often as she had heard

them wish for a ball at home as the greatest of all felicities! And to

have them away when it was given—and for _her_ to be opening the

ball—and with Mr. Crawford too! She hoped they would not envy her that

distinction _now_; but when she looked back to the state of things in

the autumn, to what they had all been to each other when once dancing

in that house before, the present arrangement was almost more than she

could understand herself.

The ball began. It was rather honour than happiness to Fanny, for the

first dance at least: her partner was in excellent spirits, and tried

to impart them to her; but she was a great deal too much frightened to

have any enjoyment till she could suppose herself no longer looked at.

Young, pretty, and gentle, however, she had no awkwardnesses that were

not as good as graces, and there were few persons present that were not

disposed to praise her. She was attractive, she was modest, she was Sir

Thomas’s niece, and she was soon said to be admired by Mr. Crawford. It

was enough to give her general favour. Sir Thomas himself was watching

her progress down the dance with much complacency; he was proud of his

niece; and without attributing all her personal beauty, as Mrs. Norris

seemed to do, to her transplantation to Mansfield, he was pleased with

himself for having supplied everything else: education and manners she

owed to him.

Miss Crawford saw much of Sir Thomas’s thoughts as he stood, and

having, in spite of all his wrongs towards her, a general prevailing

desire of recommending herself to him, took an opportunity of stepping

aside to say something agreeable of Fanny. Her praise was warm, and he

received it as she could wish, joining in it as far as discretion, and

politeness, and slowness of speech would allow, and certainly appearing

to greater advantage on the subject than his lady did soon afterwards,

when Mary, perceiving her on a sofa very near, turned round before she

began to dance, to compliment her on Miss Price’s looks.

“Yes, she does look very well,” was Lady Bertram’s placid reply.

“Chapman helped her to dress. I sent Chapman to her.” Not but that she

was really pleased to have Fanny admired; but she was so much more

struck with her own kindness in sending Chapman to her, that she could

not get it out of her head.

Miss Crawford knew Mrs. Norris too well to think of gratifying _her_ by

commendation of Fanny; to her, it was as the occasion offered—“Ah!

ma’am, how much we want dear Mrs. Rushworth and Julia to-night!” and

Mrs. Norris paid her with as many smiles and courteous words as she had

time for, amid so much occupation as she found for herself in making up

card-tables, giving hints to Sir Thomas, and trying to move all the

chaperons to a better part of the room.

Miss Crawford blundered most towards Fanny herself in her intentions to

please. She meant to be giving her little heart a happy flutter, and

filling her with sensations of delightful self-consequence; and,

misinterpreting Fanny’s blushes, still thought she must be doing so

when she went to her after the two first dances, and said, with a

significant look, “Perhaps _you_ can tell me why my brother goes to

town to-morrow? He says he has business there, but will not tell me

what. The first time he ever denied me his confidence! But this is what

we all come to. All are supplanted sooner or later. Now, I must apply

to you for information. Pray, what is Henry going for?”

Fanny protested her ignorance as steadily as her embarrassment allowed.

“Well, then,” replied Miss Crawford, laughing, “I must suppose it to be

purely for the pleasure of conveying your brother, and of talking of

you by the way.”

Fanny was confused, but it was the confusion of discontent; while Miss

Crawford wondered she did not smile, and thought her over-anxious, or

thought her odd, or thought her anything rather than insensible of

pleasure in Henry’s attentions. Fanny had a good deal of enjoyment in

the course of the evening; but Henry’s attentions had very little to do

with it. She would much rather _not_ have been asked by him again so

very soon, and she wished she had not been obliged to suspect that his

previous inquiries of Mrs. Norris, about the supper hour, were all for

the sake of securing her at that part of the evening. But it was not to

be avoided: he made her feel that she was the object of all; though she

could not say that it was unpleasantly done, that there was indelicacy

or ostentation in his manner; and sometimes, when he talked of William,

he was really not unagreeable, and shewed even a warmth of heart which

did him credit. But still his attentions made no part of her

satisfaction. She was happy whenever she looked at William, and saw how

perfectly he was enjoying himself, in every five minutes that she could

walk about with him and hear his account of his partners; she was happy

in knowing herself admired; and she was happy in having the two dances

with Edmund still to look forward to, during the greatest part of the

evening, her hand being so eagerly sought after that her indefinite

engagement with _him_ was in continual perspective. She was happy even

when they did take place; but not from any flow of spirits on his side,

or any such expressions of tender gallantry as had blessed the morning.

His mind was fagged, and her happiness sprung from being the friend

with whom it could find repose. “I am worn out with civility,” said he.

“I have been talking incessantly all night, and with nothing to say.

But with _you_, Fanny, there may be peace. You will not want to be

talked to. Let us have the luxury of silence.” Fanny would hardly even

speak her agreement. A weariness, arising probably, in great measure,

from the same feelings which he had acknowledged in the morning, was

peculiarly to be respected, and they went down their two dances

together with such sober tranquillity as might satisfy any looker-on

that Sir Thomas had been bringing up no wife for his younger son.

The evening had afforded Edmund little pleasure. Miss Crawford had been

in gay spirits when they first danced together, but it was not her

gaiety that could do him good: it rather sank than raised his comfort;

and afterwards, for he found himself still impelled to seek her again,

she had absolutely pained him by her manner of speaking of the

profession to which he was now on the point of belonging. They had

talked, and they had been silent; he had reasoned, she had ridiculed;

and they had parted at last with mutual vexation. Fanny, not able to

refrain entirely from observing them, had seen enough to be tolerably

satisfied. It was barbarous to be happy when Edmund was suffering. Yet

some happiness must and would arise from the very conviction that he

did suffer.

When her two dances with him were over, her inclination and strength

for more were pretty well at an end; and Sir Thomas, having seen her

walk rather than dance down the shortening set, breathless, and with

her hand at her side, gave his orders for her sitting down entirely.

From that time Mr. Crawford sat down likewise.

“Poor Fanny!” cried William, coming for a moment to visit her, and

working away his partner’s fan as if for life, “how soon she is knocked

up! Why, the sport is but just begun. I hope we shall keep it up these

two hours. How can you be tired so soon?”

“So soon! my good friend,” said Sir Thomas, producing his watch with

all necessary caution; “it is three o’clock, and your sister is not

used to these sort of hours.”

“Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before I go. Sleep

as long as you can, and never mind me.”

“Oh! William.”

“What! Did she think of being up before you set off?”

“Oh! yes, sir,” cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat to be nearer

her uncle; “I must get up and breakfast with him. It will be the last

time, you know; the last morning.”

“You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be gone by half-past

nine. Mr. Crawford, I think you call for him at half-past nine?”

Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her eyes for

denial; and it ended in a gracious “Well, well!” which was permission.

“Yes, half-past nine,” said Crawford to William as the latter was

leaving them, “and I shall be punctual, for there will be no kind

sister to get up for _me_.” And in a lower tone to Fanny, “I shall have

only a desolate house to hurry from. Your brother will find my ideas of

time and his own very different to-morrow.”

After a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford to join the

early breakfast party in that house instead of eating alone: he should

himself be of it; and the readiness with which his invitation was

accepted convinced him that the suspicions whence, he must confess to

himself, this very ball had in great measure sprung, were well founded.

Mr. Crawford was in love with Fanny. He had a pleasing anticipation of

what would be. His niece, meanwhile, did not thank him for what he had

just done. She had hoped to have William all to herself the last

morning. It would have been an unspeakable indulgence. But though her

wishes were overthrown, there was no spirit of murmuring within her. On

the contrary, she was so totally unused to have her pleasure consulted,

or to have anything take place at all in the way she could desire, that

she was more disposed to wonder and rejoice in having carried her point

so far, than to repine at the counteraction which followed.

Shortly afterward, Sir Thomas was again interfering a little with her

inclination, by advising her to go immediately to bed. “Advise” was his

word, but it was the advice of absolute power, and she had only to

rise, and, with Mr. Crawford’s very cordial adieus, pass quietly away;

stopping at the entrance-door, like the Lady of Branxholm Hall, “one

moment and no more,” to view the happy scene, and take a last look at

the five or six determined couple who were still hard at work; and

then, creeping slowly up the principal staircase, pursued by the

ceaseless country-dance, feverish with hopes and fears, soup and negus,

sore-footed and fatigued, restless and agitated, yet feeling, in spite

of everything, that a ball was indeed delightful.

In thus sending her away, Sir Thomas perhaps might not be thinking

merely of her health. It might occur to him that Mr. Crawford had been

sitting by her long enough, or he might mean to recommend her as a wife

by shewing her persuadableness.