Chapter XVI

by Jane Austen

　　It was not in Miss Crawford's power to talk Fanny into anyreal forgetfulness of what had passed. When the eveningwas over, she went to bed full of it, her nerves stillagitated by the shock of such an attack from her cousin Tom,so public and so persevered in, and her spirits sinkingunder her aunt's unkind reflection and reproach.To be called into notice in such a manner, to hear that itwas but the prelude to something so infinitely worse,to be told that she must do what was so impossible as to act;and then to have the charge of obstinacy and ingratitudefollow it, enforced with such a hint at the dependenceof her situation, had been too distressing at the timeto make the remembrance when she was alone much less so,especially with the superadded dread of what themorrow might produce in continuation of the subject.Miss Crawford had protected her only for the time;and if she were applied to again among themselves with allthe authoritative urgency that Tom and Maria were capable of,and Edmund perhaps away, what should she do? She fellasleep before she could answer the question, and foundit quite as puzzling when she awoke the next morning.The little white attic, which had continued her sleeping-roomever since her first entering the family, proving incompetentto suggest any reply, she had recourse, as soon as shewas dressed, to another apartment more spacious and moremeet for walking about in and thinking, and of which shehad now for some time been almost equally mistress.It had been their school-room; so called till the MissBertrams would not allow it to be called so any longer,and inhabited as such to a later period. There MissLee had lived, and there they had read and written,and talked and laughed, till within the last three years,when she had quitted them. The room had then become useless,and for some time was quite deserted, except by Fanny,when she visited her plants, or wanted one of the books,which she was still glad to keep there, from the deficiencyof space and accommodation in her little chamber above:but gradually, as her value for the comforts of it increased,she had added to her possessions, and spent more of hertime there; and having nothing to oppose her, had sonaturally and so artlessly worked herself into it, that itwas now generally admitted to be hers. The East room,as it had been called ever since Maria Bertram was sixteen,was now considered Fanny's, almost as decidedly as thewhite attic: the smallness of the one making the use ofthe other so evidently reasonable that the Miss Bertrams,with every superiority in their own apartments which theirown sense of superiority could demand, were entirelyapproving it; and Mrs. Norris, having stipulated for therenever being a fire in it on Fanny's account, was tolerablyresigned to her having the use of what nobody else wanted,though the terms in which she sometimes spoke of theindulgence seemed to imply that it was the best room inthe house.The aspect was so favourable that even without a fireit was habitable in many an early spring and lateautumn morning to such a willing mind as Fanny's;and while there was a gleam of sunshine she hoped notto be driven from it entirely, even when winter came.The comfort of it in her hours of leisure was extreme.She could go there after anything unpleasant below,and find immediate consolation in some pursuit,or some train of thought at hand. Her plants, her books--of which she had been a collector from the first hourof her commanding a shilling--her writing-desk, and herworks of charity and ingenuity, were all within her reach;or if indisposed for employment, if nothing but musingwould do, she could scarcely see an object in that roomwhich had not an interesting remembrance connected with it.Everything was a friend, or bore her thoughts to a friend;and though there had been sometimes much of sufferingto her; though her motives had often been misunderstood,her feelings disregarded, and her comprehension undervalued;though she had known the pains of tyranny, of ridicule,and neglect, yet almost every recurrence of either had ledto something consolatory: her aunt Bertram had spokenfor her, or Miss Lee had been encouraging, or, what was yetmore frequent or more dear, Edmund had been her championand her friend: he had supported her cause or explainedher meaning, he had told her not to cry, or had given hersome proof of affection which made her tears delightful;and the whole was now so blended together, so harmonisedby distance, that every former affliction had its charm.The room was most dear to her, and she would not havechanged its furniture for the handsomest in the house,though what had been originally plain had suffered allthe ill-usage of children; and its greatest eleganciesand ornaments were a faded footstool of Julia's work,too ill done for the drawing-room, three transparencies,made in a rage for transparencies, for the three lowerpanes of one window, where Tintern Abbey held its stationbetween a cave in Italy and a moonlight lake in Cumberland,a collection of family profiles, thought unworthy of beinganywhere else, over the mantelpiece, and by their side,and pinned against the wall, a small sketch of a shipsent four years ago from the Mediterranean by William,with H.M.S. Antwerp at the bottom, in letters as tall as themainmast.To this nest of comforts Fanny now walked down to tryits influence on an agitated, doubting spirit, to seeif by looking at Edmund's profile she could catch any ofhis counsel, or by giving air to her geraniums she mightinhale a breeze of mental strength herself. But she hadmore than fears of her own perseverance to remove: she hadbegun 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 essentialto a scheme on which some of those to whom she owed thegreatest complaisance had set their hearts? Was it notill-nature, selfishness, and a fear of exposing herself?And would Edmund's judgment, would his persuasion of SirThomas's disapprobation of the whole, be enough to justifyher in a determined denial in spite of all the rest?It would be so horrible to her to act that she was inclinedto suspect the truth and purity of her own scruples;and as she looked around her, the claims of her cousinsto being obliged were strengthened by the sight ofpresent upon present that she had received from them.The table between the windows was covered with work-boxesand netting-boxes which had been given her at different times,principally by Tom; and she grew bewildered as to the amountof the debt which all these kind remembrances produced.A tap at the door roused her in the midst of this attemptto find her way to her duty, and her gentle "Come in"was answered by the appearance of one, before whom all herdoubts were wont to be laid. Her eyes brightened at thesight 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 thehelp of a young man very slightly known to any of us.This is the end of all the privacy and propriety which wastalked about at first. I know no harm of Charles Maddox;but the excessive intimacy which must spring from his beingadmitted among us in this manner is highly objectionable,the _more_ than intimacy--the familiarity. I cannot thinkof it with any patience; and it does appear to me an evilof 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 musttake Anhalt myself. I am well aware that nothing elsewill quiet Tom."Fanny could not answer him."It is not at all what I like," he continued. "No man canlike 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 ita little over. Perhaps you are not so much aware as I amof 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 awayall restraints. To think only of the licence which everyrehearsal 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 evidentlyfeels for herself. I heard enough of what she said to youlast night to understand her unwillingness to be actingwith a stranger; and as she probably engaged in the partwith different expectations--perhaps without consideringthe subject enough to know what was likely to be--it would be ungenerous, it would be really wrong toexpose 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 seeyou drawn in to do what you had resolved against, and whatyou 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 theysee how infamously I act. But, however, triumph therecertainly will be, and I must brave it. But if I can bethe 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 willnot hear me; but when I have put them in good-humourby this concession, I am not without hopes of persuadingthem to confine the representation within a muchsmaller circle than they are now in the high road for.This will be a material gain. My object is to confineit to Mrs. Rushworth and the Grants. Will not this beworth gaining?""Yes, it will be a great point.""But still it has not your approbation. Can you mentionany other measure by which I have a chance of doingequal good?""No, I cannot think of anything else.""Give me your approbation, then, Fanny. I am notcomfortable without it.""Oh, cousin!""If you are against me, I ought to distrust myself,and yet--But it is absolutely impossible to let Tomgo on in this way, riding about the country in questof 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 reliefto her," said Fanny, trying for greater warmth of manner."She never appeared more amiable than in her behaviourto you last night. It gave her a very strong claimon my goodwill.""She _was_ very kind, indeed, and I am glad to have herspared"...She could not finish the generous effusion. Her consciencestopt 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 headhas 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 highgood-humour at the prospect of acting the fool togetherwith such unanimity. _You_, in the meanwhile, will be takinga trip into China, I suppose. How does Lord Macartneygo on?"--opening a volume on the table and then taking upsome 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 assoon as I am gone, you will empty your head of all thisnonsense 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 composurefor 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 previouslydistressed her, and which had all slept while she listenedto him, were become of little consequence now. This deeperanxiety 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 allmisery now.