Miss Crawford could not make Fanny forget what had passed. She went to bed full of it, her nerves still agitated and her spirits sinking under her aunt's unkind reproach. To be told that she must do what was so impossible as to act; and then to have the charge of obstinacy and ingratitude follow, had been distressing, especially with the added dread of what the morrow might produce. Miss Crawford had protected her only for the time; and if she were applied to again, what should she do?
She fell asleep before she could answer the question, and found it quite as puzzling when she awoke the next morning. The little white attic, where she had always slept, suggesting no reply, she went as soon as she was dressed to the old school-room. When Miss Lee had quitted them, the room had become quite deserted, except by Fanny, who still kept her books there: gradually, she had added to her possessions, and spent more of her time there, and the East room was now considered hers. The Miss Bertrams, with every superiority in their own apartments, were entirely approving it; and Mrs. Norris, having stipulated that there should never be a fire in it on Fanny's account, was resigned to her having what nobody else wanted, though she sometimes spoke as if it was the best room in the house.
Even without a fire, Fanny found great comfort there in her hours of leisure. After anything unpleasant below, she could find immediate consolation in her plants, her books, her writing-desk, and her works of charity, all within her reach; or if nothing but musing would do, she could scarcely see an object in that room which had not an interesting remembrance connected with it. Everything was a friend; and held a memory of how her aunt Bertram had spoken for her, or Miss Lee had been encouraging, or how Edmund had been her champion; he had supported her cause, he had told her not to cry, or had given her some proof of affection which made her tears delightful.
The room was most dear to her, and she would not have changed its furniture for the handsomest in the house, though its greatest elegancies were a faded footstool of Julia's work, too ill done for the drawing-room, a collection of family profiles, thought unworthy of being anywhere else, and a small sketch of a ship sent four years ago from the Mediterranean by William, with H.M.S. Antwerp at the bottom, in letters as tall as the mainmast.
But as Fanny walked round the room on this morning, her doubts were increasing. Was she right in refusing what was so strongly wished for? Was it not selfishness, and a fear of exposing herself? It would be so horrible to her to act that she was inclined to suspect the purity of her own scruples; and as she looked around, the claims of her cousins were strengthened by the sight of present upon present that she had received from them. The table was covered with work-boxes which had been given her at different times, principally by Tom; and she grew bewildered. A tap at the door roused her, and her gentle "Come in" was answered by the appearance of one, before whom all her doubts were wont to be laid. Her eyes brightened at the sight of Edmund.
"Can I speak with you, Fanny?" said he.
"Yes, certainly."
"I want your opinion."
"My opinion!" she cried, shrinking from such a compliment, highly as it gratified her.
"Yes. I do not know what to do. This acting scheme gets worse and worse, you see. They have chosen almost as bad a play as they could, and now are going to ask the help of a young man very slightly known to us. This is the end of privacy and propriety. I know no harm of Charles Maddox; but the excessive intimacy which must spring from his joining us is highly objectionable. It appears to me an evil that must, if possible, be prevented."
"Yes; but what can be done? Your brother is so determined."
"I must take Anhalt myself, Fanny. Nothing else will quiet Tom."
Fanny could not answer him.
"It is not what I like," he continued, "but I can think of no other alternative. Can you, Fanny?"
"No," said Fanny slowly, "not immediately, but—"
"I see your judgment is not with me. Think it over. Perhaps you are not aware of the unpleasantness that must arise from a young man's being received in this manner. Think of the licence which every rehearsal must create. It is very bad! Put yourself in Miss Crawford's place, Fanny. I heard enough of what she said to you last night to understand her unwillingness to act with a stranger; and as she probably took the part with different expectations—it would be really wrong to expose her to it. Does it not strike you so, Fanny? You hesitate."
"I am sorry for Miss Crawford; but I am more sorry to see you drawn in to do what you had resolved against, and what you think will be disagreeable to my uncle. It will be such a triumph to the others!"
"They will not have much cause of triumph when they see how infamously I act. But if I can restrain the publicity of the business, and limit the exhibition, I shall be repaid. As I am now, I have no influence: but when I have put them in good-humour by this concession, I hope to persuade them to confine the play within a much smaller circle, to Mrs. Rushworth and the Grants. Will not this be worth gaining?"
"Yes, it will be a great point."
"But still it has not your approval. Give me your approbation, Fanny. I am not comfortable without it."
"Oh, cousin!"
"If you are against me, I ought to distrust myself, and yet I cannot let Tom go riding about the country in quest of anybody who can be persuaded to act. I thought you would have entered more into Miss Crawford's feelings."
"It must be a great relief to her," said Fanny, trying for greater warmth of manner.
"She never appeared more amiable than in her behaviour to you last night."
"She was very kind, indeed, and I am glad to have her spared..."
She could not finish, but Edmund was satisfied.
"Now, dear Fanny, I will not interrupt you any longer," said he. "But I could not be easy till I had spoken to you. My head has been full of this matter all night. I shall go to Tom directly and get it over, and when we meet at breakfast we shall be all in high good-humour at the prospect of acting the fool together. You, in the meanwhile, will be taking a trip into China, I suppose."—opening a volume on the table. "And here are Crabbe's Tales, and the Idler, to relieve you, if you tire of your great book. I admire your little establishment exceedingly; and as soon as I am gone, you will empty your head of all this nonsense, and sit comfortably down to your table."
He went; but there was no reading, no China, no composure for Fanny. He had told her the most extraordinary, the most unwelcome news; and she could think of nothing else. To be acting! After all his objections! Could it be possible? Edmund so inconsistent! Was he not deceiving himself? Was he not wrong?
Alas! it was all Miss Crawford's doing. She had seen her influence in every speech, and was miserable. The doubts as to her own conduct, which had previously distressed her, were become of little consequence now. This deeper anxiety swallowed them up. She cared not how it ended. Her cousins might attack, but she was beyond their reach; and if at last obliged to yield—no matter—it was all misery now.
CHAPTER 17