Chapter XLVII

by Jane Austen

　　It had been a miserable party, each of the three believingthemselves most miserable. Mrs. Norris, however, as mostattached to Maria, was really the greatest sufferer.Maria was her first favourite, the dearest of all;the match had been her own contriving, as she had beenwont with such pride of heart to feel and say, and thisconclusion of it almost overpowered her.She was an altered creature, quieted, stupefied, indifferent toeverything that passed. The being left with her sisterand nephew, and all the house under her care, had beenan advantage entirely thrown away; she had been unableto direct or dictate, or even fancy herself useful.When really touched by affliction, her active powershad been all benumbed; and neither Lady Bertram nor Tomhad received from her the smallest support or attemptat support. She had done no more for them than theyhad done for each other. They had been all solitary,helpless, and forlorn alike; and now the arrival of theothers only established her superiority in wretchedness.Her companions were relieved, but there was no goodfor _her_. Edmund was almost as welcome to his brotheras Fanny to her aunt; but Mrs. Norris, instead of havingcomfort from either, was but the more irritated by thesight of the person whom, in the blindness of her anger,she could have charged as the daemon of the piece.Had Fanny accepted Mr. Crawford this could not have happened.Susan too was a grievance. She had not spirits to noticeher in more than a few repulsive looks, but she felther as a spy, and an intruder, and an indigent niece,and everything most odious. By her other aunt, Susan wasreceived with quiet kindness. Lady Bertram could notgive her much time, or many words, but she felt her,as Fanny's sister, to have a claim at Mansfield,and was ready to kiss and like her; and Susan was morethan satisfied, for she came perfectly aware that nothingbut ill-humour was to be expected from aunt Norris;and was so provided with happiness, so strong in thatbest of blessings, an escape from many certain evils,that she could have stood against a great deal moreindifference than she met with from the others.She was now left a good deal to herself, to get acquaintedwith the house and grounds as she could, and spent herdays very happily in so doing, while those who mightotherwise have attended to her were shut up, or whollyoccupied each with the person quite dependent on them,at this time, for everything like comfort; Edmund tryingto bury his own feelings in exertions for the reliefof his brother's, and Fanny devoted to her aunt Bertram,returning to every former office with more than former zeal,and thinking she could never do enough for one who seemedso much to want her.To talk over the dreadful business with Fanny, talk and lament,was all Lady Bertram's consolation. To be listened to andborne with, and hear the voice of kindness and sympathyin return, was everything that could be done for her.To be otherwise comforted was out of the question.The case admitted of no comfort. Lady Bertram did notthink deeply, but, guided by Sir Thomas, she thoughtjustly on all important points; and she saw, therefore,in all its enormity, what had happened, and neitherendeavoured herself, nor required Fanny to advise her,to think little of guilt and infamy.Her affections were not acute, nor was her mind tenacious.After a time, Fanny found it not impossible to directher thoughts to other subjects, and revive some interestin the usual occupations; but whenever Lady Bertram _was_fixed on the event, she could see it only in one light,as comprehending the loss of a daughter, and a disgracenever to be wiped off.Fanny learnt from her all the particulars which hadyet transpired. Her aunt was no very methodical narrator,but with the help of some letters to and from Sir Thomas,and what she already knew herself, and could reasonablycombine, she was soon able to understand quite as muchas she wished of the circumstances attending the story.Mrs. Rushworth had gone, for the Easter holidays,to Twickenham, with a family whom she had just grownintimate with: a family of lively, agreeable manners,and probably of morals and discretion to suit, for to _their_house Mr. Crawford had constant access at all times.His having been in the same neighbourhood Fanny already knew.Mr. Rushworth had been gone at this time to Bath, to passa few days with his mother, and bring her back to town,and Maria was with these friends without any restraint,without even Julia; for Julia had removed from Wimpole Streettwo or three weeks before, on a visit to some relationsof Sir Thomas; a removal which her father and mother werenow disposed to attribute to some view of convenienceon Mr. Yates's account. Very soon after the Rushworths'return to Wimpole Street, Sir Thomas had received aletter from an old and most particular friend in London,who hearing and witnessing a good deal to alarm himin that quarter, wrote to recommend Sir Thomas's comingto London himself, and using his influence with hisdaughter to put an end to the intimacy which was alreadyexposing her to unpleasant remarks, and evidently makingMr. Rushworth uneasy.Sir Thomas was preparing to act upon this letter, withoutcommunicating its contents to any creature at Mansfield,when it was followed by another, sent express from thesame friend, to break to him the almost desperate situationin which affairs then stood with the young people.Mrs. Rushworth had left her husband's house: Mr. Rushworthhad been in great anger and distress to _him_ (Mr. Harding)for his advice; Mr. Harding feared there had been _at__least_ very flagrant indiscretion. The maidservantof Mrs. Rushworth, senior, threatened alarmingly. He wasdoing all in his power to quiet everything, with the hopeof Mrs. Rushworth's return, but was so much counteractedin Wimpole Street by the influence of Mr. Rushworth's mother,that the worst consequences might be apprehended.This dreadful communication could not be kept from the restof the family. Sir Thomas set off, Edmund would go with him,and the others had been left in a state of wretchedness,inferior only to what followed the receipt of the nextletters from London. Everything was by that time publicbeyond a hope. The servant of Mrs. Rushworth, the mother,had exposure in her power, and supported by her mistress,was not to be silenced. The two ladies, even in the shorttime they had been together, had disagreed; and the bitternessof the elder against her daughter-in-law might perhaps arisealmost as much from the personal disrespect with whichshe had herself been treated as from sensibility for her son.However that might be, she was unmanageable. But had shebeen less obstinate, or of less weight with her son,who was always guided by the last speaker, by the personwho could get hold of and shut him up, the case wouldstill have been hopeless, for Mrs. Rushworth did notappear again, and there was every reason to concludeher to be concealed somewhere with Mr. Crawford,who had quitted his uncle's house, as for a journey,on the very day of her absenting herself.Sir Thomas, however, remained yet a little longer in town,in the hope of discovering and snatching her from farther vice,though all was lost on the side of character._His_ present state Fanny could hardly bear to think of.There was but one of his children who was not at this timea source of misery to him. Tom's complaints had beengreatly heightened by the shock of his sister's conduct,and his recovery so much thrown back by it, that evenLady Bertram had been struck by the difference, and allher alarms were regularly sent off to her husband;and Julia's elopement, the additional blow which had methim on his arrival in London, though its force had beendeadened at the moment, must, she knew, be sorely felt.She saw that it was. His letters expressed how much hedeplored it. Under any circumstances it would have beenan unwelcome alliance; but to have it so clandestinelyformed, and such a period chosen for its completion,placed Julia's feelings in a most unfavourable light,and severely aggravated the folly of her choice.He called it a bad thing, done in the worst manner,and at the worst time; and though Julia was yet as morepardonable than Maria as folly than vice, he could notbut regard the step she had taken as opening the worstprobabilities of a conclusion hereafter like her sister's.Such was his opinion of the set into which she hadthrown herself.Fanny felt for him most acutely. He could have no comfortbut in Edmund. Every other child must be racking his heart.His displeasure against herself she trusted, reasoningdifferently from Mrs. Norris, would now be done away._She_ should be justified. Mr. Crawford would havefully acquitted her conduct in refusing him; but this,though most material to herself, would be poor consolationto Sir Thomas. Her uncle's displeasure was terrible to her;but what could her justification or her gratitude andattachment do for him? His stay must be on Edmund alone.She was mistaken, however, in supposing that Edmund gavehis father no present pain. It was of a much less poignantnature than what the others excited; but Sir Thomaswas considering his happiness as very deeply involvedin the offence of his sister and friend; cut off by it,as he must be, from the woman whom he had been pursuingwith undoubted attachment and strong probability of success;and who, in everything but this despicable brother,would have been so eligible a connexion. He was awareof what Edmund must be suffering on his own behalf,in addition to all the rest, when they were in town:he had seen or conjectured his feelings; and, having reasonto think that one interview with Miss Crawford had taken place,from which Edmund derived only increased distress, had beenas anxious on that account as on others to get him out of town,and had engaged him in taking Fanny home to her aunt,with a view to his relief and benefit, no less than theirs.Fanny was not in the secret of her uncle's feelings,Sir Thomas not in the secret of Miss Crawford's character.Had he been privy to her conversation with his son, he wouldnot have wished her to belong to him, though her twentythousand pounds had been forty.That Edmund must be for ever divided from Miss Crawford didnot admit of a doubt with Fanny; and yet, till she knewthat he felt the same, her own conviction was insufficient.She thought he did, but she wanted to be assured of it.If he would now speak to her with the unreserve whichhad sometimes been too much for her before, it wouldbe most consoling; but _that_ she found was not to be.She seldom saw him: never alone. He probably avoidedbeing alone with her. What was to be inferred? That hisjudgment submitted to all his own peculiar and bitter shareof this family affliction, but that it was too keenlyfelt to be a subject of the slightest communication.This must be his state. He yielded, but it was withagonies which did not admit of speech. Long, long wouldit be ere Miss Crawford's name passed his lips again,or she could hope for a renewal of such confidentialintercourse as had been.It _was_ long. They reached Mansfield on Thursday,and it was not till Sunday evening that Edmund beganto talk to her on the subject. Sitting with her onSunday evening--a wet Sunday evening--the very time ofall others when, if a friend is at hand, the heart mustbe opened, and everything told; no one else in the room,except his mother, who, after hearing an affecting sermon,had cried herself to sleep, it was impossible not to speak;and so, with the usual beginnings, hardly to be tracedas to what came first, and the usual declaration thatif she would listen to him for a few minutes, he shouldbe very brief, and certainly never tax her kindnessin the same way again; she need not fear a repetition;it would be a subject prohibited entirely: he enteredupon the luxury of relating circumstances and sensationsof the first interest to himself, to one of whoseaffectionate sympathy he was quite convincedHow Fanny listened, with what curiosity and concern,what pain and what delight, how the agitation of hisvoice was watched, and how carefully her own eyes werefixed on any object but himself, may be imagined.The opening was alarming. He had seen Miss Crawford.He had been invited to see her. He had received a notefrom Lady Stornaway to beg him to call; and regardingit as what was meant to be the last, last interviewof friendship, and investing her with all the feelingsof shame and wretchedness which Crawford's sister oughtto have known, he had gone to her in such a state of mind,so softened, so devoted, as made it for a few momentsimpossible to Fanny's fears that it should be the last.But as he proceeded in his story, these fears were over.She had met him, he said, with a serious--certainly a serious--even an agitated air; but before he had been ableto speak one intelligible sentence, she had introducedthe subject in a manner which he owned had shocked him."'I heard you were in town,' said she; 'I wanted to see you.Let us talk over this sad business. What can equal the follyof our two relations?' I could not answer, but I believemy looks spoke. She felt reproved. Sometimes how quickto feel! With a graver look and voice she then added,'I do not mean to defend Henry at your sister's expense.'So she began, but how she went on, Fanny, is not fit,is hardly fit to be repeated to you. I cannot recallall her words. I would not dwell upon them if I could.Their substance was great anger at the _folly_ of each.She reprobated her brother's folly in being drawn onby a woman whom he had never cared for, to do what mustlose him the woman he adored; but still more the folly ofpoor Maria, in sacrificing such a situation, plunging intosuch difficulties, under the idea of being really lovedby a man who had long ago made his indifference clear.Guess what I must have felt. To hear the woman whom--no harsher name than folly given! So voluntarily,so freely, so coolly to canvass it! No reluctance,no horror, no feminine, shall I say, no modest loathings?This is what the world does. For where, Fanny, shall wefind a woman whom nature had so richly endowed? Spoilt,spoilt!"After a little reflection, he went on with a sortof desperate calmness. "I will tell you everything,and then have done for ever. She saw it only as folly,and that folly stamped only by exposure. The want ofcommon discretion, of caution: his going down to Richmondfor the whole time of her being at Twickenham; her puttingherself in the power of a servant; it was the detection,in short--oh, Fanny! it was the detection, not the offence,which she reprobated. It was the imprudence which hadbrought things to extremity, and obliged her brotherto give up every dearer plan in order to fly with her."He stopt. "And what," said Fanny (believing herselfrequired to speak), "what could you say?""Nothing, nothing to be understood. I was like a man stunned.She went on, began to talk of you; yes, then she beganto talk of you, regretting, as well she might, the lossof such a--. There she spoke very rationally. But shehas always done justice to you. 'He has thrown away,'said she, 'such a woman as he will never see again.She would have fixed him; she would have made him happyfor ever.' My dearest Fanny, I am giving you, I hope,more pleasure than pain by this retrospect of what mighthave been--but what never can be now. You do not wish meto be silent? If you do, give me but a look, a word, and Ihave done."No look or word was given."Thank God," said he. "We were all disposed to wonder,but it seems to have been the merciful appointmentof Providence that the heart which knew no guileshould not suffer. She spoke of you with high praiseand warm affection; yet, even here, there was alloy,a dash of evil; for in the midst of it she could exclaim,'Why would not she have him? It is all her fault.Simple girl! I shall never forgive her. Had she acceptedhim as she ought, they might now have been on the pointof marriage, and Henry would have been too happy and toobusy to want any other object. He would have takenno pains to be on terms with Mrs. Rushworth again.It would have all ended in a regular standing flirtation,in yearly meetings at Sotherton and Everingham.' Could youhave believed it possible? But the charm is broken.My eyes are opened.""Cruel!" said Fanny, "quite cruel. At such a moment togive way to gaiety, to speak with lightness, and to you!Absolute cruelty.""Cruelty, do you call it? We differ there. No, hers isnot a cruel nature. I do not consider her as meaningto wound my feelings. The evil lies yet deeper:in her total ignorance, unsuspiciousness of there beingsuch feelings; in a perversion of mind which made itnatural to her to treat the subject as she did. She wasspeaking only as she had been used to hear others speak,as she imagined everybody else would speak. Hers arenot faults of temper. She would not voluntarily giveunnecessary pain to any one, and though I may deceive myself,I cannot but think that for me, for my feelings, she would--Hers are faults of principle, Fanny; of blunted delicacyand a corrupted, vitiated mind. Perhaps it is best for me,since it leaves me so little to regret. Not so, however.Gladly would I submit to all the increased pain oflosing her, rather than have to think of her as I do.I told her so.""Did you?""Yes; when I left her I told her so.""How long were you together?""Five-and-twenty minutes. Well, she went on to say thatwhat remained now to be done was to bring about a marriagebetween them. She spoke of it, Fanny, with a steadiervoice than I can." He was obliged to pause more than onceas he continued. "'We must persuade Henry to marry her,'said she; 'and what with honour, and the certainty of havingshut himself out for ever from Fanny, I do not despairof it. Fanny he must give up. I do not think that even_he_ could now hope to succeed with one of her stamp,and therefore I hope we may find no insuperable difficulty.My influence, which is not small shall all go that way;and when once married, and properly supported by herown family, people of respectability as they are, she mayrecover her footing in society to a certain degree.In some circles, we know, she would never be admitted,but with good dinners, and large parties, there willalways be those who will be glad of her acquaintance;and there is, undoubtedly, more liberality and candouron those points than formerly. What I advise is,that your father be quiet. Do not let him injure his owncause by interference. Persuade him to let things taketheir course. If by any officious exertions of his,she is induced to leave Henry's protection, there will bemuch less chance of his marrying her than if she remainwith him. I know how he is likely to be influenced.Let Sir Thomas trust to his honour and compassion, and itmay all end well; but if he get his daughter away, it willbe destroying the chief hold.'"After repeating this, Edmund was so much affected that Fanny,watching him with silent, but most tender concern,was almost sorry that the subject had been enteredon at all. It was long before he could speak again.At last, "Now, Fanny," said he, "I shall soon have done.I have told you the substance of all that she said.As soon as I could speak, I replied that I had notsupposed it possible, coming in such a state of mindinto that house as I had done, that anything couldoccur to make me suffer more, but that she had beeninflicting deeper wounds in almost every sentence.That though I had, in the course of our acquaintance,been often sensible of some difference in our opinions,on points, too, of some moment, it had not entered myimagination to conceive the difference could be such as shehad now proved it. That the manner in which she treatedthe dreadful crime committed by her brother and my sister(with whom lay the greater seduction I pretended not to say),but the manner in which she spoke of the crime itself,giving it every reproach but the right; considering its illconsequences only as they were to be braved or overborneby a defiance of decency and impudence in wrong; and lastof all, and above all, recommending to us a compliance,a compromise, an acquiescence in the continuance of the sin,on the chance of a marriage which, thinking as I now thoughtof her brother, should rather be prevented than sought;all this together most grievously convinced me that I hadnever understood her before, and that, as far as relatedto mind, it had been the creature of my own imagination,not Miss Crawford, that I had been too apt to dwell onfor many months past. That, perhaps, it was best for me;I had less to regret in sacrificing a friendship, feelings,hopes which must, at any rate, have been torn from me now.And yet, that I must and would confess that, could Ihave restored her to what she had appeared to me before,I would infinitely prefer any increase of the painof parting, for the sake of carrying with me the right oftenderness and esteem. This is what I said, the purportof it; but, as you may imagine, not spoken so collectedlyor methodically as I have repeated it to you. She wasastonished, exceedingly astonished--more than astonished.I saw her change countenance. She turned extremely red.I imagined I saw a mixture of many feelings: a great,though short struggle; half a wish of yielding to truths,half a sense of shame, but habit, habit carried it.She would have laughed if she could. It was a sort of laugh,as she answered, 'A pretty good lecture, upon my word.Was it part of your last sermon? At this rate you willsoon reform everybody at Mansfield and Thornton Lacey;and when I hear of you next, it may be as a celebrated preacherin some great society of Methodists, or as a missionaryinto foreign parts.' She tried to speak carelessly,but she was not so careless as she wanted to appear.I only said in reply, that from my heart I wished her well,and earnestly hoped that she might soon learn to thinkmore justly, and not owe the most valuable knowledge wecould any of us acquire, the knowledge of ourselves and ofour duty, to the lessons of affliction, and immediatelyleft the room. I had gone a few steps, Fanny, when Iheard the door open behind me. 'Mr. Bertram,' said she.I looked back. 'Mr. Bertram,' said she, with a smile;but it was a smile ill-suited to the conversation thathad passed, a saucy playful smile, seeming to invitein order to subdue me; at least it appeared so to me.I resisted; it was the impulse of the moment to resist,and still walked on. I have since, sometimes, for a moment,regretted that I did not go back, but I know I was right,and such has been the end of our acquaintance. And whatan acquaintance has it been! How have I been deceived!Equally in brother and sister deceived! I thank you foryour patience, Fanny. This has been the greatest relief,and now we will have done."And such was Fanny's dependence on his words, that for fiveminutes she thought they _had_ done. Then, however, it allcame on again, or something very like it, and nothingless than Lady Bertram's rousing thoroughly up couldreally close such a conversation. Till that happened,they continued to talk of Miss Crawford alone, and how shehad attached him, and how delightful nature had made her,and how excellent she would have been, had she fallen intogood hands earlier. Fanny, now at liberty to speak openly,felt more than justified in adding to his knowledgeof her real character, by some hint of what share hisbrother's state of health might be supposed to have inher wish for a complete reconciliation. This was not anagreeable intimation. Nature resisted it for a while.It would have been a vast deal pleasanter to have hadher more disinterested in her attachment; but his vanitywas not of a strength to fight long against reason.He submitted to believe that Tom's illness had influenced her,only reserving for himself this consoling thought,that considering the many counteractions of opposing habits,she had certainly been _more_ attached to him than couldhave been expected, and for his sake been more neardoing right. Fanny thought exactly the same; and they werealso quite agreed in their opinion of the lasting effect,the indelible impression, which such a disappointmentmust make on his mind. Time would undoubtedly abatesomewhat of his sufferings, but still it was a sortof thing which he never could get entirely the better of;and as to his ever meeting with any other woman who could--it was too impossible to be named but with indignation.Fanny's friendship was all that he had to cling to.