Mansfield Park (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (26 page)

To this nest of comforts Fanny now walked down to try its influence on an agitated, doubting spirit—to see if by looking at Edmund’s profile she could catch any of his counsel, or by giving air to her geraniums she might inhale a breeze of mental strength herself. But she had more than fears of her own perseverance to remove: she had begun to feel undecided as to what she
ought to do;
and as she walked round the room her doubts were increasing. Was she
right
in refusing what was so warmly asked, so strongly wished for? What might be so essential to a scheme on which some of those to whom she owed the greatest complaisance had set their hearts? Was it not ill-nature—selfishness—and a fear of exposing herself? And would Edmund’s judgment, would his persuasion of Sir Thomas’s disapprobation of the whole, be enough to justify her in a determined denial in spite of all the rest? It would be so horrible to her to act, that she was inclined to suspect the truth and purity of her own scruples; and as she looked around her, the claims of her cousins to being obliged were strengthened by the sight of present upon present that she had received from them. The table between the windows was covered with work-boxes and netting-boxes which had been given her at different times, principally by Tom; and she grew bewildered as to the amount of the debt which all these kind remembrances produced. A tap at the door roused her in the midst of this attempt to find her way to her duty, 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, for a few minutes?’ said he.

‘Yes, certainly.’

‘I want to consult—I want your opinion.’

‘My opinion!’ she cried, shrinking from such a compliment, highly as it gratified her.

‘Yes, your advice and opinion. 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, to complete the business, are going to ask the help of a young man very slightly known to any of us. This is the end of all the privacy and propriety which was talked about at first. I know no harm of Charles Maddox; but the excessive intimacy which must spring from his being admitted among us in this manner is highly objectionable, the
more than
intimacy—the familiarity. I cannot think of it with any patience; and it does appear to me an evil of such magnitude as must,
if possible,
be prevented. Do not you see it in the same light?’

‘Yes; but what can be done? Your brother is so determined?’

‘There is but
one
thing to be done, Fanny. I must take Anhalt myself. I am well aware that nothing else will quiet Tom.’

Fanny could not answer him.

‘It is not at all what I like,’ he continued. ‘No man can like being driven into the
appearance
of such inconsistency. After being known to oppose the scheme from the beginning, there is absurdity in the face of my joining them
now,
when they are exceeding their first plan in every respect; but I can think of no other alternative. Can you, Fanny?’

‘No,’ said Fanny, slowly, ‘not immediately—but—’

‘But what? I see your judgment is not with me. Think it a little over. Perhaps you are not so much aware as I am of the mischief that
may,
of the unpleasantness that
must,
arise from a young man’s being received in this manner—domesticated among us—authorised to come at all hours—and placed suddenly on a footing which must do away all restraints. To think only of the license which every rehearsal must tend to create. It is all very bad! Put yourself in Miss Crawford’s place, Fanny. Consider what it would be to act Amelia with a stranger. She has a right to be felt for, because she evidently feels for herself. I heard enough of what she said to you last night, to understand her unwillingness to be acting with a stranger; and as she probably engaged in the part with different expectations—perhaps without considering the subject enough to know what was likely to be—it would be ungenerous, it would be really wrong to expose her to it. Her feelings ought to be respected. 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 have resolved against, and what you are known to 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, however, triumph there certainly will be, and I must brave it. But if I can be the means of restraining the publicity of the business, of limiting the exhibition, of concentrating our folly, I shall be well repaid. As I am now, I have no influence, I can do nothing: I have offended them, and they will not hear me; but when I have put them in good-humour by this concession, I am not without hopes of persuading them to confine the representation within a much smaller circle than they are now in the high road for. This will be a material gain. My object is to confine it 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 approbation. Can you mention any other measure by which I have a chance of doing equal good?’

‘No, I cannot think of anything else.’

‘Give me your approbation, then, Fanny. I am not comfortable without it.’

‘Oh, cousin.’

‘If you are against me, I ought to distrust myself—and yet—But it is absolutely impossible to let Tom go on in this way, riding about the country in quest of anybody who can be persuaded to act—no matter whom: the look of a gentleman is to be enough. I thought
you
would have entered more into Miss Crawford’s feelings.’

‘No doubt she will be very glad. 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. It gave her a very strong claim on my goodwill.’

‘She
was
very kind, indeed, and I am glad to have her spared—’

She could not finish the generous effusion. Her conscience stopped her in the middle, but Edmund was satisfied.

‘I shall walk down immediately after breakfast,’ said he, ‘and am sure of giving pleasure there. And now, dear Fanny, I will not interrupt you any longer. You want to be reading. But I could not be easy till I had spoken to you, and come to a decision. Sleeping or waking, my head has been full of this matter all night. It is an evil—but I am certainly making it less than it might be. If Tom is up, I shall go to him 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 with such unanimity.
You
in the meanwhile will be taking a trip into China, I suppose. How does Lord Macartney go on?—(opening a volume on the table and then taking up some others). And here are Crabbe’s
Tales,
and the
Idler,
at hand 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 of acting, and sit comfortably down to your table. But do not stay here to be cold.’

He went; but there was no reading, no China, no composure for Fanny. He had told her the most extraordinary, the most inconceivable, the most unwelcome news; and she could think of nothing else. To be acting! After all his objections—objections so just and so public! After all that she had heard him say, and seen him look, and known him to be feeling. 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 and alarms as to her own conduct, which had previously distressed her, and which had all slept while she listened to him, were become of little consequence now. This deeper anxiety swallowed them up. Things should take their course; she cared not how it ended. Her cousins might attack, but could hardly tease her. She was beyond their reach; and if at last obliged to yield—no matter—it was all misery
now.

I
t was, indeed, a triumphant day to Mr. Bertram and Maria. Such a victory over Edmund’s discretion had been beyond their hopes, and was most delightful. There was no longer anything to disturb them in their darling project, and they congratulated each other in private on the jealous weakness to which they attributed the change, with all the glee of feelings gratified in every way. Edmund might still look grave, and say he did not like the scheme in general, and must disapprove the play in particular; their point was gained; he was to act, and he was driven to it by the force of selfish inclinations only. Edmund had descended from that moral elevation which he had maintained before, and they were both as much the better as the happier for the descent.

They behaved very well, however,
to him
on the occasion, betraying no exultation beyond the lines about the corners of the mouth, and seemed to think it as great an escape to be quit of the intrusion of Charles Maddox, as if they had been forced into admitting him against their inclination. ‘To have it quite in their own family circle was what they had particularly wished. A stranger among them would have been the destruction of all their comfort’; and when Edmund, pursuing that idea, gave a hint of his hope as to the limitation of the audience, they were ready, in the complaisance of the moment, to promise anything. It was all good-humour and encouragement. Mrs. Norris offered to contrive his dress, Mr. Yates assured him that Anhalt’s last scene with the Baron admitted a good deal of action and emphasis, and Mr. Rushworth undertook to count his speeches.

‘Perhaps,’ said Tom,
‘Fanny
may be more disposed to oblige us now. Perhaps you may persuade
her.’

‘No, she is quite determined. She certainly will not act.’

‘Oh, very well.’ And not another word was said; but Fanny felt herself again in danger, and her indifference to the danger was beginning to fail her already.

There were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage than at the Park on this change in Edmund; Miss Crawford looked very lovely in hers, and entered with such an instantaneous renewal of cheerfulness into the whole affair, as could have but one effect on him. ‘He was certainly right in respecting such feelings; he was glad he had determined on it.’ And the morning wore away in satisfactions very sweet, if not very sound. One advantage resulted from it to Fanny; at the earnest request of Miss Crawford, Mrs. Grant had, with her usual good-humour, agreed to undertake the part for which Fanny had been wanted; and this was all that occurred to gladden
her
heart during the day; and even this, when imparted by Edmund, brought a pang with it, for it was Miss Crawford to whom she was obliged, it was Miss Crawford whose kind exertions were to excite her gratitude, and whose merit in making them was spoken of with a glow of admiration. She was safe; but peace and safety were unconnected here. Her mind had been never further from peace. She could not feel that she had done wrong herself, but she was disquieted in every other way. Her heart and her judgment were equally against Edmund’s decision: she could not acquit his unsteadiness; and his happiness under it made her wretched. She was full of jealousy and agitation. Miss Crawford came with looks of gaiety which seemed an insult, with friendly expressions towards herself which she could hardly answer calmly. Everybody around her was gay and busy, prosperous and important; each had their object of interest, their part, their dress, their favourite scene, their friends and confederates—all were finding employment in consultations and comparisons, or diversion in the playful conceits they suggested. She alone was sad and insignificant; she had no share in anything; she might go or stay, she might be in the midst of their noise, or retreat from it to the solitude of the east room, without being seen or missed. She could almost think anything would have been preferable to this. Mrs. Grant was of consequence ;
her
good-nature had honourable mention—her taste and her time were considered—her presence was wanted—she was sought for, and attended, and praised; and Fanny was at first in some danger of envying her the character she had accepted. But reflection brought better feelings, and showed her that Mrs. Grant was entitled to respect, which could never have belonged to
her;
and that had she received even the greatest, she could never have been easy in joining a scheme which, considering only her uncle, she must condemn altogether.

Fanny’s heart was not absolutely the only saddened one amongst them, as she soon began to acknowledge herself Julia was a sufferer, too, though not quite so blamelessly.

Henry Crawford had trifled with her feelings: but she had very long allowed and even sought his attentions, with a jealousy of her sister so reasonable as ought to have been their cure; and now that the conviction of his preference for Maria had been forced on her, she submitted to it without any alarm for Maria’s situation, or any endeavour at rational tranquillity for herself. She either sat in gloomy silence, wrapt in such gravity as nothing could subdue, no curiosity touch, no wit amuse; or, allowing the attentions of Mr. Yates, was talking with forced gaiety to him alone, and ridiculing the acting of the others.