Edmund had determined that if Fanny did not choose to speak of it, her situation should never be touched on by him; but after a day or two his father induced him to change his mind, and try what his influence might do for his friend.
An early day was fixed for the Crawfords' departure; and Sir Thomas thought it might be as well to make one more effort for the young man before he left Mansfield, so that his vows of unshaken attachment might have as much hope to sustain them as possible.
Sir Thomas was most anxious for the perfection of Mr. Crawford's character in that point. He wished him to be a model of constancy; and fancied the best means of ensuring it would be by not testing him too long.
Edmund was willingly persuaded to talk to Fanny; he wanted to know her feelings. She used to consult him in every difficulty, and he loved her too well to bear to be denied her confidence now. Whom else had she to open her heart to? Fanny estranged from him, silent and reserved, was an unnatural state of things; a state which he must break through. When she was walking alone in the shrubbery, therefore, he joined her.
"I am come to walk with you, Fanny," said he, drawing her arm within his. "It is a long while since we have had a comfortable walk together."
She assented rather by look than word. Her spirits were low.
"But, Fanny," he added, "in order to have a comfortable walk, you must talk to me. I know you have something on your mind. Am I to hear of it from everybody but Fanny herself?"
Fanny, at once agitated and dejected, replied, "If you hear of it from everybody, cousin, there can be nothing for me to tell."
"Not of facts, perhaps; but of feelings, Fanny. No one but you can tell me them. I do not mean to press you. I had thought it might be a relief."
"I am afraid we think too differently for me to find any relief in talking of what I feel."
"Do you suppose that we think differently? I have no idea of it. I dare say that our opinions are as much alike as ever: to the point—I consider Crawford's proposals as most desirable, if you could return his affection. It is natural that all your family should wish you could return it; but as you cannot, you have done exactly as you ought in refusing him. Can there be any disagreement between us here?"
"Oh no! But I thought you blamed me. I thought you were against me. This is such a comfort!"
"How could you possibly suppose me against you? How could you imagine me an advocate for marriage without love? Were I careless in general on such matters, how could you imagine me so where your happiness was at stake?"
"My uncle thought me wrong, and I knew he had been talking to you."
"As far as you have gone, Fanny, I think you perfectly right. I may be sorry, I may be surprised—but I think you perfectly right. You did not love him; nothing could have justified your accepting him."
Fanny had not felt so comfortable for days and days.
"So far your conduct has been faultless. But the matter does not end here. Crawford's is no common attachment; he perseveres, with the hope of winning your regard. This, we know, must be a work of time. But" (with an affectionate smile) "let him succeed at last, Fanny. You have proved yourself upright, prove yourself grateful and tender-hearted; and then you will be the perfect model of a woman."
"Oh! never, never, never! he never will succeed with me." She spoke with a warmth which quite astonished Edmund, and she blushed when she saw his look, and heard him reply, "Never! Fanny!—so very determined! This is not like your rational self."
"I mean," she cried, sorrowfully correcting herself, "that I think I never shall, as far as the future can be answered for; I think I never shall return his regard."
"I must hope better things. I am aware that the man who means to make you love him must have very uphill work, for there are all your early attachments in battle array; and before he can get your heart he has to unfasten it from all the holds which are tightened by the very idea of separation. I know that the apprehension of being forced to quit Mansfield will be arming you against him. I wish Crawford had known you as well as I do, Fanny. Between us, I think we should have won you. My theoretical and his practical knowledge together could not have failed. I must hope, however, that time will give him his reward. I cannot suppose that you have no wish to love him—the natural wish of gratitude. You must have some feeling of that sort. You must be sorry for your own indifference."
"We are so totally unlike," said Fanny, avoiding a direct answer, "we are so very, very different in all our inclinations, that I consider it as quite impossible we should ever be happy together, even if I could like him. There never were two people more dissimilar. We have not one taste in common. We should be miserable."
"You are mistaken, Fanny. The dissimilarity is not so strong. You have moral and literary tastes in common. You have both warm hearts and benevolent feelings; and, Fanny, who that heard him read, and saw you listen to Shakespeare the other night, will think you unfitted as companions? There is a difference in your temperaments, I allow. He is lively, you are serious; but so much the better: his spirits will support yours. It is your nature to be easily dejected. His cheerfulness will counteract this; and his pleasantness and gaiety will be a constant support to you. Your being so far unlike, Fanny, is rather a favourable circumstance. I am convinced that in marriage, the temperaments had better be unlike, for opposites bring happiness. I exclude extremes, of course; but a very close resemblance in all points is the likeliest way to produce an extreme. A gentle counteraction is the best safeguard of manners and conduct."
Full well could Fanny guess where his thoughts were now: Miss Crawford's power was all returning. He had been speaking of her cheerfully ever since coming home. His avoiding her was quite at an end. He had dined at the Parsonage only the preceding day.
After leaving him to his happier thoughts for some minutes, she said, "It is not merely in temperament that I consider him as totally unsuited to myself; but there is something which I object to still more. I cannot approve his character. I have not thought well of him from the time of the play. I then saw him behaving so very improperly and unfeelingly by poor Mr. Rushworth, not seeming to care how he hurt him, and paying attentions to my cousin Maria, which—in short, I received an impression which will never be got over."
"My dear Fanny," replied Edmund, scarcely hearing her to the end, "let us not, any of us, be judged by that period of general folly. That is a time which I hate to recollect. Maria was wrong, Crawford was wrong, we were all wrong together; but none so wrong as myself. Compared with me, all the rest were blameless. I was playing the fool with my eyes open."
"I do think that Mr. Rushworth was sometimes very jealous."
"Very possibly. No wonder. Nothing could be more improper than the whole business. I am shocked whenever I think that Maria could be capable of it."
"Before the play, I am much mistaken if Julia did not think he was paying her attentions."
"Julia! I have heard before from some one of his being in love with Julia; but I could never see anything of it. And, Fanny, though I hope I do justice to my sisters' good qualities, I think it very possible that they might desire to be admired by Crawford, and might show that desire more unguardedly than was perfectly prudent. They were fond of his society; and with such encouragement, a man like Crawford, lively, and it may be, a little unthinking, might be led on to—there could be nothing very striking, because it is clear that his heart was reserved for you. And I must say, that its being for you has raised him in my opinion. It shows he understands the blessing of domestic happiness. It proves him unspoilt by his uncle. It proves him everything that I used to wish to believe him, and feared he was not."
"I am persuaded that he does not think as he ought, on serious subjects."
"Say, rather, that he has not thought at all upon serious subjects. How could it be otherwise, with such an adviser? Crawford's feelings, I acknowledge, have been too much his guides. Happily, those feelings have generally been good. You will supply the rest; and a most fortunate man he is to attach himsel
f to such a woman, firm in her principles yet with gentleness of character. He will make you happy, Fanny; but you will make him everything."
"I would not engage in such a charge," cried Fanny, shrinking; "in such high responsibility!"
"As usual, believing yourself unequal to anything! Well, though I may not be able to persuade you to feel differently, I confess myself sincerely anxious that you may be persuaded. Next to your happiness, Fanny, his has the first claim on me. You are aware of my having no common interest in Crawford."
Fanny was too well aware of it to say anything; and they walked on together in silence. Edmund first began again—
"I was very much pleased by her manner of speaking of it yesterday, because I had not been certain of her seeing everything in so just a light. I knew she was very fond of you; but I was afraid of her not seeing your worth to her brother, and of her regretting that he had not fixed on some woman of fortune. But she spoke of you, Fanny, just as she ought. She desires the connexion as warmly as your uncle or myself. We had a long talk about it. I had not been in the room five minutes before she introduced the subject with all that openness of heart and spirit which are so much a part of herself. Mrs. Grant laughed at her for her rapidity."
"Was Mrs. Grant in the room, then?"
"Yes, I found the two sisters together."
"It is above a week since I saw Miss Crawford."
"Yes, she laments it; yet owns it may have been best. You will see her, however, before she goes. She is very angry with you, Fanny; you must be prepared for that. She calls herself very angry, but you can imagine her anger. It is the disappointment of a sister, who thinks her brother has a right to everything he may wish for. She is hurt, as you would be for William; but she loves and esteems you with all her heart."
"I knew she would be very angry with me."
"My dearest Fanny," cried Edmund, pressing her arm closer, "do not let the idea of her anger distress you. It is anger to be talked of rather than felt. Her heart is made for love and kindness, not for resentment. I wish you could have heard her praise you; I wish you could have seen her face, when she said that you should be Henry's wife."
"And Mrs. Grant, did she speak; was she there all the time?"
"Yes, she agreed with her sister. That you could refuse such a man as Henry Crawford seems more than they can understand. I said what I could for you; but in good truth, you must prove yourself to be in your senses as soon as you can by a different conduct; nothing else will satisfy them. But this is teasing you. I have done. Do not turn away."
"I should have thought," said Fanny, after a pause of recollection and exertion, "that every woman must have felt the possibility of a man's not being loved by some one of her sex at least, let him be ever so generally agreeable. Let him have all the perfections in the world, I think it ought not to be set down as certain that a man must be acceptable to every woman he may happen to like himself. But, even supposing it is so, how was I to be prepared to meet Mr Crawford with any feeling like his own? He took me wholly by surprise. I had no idea that his behaviour to me before had any meaning. In my situation, it would have been vanity to be forming expectations of Mr. Crawford. How, then, was I to be—to be in love with him, the moment he said he was with me? How was I to have an attachment at his service, as soon as it was asked for?"
"My dear Fanny, now I have the truth; and most worthy of you are such feelings. You have given exactly the explanation which I ventured to make for you to your friend and Mrs. Grant. I told them that you were, of all people, the one over whom habit had most power and novelty least; and that the very novelty of Crawford's addresses was against him: that you could tolerate nothing that you were not used to. Miss Crawford made us laugh by her plans of encouragement for her brother. She meant to urge him to persevere in the hope of being loved in time, and of having his addresses most kindly received at the end of about ten years' happy marriage."
Fanny could with difficulty give the smile that was here asked for. Her feelings were all in revolt. She feared she had been saying too much, and overacting the caution which she had been fancying necessary; and in guarding against one evil, was laying herself open to another. To have Miss Crawford's liveliness repeated to her at such a moment, and on such a subject, was a bitter aggravation.
Edmund saw weariness and distress in her face, and immediately resolved to not mention the name of Crawford again, unless in connexion with what must be agreeable to her. So he observed—"They go on Monday. You are sure, therefore, of seeing your friend either to-morrow or Sunday. They really go on Monday; and I was almost persuaded to stay at Lessingby till that very day! What a difference it might have made! Those five or six days more at Lessingby might have been felt all my life."
"You spent your time pleasantly there?"
"Yes; they were all very pleasant. I doubt their finding me so. I took uneasiness with me, and there was no getting rid of it till I was in Mansfield again."
"The Miss Owens—you liked them, did not you?"
"Yes, very well. Pleasant, good-humoured, unaffected girls. But I am spoilt, Fanny, for common female society. Good-humoured, unaffected girls will not do for a man who has been used to intelligent women. They are two distinct orders of being. You and Miss Crawford have made me too exacting."
Still, however, Fanny was oppressed and wearied; he saw it in her looks, it could not be talked away; and attempting it no more, he led her, with the kind authority of a guardian, into the house.
CHAPTER 36