Chapter XXIX

by Jane Austen

　　The ball was over, and the breakfast was soon over too;the last kiss was given, and William was gone.Mr. Crawford had, as he foretold, been very punctual,and short and pleasant had been the meal.After seeing William to the last moment, Fanny walkedback to the breakfast-room with a very saddened heartto grieve over the melancholy change; and there her unclekindly left her to cry in peace, conceiving, perhaps,that the deserted chair of each young man might exerciseher tender enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold porkbones and mustard in William's plate might but divideher feelings with the broken egg-shells in Mr. Crawford's.She sat and cried _con_ _amore_ as her uncle intended,but it was _con_ _amore_ fraternal and no other.William was gone, and she now felt as if she had wastedhalf his visit in idle cares and selfish solicitudesunconnected with him.Fanny's disposition was such that she could never even thinkof her aunt Norris in the meagreness and cheerlessnessof her own small house, without reproaching herselffor some little want of attention to her when they hadbeen last together; much less could her feelings acquither of having done and said and thought everythingby William that was due to him for a whole fortnight.It was a heavy, melancholy day. Soon after the secondbreakfast, Edmund bade them good-bye for a week, and mountedhis horse for Peterborough, and then all were gone.Nothing remained of last night but remembrances, which shehad nobody to share in. She talked to her aunt Bertram--she must talk to somebody of the ball; but her aunt had seenso little of what had passed, and had so little curiosity,that it was heavy work. Lady Bertram was not certain ofanybody's dress or anybody's place at supper but her own."She could not recollect what it was that she had heardabout one of the Miss Maddoxes, or what it was that LadyPrescott had noticed in Fanny: she was not sure whetherColonel Harrison had been talking of Mr. Crawford or ofWilliam when he said he was the finest young man in the room--somebody had whispered something to her; she had forgotto ask Sir Thomas what it could be." And these were herlongest speeches and clearest communications: the restwas only a languid "Yes, yes; very well; did you? did he?I did not see _that_; I should not know one from the other."This was very bad. It was only better than Mrs. Norris'ssharp answers would have been; but she being gone homewith all the supernumerary jellies to nurse a sick maid,there was peace and good-humour in their little party,though it could not boast much beside.The evening was heavy like the day. "I cannot thinkwhat is the matter with me," said Lady Bertram,when the tea-things were removed. "I feel quite stupid.It must be sitting up so late last night. Fanny, you mustdo something to keep me awake. I cannot work.Fetch the cards; I feel so very stupid."The cards were brought, and Fanny played at cribbagewith her aunt till bedtime; and as Sir Thomas was readingto himself, no sounds were heard in the room for the nexttwo hours beyond the reckonings of the game--"And _that_makes thirty-one; four in hand and eight in crib.You are to deal, ma'am; shall I deal for you?" Fanny thoughtand thought again of the difference which twenty-four hourshad made in that room, and all that part of the house.Last night it had been hope and smiles, bustle and motion,noise and brilliancy, in the drawing-room, and out ofthe drawing-room, and everywhere. Now it was languor,and all but solitude.A good night's rest improved her spirits. She could thinkof William the next day more cheerfully; and as the morningafforded her an opportunity of talking over Thursday nightwith Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, in a very handsome style,with all the heightenings of imagination, and all thelaughs of playfulness which are so essential to the shadeof a departed ball, she could afterwards bring her mindwithout much effort into its everyday state, and easilyconform to the tranquillity of the present quiet week.They were indeed a smaller party than she had everknown there for a whole day together, and _he_ was goneon whom the comfort and cheerfulness of every familymeeting and every meal chiefly depended. But this mustbe learned to be endured. He would soon be always gone;and she was thankful that she could now sit in the same roomwith her uncle, hear his voice, receive his questions,and even answer them, without such wretched feelingsas she had formerly known."We miss our two young men," was Sir Thomas's observationon both the first and second day, as they formed theirvery reduced circle after dinner; and in considerationof Fanny's swimming eyes, nothing more was saidon the first day than to drink their good health;but on the second it led to something farther.William was kindly commended and his promotion hoped for."And there is no reason to suppose," added Sir Thomas,"but that his visits to us may now be tolerably frequent.As to Edmund, we must learn to do without him.This will be the last winter of his belonging to us,as he has done.""Yes," said Lady Bertram, "but I wish he was not going away.They are all going away, I think. I wish they would stayat home."This wish was levelled principally at Julia, who hadjust applied for permission to go to town with Maria;and as Sir Thomas thought it best for each daughter that thepermission should be granted, Lady Bertram, though in her owngood-nature she would not have prevented it, was lamentingthe change it made in the prospect of Julia's return,which would otherwise have taken place about this time.A great deal of good sense followed on Sir Thomas's side,tending to reconcile his wife to the arrangement.Everything that a considerate parent _ought_ to feel wasadvanced for her use; and everything that an affectionatemother _must_ feel in promoting her children's enjoymentwas attributed to her nature. Lady Bertram agreed to itall with a calm "Yes"; and at the end of a quarter ofan hour's silent consideration spontaneously observed,"Sir Thomas, I have been thinking--and I am very glad wetook Fanny as we did, for now the others are away we feelthe good of it."Sir Thomas immediately improved this compliment by adding,"Very true. We shew Fanny what a good girl we thinkher by praising her to her face, she is now a veryvaluable companion. If we have been kind to _her_,she is now quite as necessary to _us_.""Yes," said Lady Bertram presently; "and it is a comfortto think that we shall always have _her_."Sir Thomas paused, half smiled, glanced at his niece,and then gravely replied, "She will never leave us, I hope,till invited to some other home that may reasonably promiseher greater happiness than she knows here.""And _that_ is not very likely to be, Sir Thomas.Who should invite her? Maria might be very glad to see herat Sotherton now and then, but she would not think of askingher to live there; and I am sure she is better off here;and besides, I cannot do without her."The week which passed so quietly and peaceably at thegreat house in Mansfield had a very different character atthe Parsonage. To the young lady, at least, in each family,it brought very different feelings. What was tranquillityand comfort to Fanny was tediousness and vexation to Mary.Something arose from difference of disposition and habit:one so easily satisfied, the other so unused to endure;but still more might be imputed to differenceof circumstances. In some points of interest theywere exactly opposed to each other. To Fanny's mind,Edmund's absence was really, in its cause and its tendency,a relief. To Mary it was every way painful. She feltthe want of his society every day, almost every hour,and was too much in want of it to derive anything butirritation from considering the object for which he went.He could not have devised anything more likely to raisehis consequence than this week's absence, occurring asit did at the very time of her brother's going away,of William Price's going too, and completing the sortof general break-up of a party which had been so animated.She felt it keenly. They were now a miserable trio,confined within doors by a series of rain and snow,with nothing to do and no variety to hope for. Angry asshe was with Edmund for adhering to his own notions,and acting on them in defiance of her (and she had beenso angry that they had hardly parted friends at the ball),she could not help thinking of him continually when absent,dwelling on his merit and affection, and longing againfor the almost daily meetings they lately had. His absencewas unnecessarily long. He should not have planned suchan absence--he should not have left home for a week,when her own departure from Mansfield was so near.Then she began to blame herself. She wished she had notspoken so warmly in their last conversation. She was afraidshe had used some strong, some contemptuous expressionsin speaking of the clergy, and that should not have been.It was ill-bred; it was wrong. She wished such words unsaidwith all her heart.Her vexation did not end with the week. All this was bad,but she had still more to feel when Friday came roundagain and brought no Edmund; when Saturday came and stillno Edmund; and when, through the slight communicationwith the other family which Sunday produced, she learnedthat he had actually written home to defer his return,having promised to remain some days longer with his friend.If she had felt impatience and regret before--if she hadbeen sorry for what she said, and feared its too strongeffect on him--she now felt and feared it all tenfold more.She had, moreover, to contend with one disagreeable emotionentirely new to her--jealousy. His friend Mr. Owen had sisters;he might find them attractive. But, at any rate, his stayingaway at a time when, according to all preceding plans,she was to remove to London, meant something that she couldnot bear. Had Henry returned, as he talked of doing,at the end of three or four days, she should now havebeen leaving Mansfield. It became absolutely necessaryfor her to get to Fanny and try to learn something more.She could not live any longer in such solitary wretchedness;and she made her way to the Park, through difficultiesof walking which she had deemed unconquerable a week before,for the chance of hearing a little in addition, for thesake of at least hearing his name.The first half-hour was lost, for Fanny and Lady Bertramwere together, and unless she had Fanny to herself she couldhope for nothing. But at last Lady Bertram left the room,and then almost immediately Miss Crawford thus began,with a voice as well regulated as she could--"And how do_you_ like your cousin Edmund's staying away so long?Being the only young person at home, I consider _you_as the greatest sufferer. You must miss him. Does hisstaying longer surprise you?""I do not know," said Fanny hesitatingly. "Yes; I hadnot particularly expected it.""Perhaps he will always stay longer than he talks of.It is the general way all young men do.""He did not, the only time he went to see Mr. Owen before.""He finds the house more agreeable _now_. He is a very--a very pleasing young man himself, and I cannot helpbeing rather concerned at not seeing him again before Igo to London, as will now undoubtedly be the case.I am looking for Henry every day, and as soon as hecomes there will be nothing to detain me at Mansfield.I should like to have seen him once more, I confess.But you must give my compliments to him. Yes; I think it mustbe compliments. Is not there a something wanted, Miss Price,in our language--a something between compliments and--and love--to suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we havehad together? So many months' acquaintance! But complimentsmay be sufficient here. Was his letter a long one?Does he give you much account of what he is doing?Is it Christmas gaieties that he is staying for?""I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle;but I believe it was very short; indeed I am sure it wasbut a few lines. All that I heard was that his friendhad pressed him to stay longer, and that he had agreedto do so. A _few_ days longer, or _some_ days longer;I am not quite sure which.""Oh! if he wrote to his father; but I thought it mighthave been to Lady Bertram or you. But if he wrote tohis father, no wonder he was concise. Who could writechat to Sir Thomas? If he had written to you, there wouldhave been more particulars. You would have heard ofballs and parties. He would have sent you a descriptionof everything and everybody. How many Miss Owens are there?""Three grown up.""Are they musical?""I do not at all know. I never heard.""That is the first question, you know," said Miss Crawford,trying to appear gay and unconcerned, "which everywoman who plays herself is sure to ask about another.But it is very foolish to ask questions about anyyoung ladies--about any three sisters just grown up;for one knows, without being told, exactly what they are:all very accomplished and pleasing, and one very pretty.There is a beauty in every family; it is a regular thing.Two play on the pianoforte, and one on the harp;and all sing, or would sing if they were taught,or sing all the better for not being taught; or somethinglike it.""I know nothing of the Miss Owens," said Fanny calmly."You know nothing and you care less, as people say.Never did tone express indifference plainer. Indeed, how canone care for those one has never seen? Well, when yourcousin comes back, he will find Mansfield very quiet;all the noisy ones gone, your brother and mine and myselfI do not like the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant now the timedraws near. She does not like my going."Fanny felt obliged to speak. "'You cannot doubt your beingmissed by many," said she. "You will be very much missed."Miss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if wanting to hearor see more, and then laughingly said, "Oh yes! missedas every noisy evil is missed when it is taken away;that is, there is a great difference felt. But I amnot fishing; don't compliment me. If I _am_ missed,it will appear. I may be discovered by those who wantto see me. I shall not be in any doubtful, or distant,or unapproachable region."Now Fanny could not bring herself to speak, and MissCrawford was disappointed; for she had hoped to hearsome pleasant assurance of her power from one who shethought must know, and her spirits were clouded again."The Miss Owens," said she, soon afterwards; "suppose youwere to have one of the Miss Owens settled at Thornton Lacey;how should you like it? Stranger things have happened.I dare say they are trying for it. And they are quitein the light, for it would be a very pretty establishmentfor them. I do not at all wonder or blame them. It iseverybody's duty to do as well for themselves as they can.Sir Thomas Bertram's son is somebody; and now he is in theirown line. Their father is a clergyman, and their brotheris a clergyman, and they are all clergymen together.He is their lawful property; he fairly belongs to them.You don't speak, Fanny; Miss Price, you don't speak.But honestly now, do not you rather expect it than otherwise?""No," said Fanny stoutly, "I do not expect it at all.""Not at all!" cried Miss Crawford with alacrity."I wonder at that. But I dare say you know exactly--I always imagine you are--perhaps you do not think himlikely to marry at all--or not at present.""No, I do not," said Fanny softly, hoping she did not erreither in the belief or the acknowledgment of it.Her companion looked at her keenly; and gathering greaterspirit from the blush soon produced from such a look,only said, "He is best off as he is," and turned the subject.