Jane Austen's Mansfield Park: Abridged

by Emma Laybourn

Edmund now believed himself perfectly acquainted with all that Fanny could tell, and he was satisfied. Crawford had been too hasty. Once she was used to the idea of his being in love with her, a return of affection might not be very distant.

  He gave this opinion to his father; and recommended that nothing more be said to her: but that everything should be left to Crawford's diligence, and the natural workings of her own mind.

  Sir Thomas promised that it should be so. He believed Edmund's account of Fanny's nature to be just, but he considered it as unfortunate; for he could not help fearing that if such very long allowances of time were necessary for her, she might not have persuaded herself into receiving his addresses before the young man's inclination for paying them were over. There was nothing to be done, however, but to submit and hope for the best.

  The promised visit from "her friend," as Edmund called Miss Crawford, was a formidable threat to Fanny. As a sister, so partial and so angry, and so little scrupulous of what she said, she was an object of painful alarm. The dependence of having others present when they met was Fanny's only support in looking forward to it. She absented herself as little as possible from Lady Bertram, kept away from the East room, and took no solitary walk in the shrubbery, in her caution to avoid any sudden attack.

  She succeeded. She was safe in the breakfast-room, with her aunt, when Miss Crawford did come; and Fanny hoped there would be nothing worse to be endured than a half-hour of moderate agitation. But here she hoped too much; Miss Crawford was determined to see Fanny alone, and said to her, in a low voice, "I must speak to you for a few minutes somewhere"; words that Fanny felt all over her. Denial was impossible. Her habits of ready submission, on the contrary, made her instantly rise and lead the way out of the room.

  They were no sooner in the hall than Miss Crawford shook her head at Fanny with arch, yet affectionate reproach, and took her hand: she said nothing, however, but, "Sad, sad girl! I do not know when I shall have done scolding you."

  Fanny turned upstairs, and took her guest to the East Room, opening the door, however, with a most aching heart, and feeling that she had a distressing scene before her. But the evil was delayed by the sudden change in Miss Crawford's ideas; by the strong effect on her mind which the finding herself in the East room again produced.

  "Ha!" she cried, "am I here again? Once only was I in this room before"; and after stopping to look about her, "Do you remember it? I came to rehearse. Your cousin came too; and you were our audience and prompter. A delightful rehearsal. I shall never forget it. Oh! why will such things ever pass away?"

  Happily for her companion, she wanted no answer. Her mind was entirely self-engrossed, in a reverie of sweet remembrances.

  "The scene we were rehearsing was so very remarkable! The subject of it so very—very—what shall I say? He was recommending matrimony to me, trying to be as demure and composed as Anhalt ought, through the two long speeches. 'When two sympathetic hearts meet in the marriage state, matrimony may be called a happy life.' I can never forget his looks and voice as he said those words. If I could relive any one week of my existence, it should be that week; for I never knew such exquisite happiness in any other. His sturdy spirit to bend as it did! Oh! it was sweet beyond expression. But alas, that very evening destroyed it all, and brought your most unwelcome uncle. Yet, Fanny, do not imagine I would now speak disrespectfully of Sir Thomas, though I certainly did hate him for many a week. No, I do him justice now. He is just what the head of such a family should be. Nay, in sober sadness, I believe I now love you all." And with a degree of tenderness and consciousness which Fanny had never seen in her before, and now thought only too becoming, she turned away for a moment to recover herself.

  "I have had a little fit since I came into this room, as you may perceive," said she presently, with a playful smile, "but it is over; so let us sit down and be comfortable; for as to scolding you, Fanny, I have not the heart for it when it comes to the point." And embracing her affectionately, "Good, gentle Fanny! when I think of this being the last time of seeing you for I do not know how long, I feel it quite impossible to do anything but love you."

  Fanny had not foreseen this, and her feelings could seldom withstand the melancholy influence of the word "last." She cried as if she had loved Miss Crawford more than she possibly could; and Miss Crawford, farther softened by the sight of such emotion, said, "I hate to leave you. I shall see no one half so amiable where I am going. Who says we shall not be sisters? I know we shall. I feel that we are born to be connected; and those tears convince me that you feel it too, dear Fanny."

  Fanny roused herself, and said, "But you are going to a very particular friend."

  "Very true. Mrs. Fraser has been my intimate friend for years. But I have not the least inclination to go near her. I can think only of the friends I am leaving. You have all so much more heart among you than one finds in the world at large. You all give me a feeling of being able to trust and confide in you. I wish I had settled with Mrs. Fraser not to go till after Easter, but now I cannot put her off. And then I must go to her sister, Lady Stornaway, because she was my most particular friend of the two, but I have not cared much for her these three years."

  After this speech the two girls sat silent, before Mary spoke again.

  "How perfectly I remember resolving to look for you upstairs, and setting off to find my way to the East room, without having an idea whereabouts it was! How well I remember looking in and seeing you sitting at work; and then your cousin's astonishment, when he opened the door, at seeing me here! There never was anything quite like it."

  Another short fit of abstraction followed; then she thus attacked her companion.

  "Why, Fanny, you are absolutely in a reverie. Thinking, I hope, of one who is always thinking of you. Oh! if only I could transport you into our circle in town, that you might understand how your power over Henry is thought of there! Oh! the envyings and heartburnings of dozens and dozens; the incredulity that will be felt at hearing what you have done! For as to secrecy, Henry glories in his chains. If you were to see how he is courted in London! I shall not be half so welcome to Mrs. Fraser when she knows the truth; for she has a step-daughter whom she is wild to get married, and wants Henry to take. Oh! she has been trying for him to such a degree. Innocent and quiet as you sit here, you cannot have an idea of the curiosity there will be about you, of the endless questions I shall have to answer! Poor Margaret Fraser will be at me for ever about how you do your hair, and who makes your shoes. I wish Margaret were married, for my poor friend's sake, for I think the Frasers are about as unhappy as most married people. And yet it was a most desirable match for Janet at the time. She had to accept him, for he was rich, and she had nothing; but he turns out ill-tempered and demanding, and wants a young woman of five-and-twenty to be as steady as himself. And my friend does not seem to know how to make the best of it. His irritation is certainly very ill-bred. Even Dr. Grant shows a confidence in my sister, and a consideration for her judgment, which makes one feel there is attachment; but of that I shall see nothing with the Frasers. Poor Janet has been sadly taken in, and yet she took three days to consider his proposals, and asked everyone’s advice. I have not so much to say for my friend Flora, who jilted a very nice young man in the Blues for the sake of that horrid Lord Stornaway, who has about as much sense as Mr. Rushworth, but is much worse-looking, and with a blackguard character. Flora Ross was dying for Henry the first winter she came out. But were I to tell you of all the women who have been in love with him, I should never finish. It is only you, unfeeling Fanny, who can think of him with indifference. But are you so insensible as you profess yourself? No, I see you are not."

  There was, indeed, a deep blush over Fanny's face at that moment.

  "Excellent creature! I will not tease you. But, dear Fanny, you cannot have been so unprepared as your cousin fancies. You must have had some thoughts on the subject, some surmises. You must have seen that Henry was trying to please you by every attention in his po
wer. Was not he devoted to you at the ball? And the necklace! Oh! you received it just as it was meant. You were as conscious as heart could desire. I remember it perfectly."

  "Do you mean, then, that your brother knew of the necklace beforehand? Oh! Miss Crawford, that was not fair."

  "Knew of it! It was his own doing entirely. I am ashamed to say that it had never entered my head, but I was delighted to act on his proposal."

  "I was half afraid at the time of its being so," said Fanny; "but not at first; I was unsuspicious of it at first, indeed. If I had suspected it, nothing should have induced me to accept the necklace. As to your brother's behaviour, I had been aware of a particularity some two or three weeks, but I considered it as meaning nothing: I put it down as simply being his way. I observed what was passing between him and some of this family in the summer and autumn. I was not blind. I could not help seeing that Mr. Crawford allowed himself gallantries which did mean nothing."

  "Ah! I cannot deny it. He has now and then been a sad flirt, and cared very little for the havoc he might be making in young ladies' affections. I have often scolded him for it, but it is his only fault; and there is this to be said, that very few young ladies have any affections worth caring for. And then, Fanny, the glory of fixing one who has been shot at by so many! Oh! it is not in woman's nature to refuse such a triumph."

  Fanny shook her head. "I cannot think well of a man who sports with any woman's feelings; and there may often be a great deal more suffered than a stander-by can judge of."

  "I do not defend him. I leave him entirely to your mercy, and when he has got you at Everingham, I do not care how much you lecture him. I do seriously and truly believe that he is attached to you in a way that he never was to any woman before; that he loves you with all his heart, and will love you as nearly for ever as possible. If any man ever loved a woman for ever, I think Henry will do as much for you."

  Fanny could not avoid a faint smile, but had nothing to say.

  "He was never happier," continued Mary, "than when he succeeded in getting your brother's commission."

  She had made a sure push at Fanny's feelings here.

  "Oh! yes. How very kind of him."

  "I know he must have exerted himself very much, for the Admiral hates trouble, and scorns asking favours. What a happy creature William must be!"

  Poor Fanny's mind was distressed. The recollection of what had been done for William was always the most powerful disturber of every decision against Mr. Crawford; and she sat thinking deeply till Mary said: "I should like to sit here talking to you all day, but we must not forget the ladies below: so good-bye, my dear, my amiable, my excellent Fanny, for I must take leave of you here. And I do take leave, trusting that when we meet again, it will be under circumstances which may open our hearts to each other without any shadow of reserve."

  A very kind embrace accompanied these words.

  "I shall see your cousin in town soon: he talks of being there; and Sir Thomas, I dare say, in the spring; and your eldest cousin, and the Rushworths, and Julia. I have two favours to ask, Fanny: one is, that you must write to me. And the other, that you will often call on Mrs. Grant, and make her amends for my being gone."

  The first of these favours Fanny would rather not have been asked; but it was impossible for her to refuse. There was no resisting so much apparent affection. Having hitherto known so little of it, she was the more overcome by Miss Crawford's. Besides, she was grateful to her for having made their tête-à-tête so much less painful than she had feared.

  It was over, and she had escaped without reproaches and without detection. Her secret was still her own.

  In the evening there was another parting. Henry Crawford came and sat some time with them; and her heart was softened towards him, because he really seemed to feel. Quite unlike his usual self, he scarcely said anything. He was evidently oppressed, and Fanny must grieve for him, though hoping she might never see him again till he were the husband of some other woman.

  When it came to the moment of parting, he took her hand; he said nothing, however, and left the room.

  On the morrow the Crawfords were gone.

  CHAPTER 37