On reaching home Fanny went upstairs to deposit this doubtful good of a necklace in a box in the East room, which held all her smaller treasures; but what was her surprise to find her cousin Edmund there, writing at the table! Such a sight was almost as astonishing as it was welcome.
"Fanny," said he, leaving his seat, and meeting her with something in his hand, "I beg your pardon. I came to look for you, and was writing to explain my errand. You will find the beginning of a note to yourself; but I can now speak my business, which is merely to beg your acceptance of this trifle—a chain for William's cross. I hope you will like it, Fanny. I tried to consult the simplicity of your taste; but I know you will be kind, and consider it, as it really is, a token of the love of one of your oldest friends."
And so saying, he was hurrying away, before Fanny, overpowered by a thousand feelings of pain and pleasure, could speak; but, she then called out, "Oh! cousin, stop a moment, pray stop!"
He turned back.
"I cannot attempt to thank you," she continued, very agitated; "I feel much more than I can possibly express. Your goodness in thinking of me—"
"If that is all you have to say, Fanny," smiling and turning away again.
"No, no. I want to consult you."
She had now undone the parcel he had given her, and seeing a plain gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she burst forth, "Oh, this is beautiful indeed! This is precisely what I wished for! It will exactly suit my cross. It comes, too, at such an acceptable moment. Oh, cousin, you do not know how acceptable it is."
"My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too much. I am most happy that you like the chain; but your thanks are far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I have no pleasure in the world greater than that of contributing to yours. I can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so unalloyed. It is without a drawback."
Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour without saying another word; but Edmund obliged her to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying, "But what is it that you want to consult me about?"
It was about the necklace, which she was now longing to return. She gave the history of her recent visit, and now her raptures might well be over; for Edmund was so delighted with what Miss Crawford had done, that it was some time before Fanny could get him to attend to her plan: he was in a reverie of fond reflection, but when he did understand, he was very decided in opposing what she wished.
"Return the necklace! No, my dear Fanny, upon no account. It would mortify her."
"But being her brother's present, is not it fair to suppose that she would rather not part with it?"
"It makes no difference; for as she was not prevented from offering it on that account, it ought not to prevent you from keeping it. No doubt it is handsomer than my chain, and fitter for a ballroom."
"No, it is not handsomer at all, and not half so fit. The chain will agree with William's cross beyond all comparison better than the necklace."
"For one night only, Fanny, I am sure you will make the sacrifice rather than give pain to one who has been kind. Wear the necklace to-morrow evening, and let the chain be kept for commoner occasions. This is my advice. I would not have the shadow of a coolness between the two whose intimacy I have been observing with the greatest pleasure, and in whose characters there is so much resemblance in true generosity and natural delicacy. I would not have the shadow of a coolness arise," he repeated, his voice sinking a little, "between the two dearest objects I have on earth."
He was gone as he spoke; and Fanny calmed herself as well as she could. She was one of his two dearest—that must support her. But the first! She had never heard him speak so openly before, and though it told her no more than what she had long perceived, it was a stab, for it told of his own views. They were decided.
He would marry Miss Crawford. Could she believe Miss Crawford to deserve him, how different would it be—how far more tolerable! But he was deceived in her: he gave her merits which she had not; her faults were what they had always been, but he saw them no longer. Fanny’s dejection could only be relieved by fervent prayers for his happiness.
It was her duty, and her intention, to try to overcome all that was excessive in her affection for Edmund. To fancy it a loss, a disappointment, was a presumption for which she had not words strong enough. To think of him as Miss Crawford might be justified in thinking, would in her be insanity. To her he could be nothing dearer than a friend. Why did such an idea even occur to her? It ought never to have entered her imagination. She would endeavour to be rational.
She was determined to do her duty; but having also the feelings of youth and nature, let her not be wondered at, if, after making all these good resolutions, she seized the scrap of paper on which Edmund had begun writing, as a treasure. Reading with the tenderest emotion these words, "My very dear Fanny, you must do me the favour to accept", she locked it up with the chain, as the dearest part of the gift. It was the only thing approaching to a letter which she had ever received from him; she might never receive another. Two lines more prized had never fallen from the pen of the most distinguished author. There was a felicity in the flow of the first four words, in the arrangement of "My very dear Fanny," which she could have looked at for ever.
Having regulated her thoughts and comforted her feelings by this happy mixture of reason and weakness, she was able to go down to her aunt Bertram without any apparent want of spirits.
Thursday, the day of enjoyment, came; and opened with more kindness to Fanny than such self-willed, unmanageable days often volunteer, for after breakfast a very friendly note was brought from Mr. Crawford to William, stating that as he found himself obliged to go to London for a few days, he hoped that William would accept a place in his carriage, and dine with him at the Admiral's. The proposal was a very pleasant one to William, who enjoyed the idea of travelling post with four horses, and with such an agreeable friend.
Fanny, from a different motive, was pleased; for the original plan was that William should go up by the mail, which would not have allowed him an hour's rest; and though Mr. Crawford's offer would rob her of hours of his company, she was happy to have William spared the fatigue of such a journey.
Sir Thomas approved for another reason. His nephew's introduction to Admiral Crawford might be of service. Upon the whole, it was a very joyous note.
As for the ball, Fanny had too many fears to have half the enjoyment in anticipation which she ought to have had, or must have been supposed to have by the many young ladies looking forward to the same event. Miss Price was now to make her first appearance, and must be regarded as the queen of the evening. Who could be happier than Miss Price?
But Miss Price had not been brought up to the trade of coming out into society; and had she known in what light this ball was considered respecting her, it would very much have lessened her comfort by increasing her fears of doing wrong and being looked at. To dance without being observed, to have strength and partners for about half the evening, to dance a little with Edmund, and not a great deal with Mr. Crawford, to see William enjoy himself, and keep away from her aunt Norris, was the height of her ambition.
William, determined to make this a day of thorough enjoyment, went out snipe-shooting; Edmund was at the Parsonage; and Fanny, left alone to bear the worrying of Mrs. Norris, was worn down at last to think everything an evil belonging to the ball. When sent off to dress, she moved languidly and felt incapable of happiness.
As she walked slowly upstairs she thought of yesterday; at about the same hour she had returned from the Parsonage, and found Edmund in the East room. "Suppose I were to find him there again to-day!" said she to herself, in a fond indulgence of fancy.
"Fanny," said a voice at that moment. Starting and looking up, she saw, across the lobby, Edmund himself. He came towards her. "You look tired and fagged, Fanny. You have been walking too far."
"No, I have not been out."
"Then you have had fatigues within doors, which are worse."
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br /> Fanny, not liking to complain, made no answer; and though he looked at her with his usual kindness, she believed he had soon ceased to think of her. He did not appear in spirits. They proceeded upstairs together.
"I come from Dr. Grant's," said Edmund presently. "You may guess my errand there, Fanny." And he looked so conscious, that Fanny could think but of one errand, which turned her too sick for speech. "I wished to engage Miss Crawford for the two first dances," was the explanation that followed, and brought Fanny to life again, enabling her to utter something like an inquiry as to the result.
"Yes," he answered, "she is engaged to dance with me; but" (with a smile that did not sit easy) "she says it is the last time that she ever will. I think, I hope, she is not serious. She never has danced with a clergyman, she says, and she never will. For my own sake, I could wish there had been no ball just at—I mean not this very day; to-morrow I leave home."
Fanny struggled for speech, and said, "I am very sorry that anything has occurred to distress you. This ought to be a day of pleasure. My uncle meant it so."
"Oh yes, yes! and it will be a day of pleasure. I am only vexed for a moment. But, Fanny," stopping her, taking her hand, and speaking low and seriously, "you know what all this means. You could tell me, perhaps better than I could tell you, how and why I am vexed. Let me talk to you a little. You are a kind, kind listener. I have been pained by her manner this morning. I know her disposition to be as sweet and faultless as your own, but the influence of her former companions makes her seem—gives to her conversation sometimes a tinge of wrong. She does not think evil, but she speaks it in playfulness; and though I know it to be playfulness, it grieves me to the soul."
"The effect of education," said Fanny gently.
"Yes, that uncle and aunt! They have injured the finest mind; for sometimes, Fanny, I own to you, it appears as if the mind itself was tainted."
Fanny, after a moment, said, "If you only want me as a listener, cousin, I will be as useful as I can; but I am not qualified for an adviser."
"You need not be afraid. Fanny. It is a subject on which I should never ask advice. I only want to talk to you."
"One thing more. Excuse the liberty; but take care how you talk to me. Do not tell me anything now, which afterwards you may be sorry for. The time may come—"
The colour rushed into her cheeks as she spoke.
"Dearest Fanny!" cried Edmund, pressing her hand to his lips with almost as much warmth as if it had been Miss Crawford's, "you are all considerate thought! But it is unnecessary. The time will never come. I begin to think it most improbable: the chances grow less and less; and even if it should, there will be nothing to be remembered that we need be afraid of, for I can never be ashamed of my own scruples. You are the only being upon earth to whom I should say what I have said; but you have always known my opinion of her; you can bear me witness, Fanny, that I have never been blinded. How many a time have we talked over her little errors! You need not fear me; I have almost given up every serious idea of her; but I must be a blockhead indeed, if I could think of your kindness and sympathy without the sincerest gratitude."
He had said enough to shake the experience of eighteen. He had said enough to give Fanny some happier feelings than she had lately known, and with a brighter look, she answered, "I cannot be afraid of hearing anything you wish to say. Tell me whatever you like."
The appearance of a housemaid prevented any farther conversation. For Fanny’s comfort it was concluded, perhaps, at the happiest moment: had he been able to talk another five minutes, he might have talked away all Miss Crawford's faults.
But as it was, they parted on his side with grateful affection, and with some very precious sensations on hers. Now everything was smiling. William's good fortune returned again to her mind. The ball, too—such an evening of pleasure before her! It was now a real animation; and she began to dress for it with the happy flutter which belongs to a ball.
All went well: she did not dislike her own looks; and when she came to the necklaces again, her good fortune seemed complete, for the one given her by Miss Crawford would not go through the ring of the cross. Edmund’s therefore, must be worn; and having, with delightful feelings, joined the chain and the cross—those memorials of the two most beloved of her heart—and put them round her neck, she was able to resolve on wearing Miss Crawford's necklace too. She acknowledged it to be right. The necklace really looked very well; and Fanny left her room at last, comfortably satisfied.
Her aunt Bertram had recollected her on this occasion with an unusual degree of wakefulness. It had occurred to her, unprompted, that Fanny might be glad of better help than the upper housemaid's, and she actually sent her own maid to assist her; too late, of course, to be of any use. Mrs. Chapman had just reached the attic floor, when Miss Price came out of her room completely dressed; but Fanny felt her aunt's attention almost as much as Lady Bertram or Mrs. Chapman could do themselves.
CHAPTER 28