第 二十一 章 · Chapter XXI

Sir Thomas’s return made a striking change in the ways of the family,

independent of Lovers’ Vows. Under his government, Mansfield was an

altered place. Some members of their society sent away, and the spirits

of many others saddened—it was all sameness and gloom compared with the

past—a sombre family party rarely enlivened. There was little

intercourse with the Parsonage. Sir Thomas, drawing back from

intimacies in general, was particularly disinclined, at this time, for

any engagements but in one quarter. The Rushworths were the only

addition to his own domestic circle which he could solicit.

Edmund did not wonder that such should be his father’s feelings, nor

could he regret anything but the exclusion of the Grants. “But they,”

he observed to Fanny, “have a claim. They seem to belong to us; they

seem to be part of ourselves. I could wish my father were more sensible

of their very great attention to my mother and sisters while he was

away. I am afraid they may feel themselves neglected. But the truth is,

that my father hardly knows them. They had not been here a twelvemonth

when he left England. If he knew them better, he would value their

society as it deserves; for they are in fact exactly the sort of people

he would like. We are sometimes a little in want of animation among

ourselves: my sisters seem out of spirits, and Tom is certainly not at

his ease. Dr. and Mrs. Grant would enliven us, and make our evenings

pass away with more enjoyment even to my father.”

“Do you think so?” said Fanny: “in my opinion, my uncle would not like

_any_ addition. I think he values the very quietness you speak of, and

that the repose of his own family circle is all he wants. And it does

not appear to me that we are more serious than we used to be—I mean

before my uncle went abroad. As well as I can recollect, it was always

much the same. There was never much laughing in his presence; or, if

there is any difference, it is not more, I think, than such an absence

has a tendency to produce at first. There must be a sort of shyness;

but I cannot recollect that our evenings formerly were ever merry,

except when my uncle was in town. No young people’s are, I suppose,

when those they look up to are at home”.

“I believe you are right, Fanny,” was his reply, after a short

consideration. “I believe our evenings are rather returned to what they

were, than assuming a new character. The novelty was in their being

lively. Yet, how strong the impression that only a few weeks will give!

I have been feeling as if we had never lived so before.”

“I suppose I am graver than other people,” said Fanny. “The evenings do

not appear long to me. I love to hear my uncle talk of the West Indies.

I could listen to him for an hour together. It entertains _me_ more

than many other things have done; but then I am unlike other people, I

dare say.”

“Why should you dare say _that_?” (smiling). “Do you want to be told

that you are only unlike other people in being more wise and discreet?

But when did you, or anybody, ever get a compliment from me, Fanny? Go

to my father if you want to be complimented. He will satisfy you. Ask

your uncle what he thinks, and you will hear compliments enough: and

though they may be chiefly on your person, you must put up with it, and

trust to his seeing as much beauty of mind in time.”

Such language was so new to Fanny that it quite embarrassed her.

“Your uncle thinks you very pretty, dear Fanny—and that is the long and

the short of the matter. Anybody but myself would have made something

more of it, and anybody but you would resent that you had not been

thought very pretty before; but the truth is, that your uncle never did

admire you till now—and now he does. Your complexion is so

improved!—and you have gained so much countenance!—and your figure—nay,

Fanny, do not turn away about it—it is but an uncle. If you cannot bear

an uncle’s admiration, what is to become of you? You must really begin

to harden yourself to the idea of being worth looking at. You must try

not to mind growing up into a pretty woman.”

“Oh! don’t talk so, don’t talk so,” cried Fanny, distressed by more

feelings than he was aware of; but seeing that she was distressed, he

had done with the subject, and only added more seriously—

“Your uncle is disposed to be pleased with you in every respect; and I

only wish you would talk to him more. You are one of those who are too

silent in the evening circle.”

“But I do talk to him more than I used. I am sure I do. Did not you

hear me ask him about the slave-trade last night?”

“I did—and was in hopes the question would be followed up by others. It

would have pleased your uncle to be inquired of farther.”

“And I longed to do it—but there was such a dead silence! And while my

cousins were sitting by without speaking a word, or seeming at all

interested in the subject, I did not like—I thought it would appear as

if I wanted to set myself off at their expense, by shewing a curiosity

and pleasure in his information which he must wish his own daughters to

feel.”

“Miss Crawford was very right in what she said of you the other day:

that you seemed almost as fearful of notice and praise as other women

were of neglect. We were talking of you at the Parsonage, and those

were her words. She has great discernment. I know nobody who

distinguishes characters better. For so young a woman it is remarkable!

She certainly understands _you_ better than you are understood by the

greater part of those who have known you so long; and with regard to

some others, I can perceive, from occasional lively hints, the

unguarded expressions of the moment, that she could define _many_ as

accurately, did not delicacy forbid it. I wonder what she thinks of my

father! She must admire him as a fine-looking man, with most

gentlemanlike, dignified, consistent manners; but perhaps, having seen

him so seldom, his reserve may be a little repulsive. Could they be

much together, I feel sure of their liking each other. He would enjoy

her liveliness and she has talents to value his powers. I wish they met

more frequently! I hope she does not suppose there is any dislike on

his side.”

“She must know herself too secure of the regard of all the rest of

you,” said Fanny, with half a sigh, “to have any such apprehension. And

Sir Thomas’s wishing just at first to be only with his family, is so

very natural, that she can argue nothing from that. After a little

while, I dare say, we shall be meeting again in the same sort of way,

allowing for the difference of the time of year.”

“This is the first October that she has passed in the country since her

infancy. I do not call Tunbridge or Cheltenham the country; and

November is a still more serious month, and I can see that Mrs. Grant

is very anxious for her not finding Mansfield dull as winter comes on.”

Fanny could have said a great deal, but it was safer to say nothing,

and leave untouched all Miss Crawford’s resources—her accomplishments,

her spirits, her importance, her friends, lest it should betray her

into any observations seemingly unhandsome. Miss Crawford’s kind

opinion of herself deserved at least a grateful forbearance, and she

began to talk of something else.

“To-morrow, I think, my uncle dines at Sotherton, and you and Mr.

Bertram too. We shall be quite a small party at home. I hope my uncle

may continue to like Mr. Rushworth.”

“That is impossible, Fanny. He must like him less after to-morrow’s

visit, for we shall be five hours in his company. I should dread the

stupidity of the day, if there were not a much greater evil to

follow—the impression it must leave on Sir Thomas. He cannot much

longer deceive himself. I am sorry for them all, and would give

something that Rushworth and Maria had never met.”

In this quarter, indeed, disappointment was impending over Sir Thomas.

Not all his good-will for Mr. Rushworth, not all Mr. Rushworth’s

deference for him, could prevent him from soon discerning some part of

the truth—that Mr. Rushworth was an inferior young man, as ignorant in

business as in books, with opinions in general unfixed, and without

seeming much aware of it himself.

He had expected a very different son-in-law; and beginning to feel

grave on Maria’s account, tried to understand _her_ feelings. Little

observation there was necessary to tell him that indifference was the

most favourable state they could be in. Her behaviour to Mr. Rushworth

was careless and cold. She could not, did not like him. Sir Thomas

resolved to speak seriously to her. Advantageous as would be the

alliance, and long standing and public as was the engagement, her

happiness must not be sacrificed to it. Mr. Rushworth had, perhaps,

been accepted on too short an acquaintance, and, on knowing him better,

she was repenting.

With solemn kindness Sir Thomas addressed her: told her his fears,

inquired into her wishes, entreated her to be open and sincere, and

assured her that every inconvenience should be braved, and the

connexion entirely given up, if she felt herself unhappy in the

prospect of it. He would act for her and release her. Maria had a

moment’s struggle as she listened, and only a moment’s: when her father

ceased, she was able to give her answer immediately, decidedly, and

with no apparent agitation. She thanked him for his great attention,

his paternal kindness, but he was quite mistaken in supposing she had

the smallest desire of breaking through her engagement, or was sensible

of any change of opinion or inclination since her forming it. She had

the highest esteem for Mr. Rushworth’s character and disposition, and

could not have a doubt of her happiness with him.

Sir Thomas was satisfied; too glad to be satisfied, perhaps, to urge

the matter quite so far as his judgment might have dictated to others.

It was an alliance which he could not have relinquished without pain;

and thus he reasoned. Mr. Rushworth was young enough to improve. Mr.

Rushworth must and would improve in good society; and if Maria could

now speak so securely of her happiness with him, speaking certainly

without the prejudice, the blindness of love, she ought to be believed.

Her feelings, probably, were not acute; he had never supposed them to

be so; but her comforts might not be less on that account; and if she

could dispense with seeing her husband a leading, shining character,

there would certainly be everything else in her favour. A well-disposed

young woman, who did not marry for love, was in general but the more

attached to her own family; and the nearness of Sotherton to Mansfield

must naturally hold out the greatest temptation, and would, in all

probability, be a continual supply of the most amiable and innocent

enjoyments. Such and such-like were the reasonings of Sir Thomas, happy

to escape the embarrassing evils of a rupture, the wonder, the

reflections, the reproach that must attend it; happy to secure a

marriage which would bring him such an addition of respectability and

influence, and very happy to think anything of his daughter’s

disposition that was most favourable for the purpose.

To her the conference closed as satisfactorily as to him. She was in a

state of mind to be glad that she had secured her fate beyond recall:

that she had pledged herself anew to Sotherton; that she was safe from

the possibility of giving Crawford the triumph of governing her

actions, and destroying her prospects; and retired in proud resolve,

determined only to behave more cautiously to Mr. Rushworth in future,

that her father might not be again suspecting her.

Had Sir Thomas applied to his daughter within the first three or four

days after Henry Crawford’s leaving Mansfield, before her feelings were

at all tranquillised, before she had given up every hope of him, or

absolutely resolved on enduring his rival, her answer might have been

different; but after another three or four days, when there was no

return, no letter, no message, no symptom of a softened heart, no hope

of advantage from separation, her mind became cool enough to seek all

the comfort that pride and self revenge could give.

Henry Crawford had destroyed her happiness, but he should not know that

he had done it; he should not destroy her credit, her appearance, her

prosperity, too. He should not have to think of her as pining in the

retirement of Mansfield for _him_, rejecting Sotherton and London,

independence and splendour, for _his_ sake. Independence was more

needful than ever; the want of it at Mansfield more sensibly felt. She

was less and less able to endure the restraint which her father

imposed. The liberty which his absence had given was now become

absolutely necessary. She must escape from him and Mansfield as soon as

possible, and find consolation in fortune and consequence, bustle and

the world, for a wounded spirit. Her mind was quite determined, and

varied not.

To such feelings delay, even the delay of much preparation, would have

been an evil, and Mr. Rushworth could hardly be more impatient for the

marriage than herself. In all the important preparations of the mind

she was complete: being prepared for matrimony by an hatred of home,

restraint, and tranquillity; by the misery of disappointed affection,

and contempt of the man she was to marry. The rest might wait. The

preparations of new carriages and furniture might wait for London and

spring, when her own taste could have fairer play.

The principals being all agreed in this respect, it soon appeared that

a very few weeks would be sufficient for such arrangements as must

precede the wedding.

Mrs. Rushworth was quite ready to retire, and make way for the

fortunate young woman whom her dear son had selected; and very early in

November removed herself, her maid, her footman, and her chariot, with

true dowager propriety, to Bath, there to parade over the wonders of

Sotherton in her evening parties; enjoying them as thoroughly, perhaps,

in the animation of a card-table, as she had ever done on the spot; and

before the middle of the same month the ceremony had taken place which

gave Sotherton another mistress.

It was a very proper wedding. The bride was elegantly dressed; the two

bridesmaids were duly inferior; her father gave her away; her mother

stood with salts in her hand, expecting to be agitated; her aunt tried

to cry; and the service was impressively read by Dr. Grant. Nothing

could be objected to when it came under the discussion of the

neighbourhood, except that the carriage which conveyed the bride and

bridegroom and Julia from the church-door to Sotherton was the same

chaise which Mr. Rushworth had used for a twelvemonth before. In

everything else the etiquette of the day might stand the strictest

investigation.

It was done, and they were gone. Sir Thomas felt as an anxious father

must feel, and was indeed experiencing much of the agitation which his

wife had been apprehensive of for herself, but had fortunately escaped.

Mrs. Norris, most happy to assist in the duties of the day, by spending

it at the Park to support her sister’s spirits, and drinking the health

of Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth in a supernumerary glass or two, was all

joyous delight; for she had made the match; she had done everything;

and no one would have supposed, from her confident triumph, that she

had ever heard of conjugal infelicity in her life, or could have the

smallest insight into the disposition of the niece who had been brought

up under her eye.

The plan of the young couple was to proceed, after a few days, to

Brighton, and take a house there for some weeks. Every public place was

new to Maria, and Brighton is almost as gay in winter as in summer.

When the novelty of amusement there was over, it would be time for the

wider range of London.

Julia was to go with them to Brighton. Since rivalry between the

sisters had ceased, they had been gradually recovering much of their

former good understanding; and were at least sufficiently friends to

make each of them exceedingly glad to be with the other at such a time.

Some other companion than Mr. Rushworth was of the first consequence to

his lady; and Julia was quite as eager for novelty and pleasure as

Maria, though she might not have struggled through so much to obtain

them, and could better bear a subordinate situation.

Their departure made another material change at Mansfield, a chasm

which required some time to fill up. The family circle became greatly

contracted; and though the Miss Bertrams had latterly added little to

its gaiety, they could not but be missed. Even their mother missed

them; and how much more their tenderhearted cousin, who wandered about

the house, and thought of them, and felt for them, with a degree of

affectionate regret which they had never done much to deserve!