by Jane Austen
A woman drinking tea.
[From The Repository of arts, literature, fashions, manufactures, &c, Vol. XIV (1815), p. 240]
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 Edmund23—when Saturday came and still no Edmund—and when, through the slight communication with the other family which Sunday produced,24 she learnt 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 could25—“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 surprize 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.”26
A hot water jug, a creamer, and a teapot.
[From MacIver Percival, Old English Furniture and its Surroundings (New York, 1920), pp. 176 and 177]
“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 chat27 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 every thing and every body. 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,28 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 harp29—and all sing—or would sing if they were taught—or sing all the better for not being taught—or something like it.”30
“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,31 or distant, or unapproachable region.”32
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 pretty33 establishment for them. I do not at all wonder or blame them.—It is every body’s duty to do as well for themselves as they can.34 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.35 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.36
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 turned37 the subject.
A view of a road through a village.
[From Humphry Repton, Fragments on the Theory and Practice of Landscape Gardening (London, 1816), p. 233]
Chapter Twelve
Miss Crawford’s uneasiness was much lightened by this conversation, and she walked home again in spirits which might have defied almost another week of the same small party in the same bad weather, had they been put to the proof; but as that very evening brought her brother down from London again in quite, or more than quite, his usual cheerfulness, she had nothing further to try her own. His still refusing to tell her what he had gone for, was but the promotion of gaiety; a day before it might have irritated, but now it was a pleasant joke—suspected only of concealing something planned as a pleasant surprize to herself. And the next day did bring a surprize to her. Henry had said he should just go and ask the Bertrams how they did, and be back in ten minutes—but he was gone above an hour; and when his sister, who had been waiting for him to walk with her in the garden, met him at last most impatiently in the sweep,1 and cried out, “My dear Henry, where can you possibly have been all this time?” he had only to say that he had been sitting
with Lady Bertram and Fanny.
“Sitting with them an hour and half!” exclaimed Mary.
But this was only the beginning of her surprize.
“Yes, Mary,” said he, drawing her arm within his, and walking along the sweep as if not knowing where he was—“I could not get away sooner—Fanny looked so lovely!—I am quite determined, Mary. My mind is entirely made up. Will it astonish you? No—You must be aware that I am quite determined to marry Fanny Price.”
The surprize was now complete; for in spite of whatever his consciousness might suggest, a suspicion of his having any such views2 had never entered his sister’s imagination; and she looked so truly the astonishment she felt, that he was obliged to repeat what he had said, and more fully and more solemnly. The conviction of his determination once admitted, it was not unwelcome. There was even pleasure with the surprize. Mary was in a state of mind to rejoice in a connection with the Bertram family, and to be not displeased with her brother’s marrying a little beneath him.
A grand house (Normanton Park, Rutlandshire) with a circular sweep in front.
[From John Preston Neale, Views of the Seats of Noblemen and Gentlemen, Vol. V (London, 1822)]
“Yes, Mary,” was Henry’s concluding assurance, “I am fairly caught. You know with what idle designs I began—but this is the end of them. I have (I flatter myself) made no inconsiderable progress in her affections; but my own are entirely fixed.”
“Lucky, lucky girl!” cried Mary as soon as she could speak—“what a match for her!3 My dearest Henry, this must be my first feeling; but my second, which you shall have as sincerely, is that I approve your choice from my soul, and foresee your happiness as heartily as I wish and desire it. You will have a sweet little wife; all gratitude and devotion. Exactly what you deserve. What an amazing match for her! Mrs. Norris often talks of her luck; what will she say now? The delight of all the family indeed! And she has some true friends in it.4 How they will rejoice! But tell me all about it. Talk to me for ever. When did you begin to think seriously about her?”
Nothing could be more impossible than to answer such a question, though nothing be more agreeable than to have it asked. “How the pleasing plague had stolen on him”5 he could not say, and before he had expressed the same sentiment with a little variation of words three times over, his sister eagerly interrupted him with, “Ah! my dear Henry, and this is what took you to London! This was your business! You chose to consult the Admiral, before you made up your mind.”
But this he stoutly denied. He knew his uncle too well to consult him on any matrimonial scheme. The Admiral hated marriage, and thought it never pardonable in a young man of independent fortune.6
“When Fanny is known to him,” continued Henry, “he will doat on her. She is exactly the woman to do away every prejudice of such a man as the Admiral, for she is exactly such a woman as he thinks does not exist in the world. She is the very impossibility he would describe7—if indeed he has now delicacy of language enough to embody8 his own ideas.9 But till it is absolutely settled—settled beyond all interference, he shall know nothing of the matter. No, Mary, you are quite mistaken. You have not discovered my business yet!”10
“Well, well, I am satisfied. I know now to whom it must relate, and am in no hurry for the rest. Fanny Price—Wonderful—quite wonderful!—That Mansfield should have done so much for—that you should have found your fate in Mansfield! But you are quite right, you could not have chosen better. There is not a better girl in the world, and you do not want for fortune; and as to her connections, they are more than good. The Bertrams are undoubtedly some of the first people in this country. She is niece to Sir Thomas Bertram; that will be enough for the world. But go on, go on. Tell me more. What are your plans? Does she know her own happiness?”
“No.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“For—for very little more than opportunity. Mary, she is not like her cousins; but I think I shall not ask in vain.”
“Oh! no, you cannot. Were you even less pleasing—supposing her not to love you already (of which however I can have little doubt), you would be safe. The gentleness and gratitude of her disposition would secure her all your own immediately. From my soul I do not think she would marry you without love; that is, if there is a girl in the world capable of being uninfluenced by ambition, I can suppose it her; but ask her to love you, and she will never have the heart to refuse.”
As soon as her eagerness could rest in silence, he was as happy to tell as she could be to listen, and a conversation followed almost as deeply interesting to her as to himself, though he had in fact nothing to relate but his own sensations, nothing to dwell on but Fanny’s charms.—Fanny’s beauty of face and figure, Fanny’s graces of manner and goodness of heart were the exhaustless theme. The gentleness, modesty, and sweetness of her character were warmly expatiated on, that sweetness which makes so essential a part of every woman’s worth in the judgment of man, that though he sometimes loves where it is not, he can never believe it absent. Her temper he had good reason to depend on and to praise. He had often seen it tried. Was there one of the family, excepting Edmund, who had not in some way or other continually exercised her patience and forbearance? Her affections were evidently strong. To see her with her brother! What could more delightfully prove that the warmth of her heart was equal to its gentleness?—What could be more encouraging to a man who had her love in view? Then, her understanding11 was beyond every suspicion, quick and clear; and her manners were the mirror of her own modest and elegant mind.12 Nor was this all. Henry Crawford had too much sense not to feel the worth of good principles in a wife, though he was too little accustomed to serious reflection to know them by their proper name;13 but when he talked of her having such a steadiness and regularity of conduct, such a high notion of honour, and such an observance of decorum as might warrant any man in the fullest dependence on her faith and integrity,14 he expressed what was inspired by the knowledge of her being well principled and religious.15
Walking dress of the time.
[From Andrew Tuer, The Follies and Fashions of our Grandfathers (London, 1887), p. 326]
“I could so wholly and absolutely confide in her,” said he; “and that is what I want.”
Well might his sister, believing as she really did that his opinion of Fanny Price was scarcely beyond her merits, rejoice in her prospects.
“The more I think of it,” she cried, “the more am I convinced that you are doing quite right, and though I should never have selected Fanny Price as the girl most likely to attach you, I am now persuaded she is the very one to make you happy. Your wicked project upon her peace turns out a clever thought indeed. You will both find your good in it.”
“It was bad, very bad in me against such a creature! but I did not know her then.16 And she shall have no reason to lament the hour that first put it into my head. I will make her very happy, Mary, happier than she has ever yet been herself, or ever seen any body else. I will not take her from Northamptonshire. I shall let Everingham,17 and rent a place in this neighbourhood—perhaps Stanwix Lodge.18 I shall let a seven years’ lease of Everingham.19 I am sure of an excellent tenant at half a word. I could name three people now, who would give me my own terms and thank me.”
“Ha!” cried Mary, “settle in Northamptonshire! That is pleasant! Then we shall be all together.”
When she had spoken it, she recollected herself, and wished it unsaid; but there was no need of confusion,20 for her brother saw her only as the supposed inmate of Mansfield Parsonage, and replied but to invite her in the kindest manner to his own house, and to claim the best right in her.
“You must give us more than half your time,” said he; “I cannot admit Mrs. Grant to have an equal claim with Fanny and myself, for we shall both have a right in you. Fanny will be so truly your sister!”
Mary had only to be grateful and give general assurances; but she was now very fully purposed21 to be the guest of neither brother nor sister
many months longer.
“You will divide your year between London and Northamptonshire?”
“Yes.”
“That’s right; and in London, of course, a house of your own;22 no longer with the Admiral. My dearest Henry, the advantage to you of getting away from the Admiral before your manners are hurt by the contagion of his, before you have contracted any of his foolish opinions, or learnt to sit over your dinner, as if it were the best blessing of life!23—You are not sensible of the gain, for your regard for him has blinded you; but, in my estimation, your marrying early may be the saving of you. To have seen you grow like the Admiral in word or deed, look or gesture, would have broken my heart.”
“Well, well, we do not think quite alike here. The Admiral has his faults, but he is a very good man, and has been more than a father to me. Few fathers would have let me have my own way half so much.24 You must not prejudice Fanny against him. I must have them love one another.”
Mary refrained from saying what she felt, that there could not be two persons in existence, whose characters and manners were less accordant; time would discover it to him; but she could not help this reflection on the Admiral. “Henry, I think so highly of Fanny Price, that if I could suppose the next Mrs. Crawford would have half the reason which my poor ill used aunt had to abhor the very name, I would prevent the marriage, if possible;25 but I know you, I know that a wife you loved would be the happiest of women, and that even when you ceased to love, she would yet find in you the liberality and good-breeding of a gentleman.”26