The conference was neither so short nor so conclusive as the lady had designed. The gentleman was not so easily satisfied. He had vanity, which strongly inclined him to think she did love him, though she might not know it herself; and which, secondly, when forced at last to admit that she did know her own present feelings, convinced him that he should be able in time to make those feelings what he wished.
He was very much in love; and it was a love which made her affection appear of greater consequence because it was withheld, and determined him to have the glory, as well as the felicity, of forcing her to love him.
He would not despair: he would not desist. He knew her to have all the worth that could justify the warmest hopes of lasting happiness; her conduct at this time, by showing the delicacy of her character, heightened all his wishes, and confirmed his resolutions. He knew not that he had a pre-engaged heart to attack. Of that he had no suspicion. He considered her rather as one who had never thought on the subject; who had been guarded by youth; whose modesty had prevented her from understanding his attentions, and who was overpowered by the suddenness of a situation which she had never imagined.
Must it not follow that, of course, he should succeed? He believed it fully. Love such as his, in a man like himself, must be returned; and he had so much delight in the idea of obliging her to love him in a very short time, that her not loving him now was scarcely regretted. A little difficulty to be overcome was no evil to Henry Crawford. He had been apt to gain hearts too easily. His situation was new and animating.
To Fanny, however, who had known too much opposition all her life to find any charm in it, all this was unintelligible. She found that he did mean to persevere; but how he could was beyond her understanding. She told him that she did not love him, could not love him, was sure she never should love him; that a change was quite impossible; that the subject was most painful to her; that she must entreat him never to mention it again. She added that in her opinion they were totally unfitted for each other by nature, education, and habit. All this she had said; yet this was not enough, for he immediately denied there being anything uncongenial in their characters, and positively declared, that he would still love, and hope!
Fanny knew her own meaning, but was no judge of her own manner. Her manner was incurably gentle; and she was not aware how much it concealed the sternness of her purpose. Her diffidence and softness made every expression of indifference seem to be giving nearly as much pain to herself as to him. Mr. Crawford was no longer the Mr. Crawford who, as the clandestine, insidious, treacherous admirer of Maria Bertram, had been her abhorrence. He was now the Mr. Crawford who was addressing herself with ardent, disinterested love; whose feelings were apparently honourable and upright; who was describing and describing again his affection, proving that he sought her for her gentleness and her goodness; and to complete the whole, he was now the Mr. Crawford who had procured William's promotion!
Here were claims which must affect her! She might have disdained him in the grounds of Sotherton, or the theatre at Mansfield Park; but now she must be courteous and compassionate. She must feel gratitude. Her refusal was so expressive of obligation and concern, that Crawford might well question its truth; and he was not so irrational as Fanny considered him, in his professions of persevering attachment which closed the interview.
Now she was angry. Some resentment did arise at a perseverance so selfish and ungenerous. Here was again the want of delicacy and regard for others which had formerly so struck her; a gross want of feeling and humanity where his own pleasure was concerned. Had her own affections been free, he never could have engaged them.
So thought Fanny, in sober sadness, as she sat musing over her luxury of a fire upstairs: wondering at what was yet to come, and with nothing clear but the certainty of her being never able to love Mr. Crawford.
On the morrow, Sir Thomas received Mr. Crawford’s account of what had passed. His first feeling was disappointment: he had thought that an hour's entreaty from Crawford could not have worked so little change on a gentle girl like Fanny; but there was comfort in the sanguine perseverance of the lover.
Sir Thomas omitted no civility or kindness that might assist the plan. Mr. Crawford's steadiness was honoured, and Fanny was praised, and the connexion was still the most desirable in the world. At Mansfield Park Mr. Crawford would always be welcome. Everything was said that could encourage, and the gentlemen parted the best of friends.
Satisfied that the cause was now on a hopeful footing, Sir Thomas resolved not to press his niece farther. He believed kindness might be the best way of working. The forbearance of her family on the point might be their surest means of forwarding it.
Accordingly, he took the first opportunity of saying to her, with gravity, "Well, Fanny, I have seen Mr. Crawford again, and learnt from him exactly how matters stand. He is a most extraordinary young man, and whatever happens, you must feel that you have created an attachment of no common character; though, young as you are, and little acquainted with the unsteady nature of love, as it generally exists, you cannot be struck as I am by a perseverance of this sort."
"Indeed, sir," said Fanny, "I feel most undeservedly honoured; but I am so perfectly convinced, and I have told him so, that it never will be in my power—"
"My dear," interrupted Sir Thomas, "there is no need for this. Your feelings are as well known to me as my wishes must be to you. There is nothing more to be said. From this hour the subject is never to be revived between us. You will have nothing to fear: you cannot suppose me capable of trying to persuade you to marry against your will. Your happiness and advantage are all that I have in view, and nothing is required of you but to bear with Mr. Crawford's endeavours to convince you. He proceeds at his own risk. You are on safe ground. I have engaged for your seeing him whenever he calls, as you might have done had nothing occurred. You will see him with the rest of us, in the same manner. He leaves Northamptonshire so soon, that even this slight sacrifice cannot be often demanded. And now, my dear Fanny, this subject is closed between us."
The promised departure was all that Fanny could think of with much satisfaction. Her uncle, though kind, had married a daughter to Mr. Rushworth: romantic delicacy was certainly not to be expected from him. She must do her duty, and trust that time might make her duty easier.
She could not, though only eighteen, suppose Mr. Crawford's attachment would hold out for ever. How much time she might, in her own fancy, allot for its dominion, is another concern. It would not be fair to inquire into a young lady's exact estimate of her own perfections.
In spite of his intended silence, Sir Thomas found himself once more obliged to mention the subject to his niece, to prepare her for its being imparted to her aunts; a measure which he would have avoided, if possible, but which became necessary from Mr. Crawford’s opposition to any secrecy. He had no idea of concealment. It was all known at the Parsonage, where he loved to talk over the future with his sisters: it would gratify him to have enlightened witnesses of the progress of his success. When Sir Thomas understood this, he felt he must tell his own wife and sister-in-law about the business without delay; though, on Fanny's account, he dreaded the effect of the communication to Mrs. Norris almost as much as Fanny herself.
Mrs. Norris, however, relieved him. He pressed for the strictest forbearance and silence towards their niece; she did observe it. She only looked her increased ill-will. Angry she was: bitterly angry; but she was more angry with Fanny for having received such an offer than for refusing it. It was an affront to Julia, who ought to have been Mr. Crawford's choice; and, independently of that, she disliked Fanny, because she had neglected her; and she would have grudged such an elevation to one whom she had been always trying to depress.
Lady Bertram took it differently. She had been a prosperous beauty all her life; and beauty and wealth were all that excited her respect. To know Fanny was sought in marriage by a man of fortune, raised her, therefore, very much in her opinion. By convincing her that Fanny was very pret
ty, which she had doubted before, and that she would be advantageously married, it made her feel a sort of credit in having her for a niece.
"Well, Fanny," said she, with extraordinary animation, when they were alone together; "Well, Fanny, I have had a very agreeable surprise this morning. I must just speak of it once, and then I shall have done. I give you joy, my dear niece. Humph, we certainly are a handsome family!"
Fanny coloured. "My dear aunt, you cannot wish me to marry, I am sure; for you would miss me, should not you?"
"No, my dear, I should not think of missing you, when such an offer as this comes in your way. You must be aware, Fanny, that it is every young woman's duty to accept such a very unexceptionable offer as this."
This was almost the only piece of advice which Fanny had ever received from her aunt. It silenced her. However, Lady Bertram was quite talkative.
"I will tell you what, Fanny," said she, "I am sure he fell in love with you at the ball. You did look remarkably well. Everybody said so. And you know you had Chapman to help you to dress. I am very glad I sent Chapman to you. I shall tell Sir Thomas that I am sure it was done that evening." And still pursuing her cheerful thoughts, she added, "And I will tell you what, Fanny: the next time Pug has a litter, you shall have a puppy."
CHAPTER 34