by Jane Austen
'How differently we feel!' cried Fanny. 'To me, the sound of Mr. Bertram is so cold and nothing-meaning, so entirely without warmth or character! It just stands for a gentleman, and that's all. But there is nobleness in the name of Edmund. It is a name of heroism and renown; of kings, princes, and knights; and seems to breathe the spirit of chivalry and warm affections.'
'I grant you the name is good in itself, and Lord Edmund or Sir Edmund sounds delightfully; but sink it under the chill, the annihilation of a Mr., and Mr. Edmund is no more than Mr. John or Mr. Thomas. Well, shall we join and disappoint them of half their lecture upon sitting down out of doors at this time of year, by being up before they can begin?'
Edmund met them with particular pleasure. It was the first time of his seeing them together since the beginning of that better acquaintance which he had been hearing of with great satisfaction. A friendship between two so very dear to him was exactly what he could have wished; and to the credit of the lover's understanding be it stated, that he did not by any means consider Fanny as the only, or even as the greater, gainer by such a friendship.
'Well,' said Miss Crawford, 'and do not you scold us for our imprudence? What do you think we have been sitting down for but to be talked to about it, and entreated and supplicated never to do so again?'
'Perhaps I might have scolded,' said Edmund, 'if either of you had been sitting down alone; but while you do wrong together, I can overlook a great deal.'
'They cannot have been sitting long,' cried Mrs. Grant, 'for when I went up for my shawl I saw them from the staircase window, and then they were walking.'
'And really,' added Edmund, 'the day is so mild, that your sitting down for a few minutes can be hardly thought imprudent. Our weather must not always be judged by the calendar. We may sometimes take greater liberties in November than in May.'
'Upon my word,' cried Miss Crawford, 'you are two of the most disappointing and unfeeling kind friends I ever met with! There is no giving you a moment's uneasiness. You do not know how much we have been suffering, nor what chills we have felt! But I have long thought Mr. Bertram one of the worst subjects to work on, in any little manoeuvre against common sense, that a woman could be plagued with. I had very little hope of him from the first; but you, Mrs. Grant, my sister, my own sister, I think I had a right to alarm you a little.'
'Do not flatter yourself, my dearest Mary. You have not the smallest chance of moving me. I have my alarms, but they are quite in a different quarter; and if I could have altered the weather, you would have had a good sharp east wind blowing on you the whole time--for here are some of my plants which Robert will leave out because the nights are so mild, and I know the end of it will be, that we shall have a sudden change of weather, a hard frost setting in all at once, taking everybody (at least Robert) by surprise, and I shall lose every one; and what is worse, cook has just been telling me that the turkey, which I particularly wished not to be dressed till Sunday, because I know how much more Dr. Grant would enjoy it on Sunday after the fatigues of the day, will not keep beyond to-morrow. These are something like grievances, and make me think the weather most unseasonably close.'
'The sweets of housekeeping in a country village!' said Miss Crawford archly. 'Commend me to the nurseryman and the poulterer.'
'My dear child, commend Dr. Grant to the deanery of Westminster or St. Paul's, and I should be as glad of your nurseryman and poulterer as you could be. But we have no such people in Mansfield. What would you have me do?'
'Oh, you can do nothing but what you do already; be plagued very often, and never lose your temper.'
'Thank you--but there is no escaping these little vexations, Mary, live where we may; and when you are settled in town and I come to see you, I dare say I shall find you with yours, in spite of the nurseryman and the poulterer--or perhaps on their very account. Their remoteness and unpunctuality, or their exorbitant charges and frauds, will be drawing forth bitter lamentations.'
'I mean to be too rich to lament or to feel anything of the sort. A large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of. It certainly may secure all the myrtle and turkey part of it.'
'You intend to be very rich,' said Edmund, with a look which, to Fanny's eye, had a great deal of serious meaning.
'To be sure. Do not you? Do not we all?'
'I cannot intend anything which it must be so completely beyond my power to command. Miss Crawford may choose her degree of wealth. She has only to fix on her number of thousands a year, and there can be no doubt of their coming. My intentions are only not to be poor.'
'By moderation and economy, and bringing down your wants to your income, and all that. I understand you,--and a very proper plan it is for a person at your time of life, with such limited means and indifferent connections. What can you want but a decent maintenance? You have not much time before you; and your relations are in no situation to do anything for you, or to mortify you by the contrast of their own wealth and consequence. Be honest and poor, by all means--but I shall not envy you; I do not much think I shall even respect you. I have a much greater respect for those that are honest and rich.'
'Your degree of respect for honesty, rich or poor, is precisely what I have no manner of concern with. I do not mean to be poor. Poverty is exactly what I have determined against. Honesty, in the something between, in the middle state of worldly circumstances, is all that I am anxious for your not looking down on.'
'But I do look down upon it, if it might have been higher. I must look down upon anything contented with obscurity when it might rise to distinction.'
'But how may it rise? How may my honesty at least rise to any distinction?'
This was not so very easy a question to answer, and occasioned an 'Oh!' of some length from the fair lady before she could add, 'You ought to be in Parliament, or you should have gone into the army ten years ago.'
'That is not much to the purpose now; and as to my being in Parliament, I believe I must wait till there is an especial assembly for the representation of younger sons who have little to live on. No, Miss Crawford,' he added, in a more serious tone, 'there are distinctions which I should be miserable if I thought myself without any chance--absolutely without chance or possibility of obtaining--but they are of a different character.'
A look of consciousness as he spoke, and what seemed a consciousness of manner on Miss Crawford's side as she made some laughing answer, was sorrowful food for Fanny's observation; and finding herself quite unable to attend as she ought to Mrs. Grant, by whose side she was now following the others, she had nearly resolved on going home immediately, and only waited for courage to say so, when the sound of the great clock at Mansfield Park, striking three, made her feel that she had really been much longer absent than usual, and brought the previous self-inquiry of whether she should take her leave or not just then, and how, to a very speedy issue. With undoubting decision she directly began her adieus; and Edmund began at the same time to recollect that his mother had been inquiring for her, and that he had walked down to the Parsonage on purpose to bring her back.
Fanny's hurry increased, and, without in the least expecting Edmund's attendance, she would have hastened away alone; but the general pace was quickened, and they all accompanied her into the house, through which it was necessary to pass. Dr. Grant was in the vestibule, and as they stopped to speak to him, she found, from Edmund's manner, that he did mean to go with her. He too was taking leave. She could not but be thankful. In the moment of parting, Edmund was invited by Dr. Grant to eat his mutton with him the next day; and Fanny had barely time for an unpleasant feeling on the occasion, when Mrs. Grant, with sudden recollection, turned to her, and asked for the pleasure of her company too. This was so new an attention, so perfectly new a circumstance in the events of Fanny's life, that she was all surprise and embarrassment; and while stammering out her great obligation, and her 'but she did not suppose it would be in her power,' was looking at Edmund for his opinion and help. But Edmund, delighted w
ith her having such a happiness offered, and ascertaining with half a look and half a sentence that she had no objection but on her aunt's account, could not imagine that his mother would make any difficulty of sparing her, and therefore gave his decided open advice that the invitation should be accepted; and though Fanny would not venture, even on his encouragement, to such a flight of audacious independence, it was soon settled that, if nothing were heard to the contrary, Mrs. Grant might expect her.
'And you know what your dinner will be,' said Mrs. Grant, smiling--'the turkey--and I assure you a very fine one; for, my dear,' turning to her husband, 'cook insists upon the turkey's being dressed to-morrow.'
'Very well, very well,' cried Dr. Grant, 'all the better; I am glad to hear you have anything so good in the house. But Miss Price and Mr. Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their chance. We none of us want to hear the bill of fare. A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner, is all we have in view. A turkey or a goose, or a leg of mutton, or whatever you and your cook choose to give us.'
The two cousins walked home together; and, except in the immediate discussion of this engagement, which Edmund spoke of with the warmest satisfaction, as so particularly desirable for her in the intimacy which he saw with so much pleasure established, it was a silent walk; for, having finished that subject, he grew thoughtful and indisposed for any other.
CHAPTER XXIII
But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?' said Lady Bertram. 'How came she to think of asking Fanny?--Fanny never dines there, you know, in this sort of way. I cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not want to go. Fanny, you do not want to go, do you?'
'If you put such a question to her,' cried Edmund, preventing his cousin's speaking, 'Fanny will immediately say No; but I am sure, my dear mother, she would like to go; and I can see no reason why she should not.'
'I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her. She never did before. She used to ask your sisters now and then, but she never asked Fanny.'
'If you cannot do without me, ma'am----nny, in a self-denying tone.
'But my mother will have my father with her all the evening.'
'To be sure, so I shall.'
'Suppose you take my father's opinion, ma'am.'
'That's well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas as soon as he comes in, whether I can do without her.'
'As you please, ma'am, on that head; but I meant my father's opinion as to the propriety of the invitation's being accepted or not; and I think he will consider it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by Fanny, that being the first invitation it should be accepted.'
'I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very much surprised that Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all.'
There was nothing more to be said, or that could be said to any purpose, till Sir Thomas were present; but the subject, involving as it did her own evening's comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in Lady Bertram's mind, that half an hour afterwards on his looking in for a minute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room, she called him back again, when he had almost closed the door, with, 'Sir Thomas, stop a moment--I have something to say to you.'
Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising her voice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came back. Her story began; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear herself the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more than her nerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew--more anxious perhaps than she ought to be--for what was it after all whether she went or stayed?--but if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and at last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly submissive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It began, on Lady Bertram's part, with-'I have something to tell you that will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner.'
'Well?' said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise.
'Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?'
'She will be late,' said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; 'but what is your difficulty?'
Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his mother's story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, 'So strange! for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her.'
'But is not it very natural,' observed Edmund, 'that Mrs. Grant should wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister ?'
'Nothing can be more natural,' said Sir Thomas, after a short deliberation; 'nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything, in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant's showing civility to Miss Price, to Lady Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only surprise I can feel is, that this should be the first time of its being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional answer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that she must wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see no reason why she should be denied the indulgence.'
'But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?'
'Indeed I think you may.'
'She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here.'
'Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us, and I shall certainly be at home.'
'Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund.'
The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way to his own.
'Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go.'
'Thank you, I am so glad,' was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling, 'And yet, why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there to pain me?'
In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined out before; and though now going only half a mile and only to three people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor assistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings and directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to anybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very ill-humour, and seemed intent only on lessening her niece's pleasure, both present and future, as much as possible.
'Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention and indulgence! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to look upon it as something extraordinary : for I hope you are aware that there is no real occasion for your going into company in this sort of way, or ever dining out at all; and it is what you must not depend upon ever being repeated. Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is meant as any particular compliment to you; the compliment is intended to your uncle and aunt and me. Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due to us to take a little notice of you, or else it would never have come into her head, and you may be very certain that if your cousin Julia had been at home you would not have been asked at all.'
Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all Mrs. Grant's part of the favour, that Fanny, who found herself expected to speak, could only say that she was very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her, and that she was endeavouring to put her aunt's evening work in such a state as to prevent her being missed.
'Oh, depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you, or you would not be allowed to go. I shall be here, so you may be quite easy about your aunt. And I hope you will have a very agreeable day, and find it all mighty delightful. But I must observe, that five is the very awkwardest of all possible numbers to sit down to table; and I cannot but be surprised that such an elegant lady as Mrs. Grant should not contrive
better! And round their enormous great wide table, too, which fills up the room so dreadfully! Had the Doctor been contented to take my dining-table when I came away, as anybody in their senses would have done, instead of having that absurd new one of his own, which is wider, literally wider than the dinner-table here--how infinitely better it would have been! and how much more he would have been respected! for people are never respected when they step out of their proper sphere. Remember that, Fanny. Five, only five, to be sitting round that table! However, you will have dinner enough on it for ten, I daresay.'
Mrs. Norris fetched breath and went on again.
'The nonsense and folly of people's stepping out of their rank and trying to appear above themselves makes me think it right to give you a hint, Fanny, now that you are going into company without any of us; and I do beseech and entreat you not to be putting yourself forward, and talking and giving your opinion as if you were one of your cousins--as if you were dear Mrs. Rushworth or Julia. That will never do, believe me. Remember, wherever you are, you must be the lowest and last; and though Miss Crawford is in a manner at home at the Parsonage, you are not to be taking place of her. And as to coming away at night, you are to stay just as long as Edmund chooses. Leave him to settle that.'
'Yes, ma'am, I should not think of anything else.'
'And if it should rain,--which I think exceedingly likely, for I never saw it more threatening for a wet evening in my life,--you must manage as well as you can, and not be expecting the carriage to be sent for you. I certainly do not go home to-night, and, therefore, the carriage will not be out on my account; so you must make up your mind to what may happen, and take your things accordingly.'
Her niece thought it perfectly reasonable. She rated her own claims to comfort as low even as Mrs. Norris could; and when Sir Thomas soon afterwards, just opening the door, said, 'Fanny, at what time would you have the carriage come round?' she felt a degree of astonishment which made it impossible for her to speak.
'My dear Sir Thomas!' cried Mrs. Norris, red with anger, 'Fanny can walk.'
