Chapter XXVII

by Jane Austen

　　On reaching home Fanny went immediately upstairs todeposit this unexpected acquisition, this doubtful goodof a necklace, in some favourite box in the East room,which held all her smaller treasures; but on openingthe door, what was her surprise to find her cousin Edmundthere writing at the table! Such a sight having neveroccurred before, was almost as wonderful as it was welcome."Fanny," said he directly, leaving his seat and his pen,and meeting her with something in his hand, "I begyour pardon for being here. I came to look for you,and after waiting a little while in hope of your coming in,was making use of your inkstand to explain my errand.You will find the beginning of a note to yourself;but I can now speak my business, which is merely to begyour acceptance of this little trifle--a chain forWilliam's cross. You ought to have had it a week ago,but there has been a delay from my brother's notbeing in town by several days so soon as I expected;and I have only just now received it at Northampton.I hope you will like the chain itself, Fanny. I endeavouredto consult the simplicity of your taste; but, at any rate,I know you will be kind to my intentions, and consider it,as it really is, a token of the love of one of youroldest friends."And so saying, he was hurrying away, before Fanny,overpowered by a thousand feelings of pain and pleasure,could attempt to speak; but quickened by one sovereign wish,she then called out, "Oh! cousin, stop a moment,pray stop!"He turned back."I cannot attempt to thank you," she continued, in avery agitated manner; "thanks are out of the question.I feel much more than I can possibly express.Your goodness in thinking of me in such a way is beyond--""If that is all you have to say, Fanny" smiling and turningaway again."No, no, it is not. I want to consult you."Almost unconsciously she had now undone the parcel hehad just put into her hand, and seeing before her,in all the niceness of jewellers' packing, a plaingold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she could not helpbursting forth again, "Oh, this is beautiful indeed!This is the very thing, precisely what I wished for!This is the only ornament I have ever had a desire to possess.It will exactly suit my cross. They must and shall beworn together. It comes, too, in such an acceptable moment.Oh, cousin, you do not know how acceptable it is.""My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too much.I am most happy that you like the chain, and that itshould be here in time for to-morrow; but your thanks arefar beyond the occasion. Believe me, I have no pleasurein the world superior to that of contributing to yours.No, I can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete,so unalloyed. It is without a drawback."Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could havelived an hour without saying another word; but Edmund,after waiting a moment, obliged her to bring down hermind from its heavenly flight by saying, "But what is itthat you want to consult me about?"It was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestlylonging to return, and hoped to obtain his approbationof her doing. She gave the history of her recent visit,and now her raptures might well be over; for Edmund was sostruck with the circumstance, so delighted with what MissCrawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidenceof conduct between them, that Fanny could not but admitthe superior power of one pleasure over his own mind,though it might have its drawback. It was some timebefore she could get his attention to her plan, or anyanswer to her demand of his opinion: he was in a reverieof fond reflection, uttering only now and then a fewhalf-sentences of praise; but when he did awake and understand,he was very decided in opposing what she wished."Return the necklace! No, my dear Fanny, upon no account.It would be mortifying her severely. There can hardlybe a more unpleasant sensation than the having anythingreturned on our hands which we have given with a reasonablehope of its contributing to the comfort of a friend.Why should she lose a pleasure which she has shewn herselfso deserving of?""If it had been given to me in the first instance,"said Fanny, "I should not have thought of returning it;but being her brother's present, is not it fair to supposethat she would rather not part with it, when it isnot wanted?""She must not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable,at least: and its having been originally her brother'sgift makes no difference; for as she was not preventedfrom offering, nor you from taking it on that account,it ought not to prevent you from keeping it. No doubt itis handsomer than mine, and fitter for a ballroom.""No, it is not handsomer, not at all handsomerin its way, and, for my purpose, not half so fit.The chain will agree with William's cross beyondall comparison better than the necklace.""For one night, Fanny, for only one night, if it _be_a sacrifice; I am sure you will, upon consideration,make that sacrifice rather than give pain to one who has beenso studious of your comfort. Miss Crawford's attentionsto you have been--not more than you were justly entitled to--I am the last person to think that _could_ _be_,but they have been invariable; and to be returning themwith what must have something the _air_ of ingratitude,though I know it could never have the _meaning_, is notin your nature, I am sure. Wear the necklace, as youare engaged to do, to-morrow evening, and let the chain,which was not ordered with any reference to the ball,be kept for commoner occasions. This is my advice.I would not have the shadow of a coolness between the two whoseintimacy I have been observing with the greatest pleasure,and in whose characters there is so much general resemblancein true generosity and natural delicacy as to make the fewslight differences, resulting principally from situation,no reasonable hindrance to a perfect friendship. I wouldnot have the shadow of a coolness arise," he repeated,his voice sinking a little, "between the two dearest objectsI have on earth."He was gone as he spoke; and Fanny remained to tranquilliseherself as she could. She was one of his two dearest--that must support her. But the other: the first!She had never heard him speak so openly before, and thoughit told her no more than what she had long perceived,it was a stab, for it told of his own convictions and views.They were decided. He would marry Miss Crawford.It was a stab, in spite of every long-standing expectation;and she was obliged to repeat again and again, that shewas one of his two dearest, before the words gaveher any sensation. Could she believe Miss Crawford todeserve him, it would be--oh, how different would it be--how far more tolerable! But he was deceived in her:he gave her merits which she had not; her faults werewhat they had ever been, but he saw them no longer.Till she had shed many tears over this deception,Fanny could not subdue her agitation; and the dejectionwhich followed could only be relieved by the influence offervent prayers for his happiness.It was her intention, as she felt it to be her duty,to try to overcome all that was excessive, all thatbordered on selfishness, in her affection for Edmund.To call or to fancy it a loss, a disappointment, would bea presumption for which she had not words strong enough tosatisfy her own humility. To think of him as Miss Crawfordmight be justified in thinking, would in her be insanity.To her he could be nothing under any circumstances;nothing dearer than a friend. Why did such an idea occurto her even enough to be reprobated and forbidden? It oughtnot to have touched on the confines of her imagination.She would endeavour to be rational, and to deservethe right of judging of Miss Crawford's character,and the privilege of true solicitude for him by a soundintellect and an honest heart.She had all the heroism of principle, and was determinedto do her duty; but having also many of the feelings of youthand nature, let her not be much wondered at, if, after makingall these good resolutions on the side of self-government,she seized the scrap of paper on which Edmund had begunwriting to her, as a treasure beyond all her hopes,and reading with the tenderest emotion these words,"My very dear Fanny, you must do me the favour to accept"locked it up with the chain, as the dearest part of the gift.It was the only thing approaching to a letter which shehad ever received from him; she might never receive another;it was impossible that she ever should receive anotherso perfectly gratifying in the occasion and the style.Two lines more prized had never fallen from the penof the most distinguished author--never more completelyblessed the researches of the fondest biographer.The enthusiasm of a woman's love is even beyondthe biographer's. To her, the handwriting itself,independent of anything it may convey, is a blessedness.Never were such characters cut by any other human beingas Edmund's commonest handwriting gave! This specimen,written in haste as it was, had not a fault; and therewas a felicity in the flow of the first four words,in the arrangement of "My very dear Fanny," which shecould have looked at for ever.Having regulated her thoughts and comforted her feelingsby this happy mixture of reason and weakness, she was ablein due time to go down and resume her usual employmentsnear her aunt Bertram, and pay her the usual observanceswithout any apparent want of spirits.Thursday, predestined to hope and enjoyment, came; and openedwith more kindness to Fanny than such self-willed,unmanageable days often volunteer, for soon after breakfasta very friendly note was brought from Mr. Crawfordto William, stating that as he found himself obligedto go to London on the morrow for a few days, he couldnot help trying to procure a companion; and thereforehoped that if William could make up his mind to leaveMansfield half a day earlier than had been proposed,he would accept a place in his carriage. Mr. Crawford meantto be in town by his uncle's accustomary late dinner-hour,and William was invited to dine with him at the Admiral's.The proposal was a very pleasant one to William himself,who enjoyed the idea of travelling post with four horses,and such a good-humoured, agreeable friend; and, in likeningit to going up with despatches, was saying at once everythingin favour of its happiness and dignity which his imaginationcould suggest; and Fanny, from a different motive,was exceedingly pleased; for the original plan was thatWilliam should go up by the mail from Northampton thefollowing night, which would not have allowed him an hour'srest before he must have got into a Portsmouth coach;and though this offer of Mr. Crawford's would rob herof many hours of his company, she was too happy in havingWilliam spared from the fatigue of such a journey,to think of anything else. Sir Thomas approved of itfor another reason. His nephew's introduction to AdmiralCrawford might be of service. The Admiral, he believed,had interest. Upon the whole, it was a very joyous note.Fanny's spirits lived on it half the morning, derivingsome accession of pleasure from its writer being himself to goaway.As for the ball, so near at hand, she had too manyagitations and fears to have half the enjoyment inanticipation which she ought to have had, or must havebeen supposed to have by the many young ladies lookingforward to the same event in situations more at ease,but under circumstances of less novelty, less interest,less peculiar gratification, than would be attributedto her. Miss Price, known only by name to half thepeople invited, was now to make her first appearance,and must be regarded as the queen of the evening.Who could be happier than Miss Price? But Miss Pricehad not been brought up to the trade of _coming_ _out_;and had she known in what light this ball was, in general,considered respecting her, it would very much have lessenedher comfort by increasing the fears she already had of doingwrong and being looked at. To dance without much observationor any extraordinary fatigue, to have strength and partnersfor about half the evening, to dance a little with Edmund,and not a great deal with Mr. Crawford, to see Williamenjoy himself, and be able to keep away from her aunt Norris,was the height of her ambition, and seemed to comprehendher greatest possibility of happiness. As these werethe best of her hopes, they could not always prevail;and in the course of a long morning, spent principallywith her two aunts, she was often under the influenceof much less sanguine views. William, determined tomake this last day a day of thorough enjoyment,was out snipe-shooting; Edmund, she had too much reasonto suppose, was at the Parsonage; and left alone to bearthe worrying of Mrs. Norris, who was cross because thehousekeeper would have her own way with the supper,and whom _she_ could not avoid though the housekeeper might,Fanny was worn down at last to think everything an evilbelonging to the ball, and when sent off with a parting worryto dress, moved as languidly towards her own room, and feltas incapable of happiness as if she had been allowed no share init.As she walked slowly upstairs she thought of yesterday;it had been about the same hour that she had returnedfrom the Parsonage, and found Edmund in the East room."Suppose I were to find him there again to-day!" said sheto herself, in a fond indulgence of fancy."Fanny," said a voice at that moment near her.Starting and looking up, she saw, across the lobby shehad just reached, Edmund himself, standing at the headof a different staircase. He came towards her. "You looktired and fagged, Fanny. You have been walking too far.""No, I have not been out at all.""Then you have had fatigues within doors, which are worse.You had better have gone out."Fanny, not liking to complain, found it easiest to makeno answer; and though he looked at her with his usual kindness,she believed he had soon ceased to think of her countenance.He did not appear in spirits: something unconnected withher was probably amiss. They proceeded upstairs together,their rooms being on the same floor above."I come from Dr. Grant's," said Edmund presently."You may guess my errand there, Fanny." And he lookedso conscious, that Fanny could think but of one errand,which turned her too sick for speech. "I wished toengage Miss Crawford for the two first dances," was theexplanation that followed, and brought Fanny to life again,enabling her, as she found she was expected to speak,to utter something like an inquiry as to the result."Yes," he answered, "she is engaged to me; but" (with a smilethat did not sit easy) "she says it is to be the last timethat she ever will dance with me. She is not serious.I think, I hope, I am sure she is not serious; but I wouldrather not hear it. She never has danced with a clergyman,she says, and she never _will_. For my own sake, I couldwish there had been no ball just at--I mean not thisvery week, this very day; to-morrow I leave home."Fanny struggled for speech, and said, "I am very sorrythat anything has occurred to distress you. This oughtto be a day of pleasure. My uncle meant it so.""Oh yes, yes! and it will be a day of pleasure.It will all end right. I am only vexed for a moment.In fact, it is not that I consider the ball as ill-timed;what does it signify? But, Fanny," stopping her,by taking her hand, and speaking low and seriously,"you know what all this means. You see how it is;and could tell me, perhaps better than I could tell you,how and why I am vexed. Let me talk to you a little.You are a kind, kind listener. I have been painedby her manner this morning, and cannot get the betterof it. I know her disposition to be as sweet andfaultless as your own, but the influence of her formercompanions makes her seem--gives to her conversation,to her professed opinions, sometimes a tinge of wrong.She does not _think_ evil, but she speaks it, speaks itin playfulness; and though I know it to be playfulness,it grieves me to the soul.""The effect of education," said Fanny gently.Edmund could not but agree to it. "Yes, that uncle and aunt!They have injured the finest mind; for sometimes,Fanny, I own to you, it does appear more than manner:it appears as if the mind itself was tainted."Fanny imagined this to be an appeal to her judgment,and therefore, after a moment's consideration, said, "If youonly want me as a listener, cousin, I will be as usefulas I can; but I am not qualified for an adviser.Do not ask advice of _me_. I am not competent.""You are right, Fanny, to protest against such an office,but you need not be afraid. It is a subject on which Ishould never ask advice; it is the sort of subject onwhich it had better never be asked; and few, I imagine,do ask it, but when they want to be influenced againsttheir conscience. I only want to talk to you.""One thing more. Excuse the liberty; but take care_how_ you talk to me. Do not tell me anything now,which hereafter you may be sorry for. The time may come--"The colour rushed into her cheeks as she spoke."Dearest Fanny!" cried Edmund, pressing her hand tohis lips with almost as much warmth as if it had beenMiss Crawford's, "you are all considerate thought!But it is unnecessary here. The time will never come.No such time as you allude to will ever come. I begin tothink it most improbable: the chances grow less and less;and even if it should, there will be nothing to beremembered by either you or me that we need be afraid of,for I can never be ashamed of my own scruples; and if theyare removed, it must be by changes that will only raiseher character the more by the recollection of the faultsshe once had. You are the only being upon earth to whomI should say what I have said; but you have always knownmy opinion of her; you can bear me witness, Fanny, that Ihave never been blinded. How many a time have wetalked over her little errors! You need not fear me;I have almost given up every serious idea of her;but I must be a blockhead indeed, if, whatever befell me,I could think of your kindness and sympathy without thesincerest gratitude."He had said enough to shake the experience of eighteen.He had said enough to give Fanny some happier feelingsthan she had lately known, and with a brighter look,she answered, "Yes, cousin, I am convinced that _you_would be incapable of anything else, though perhaps somemight not. I cannot be afraid of hearing anything youwish to say. Do not check yourself. Tell me whateveryou like."They were now on the second floor, and the appearanceof a housemaid prevented any farther conversation.For Fanny's present comfort it was concluded, perhaps,at the happiest moment: had he been able to talk anotherfive minutes, there is no saying that he might not have talkedaway all Miss Crawford's faults and his own despondence.But as it was, they parted with looks on his side ofgrateful affection, and with some very precious sensationson hers. She had felt nothing like it for hours.Since the first joy from Mr. Crawford's note to William hadworn away, she had been in a state absolutely the reverse;there had been no comfort around, no hope within her.Now everything was smiling. William's good fortunereturned again upon her mind, and seemed of greatervalue than at first. The ball, too--such an eveningof pleasure before her! It was now a real animation;and she began to dress for it with much of the happyflutter which belongs to a ball. All went well:she did not dislike her own looks; and when she cameto the necklaces again, her good fortune seemed complete,for upon trial the one given her by Miss Crawford wouldby no means go through the ring of the cross. She had,to oblige Edmund, resolved to wear it; but it was toolarge for the purpose. His, therefore, must be worn;and having, with delightful feelings, joined the chainand the cross--those memorials of the two most belovedof her heart, those dearest tokens so formed for eachother by everything real and imaginary--and put themround her neck, and seen and felt how full of Williamand Edmund they were, she was able, without an effort,to resolve on wearing Miss Crawford's necklace too.She acknowledged it to be right. Miss Crawford had a claim;and when it was no longer to encroach on, to interferewith the stronger claims, the truer kindness of another,she could do her justice even with pleasure to herself.The necklace really looked very well; and Fanny left herroom at last, comfortably satisfied with herself and allabout her.Her aunt Bertram had recollected her on this occasion withan unusual degree of wakefulness. It had really occurredto her, unprompted, that Fanny, preparing for a ball,might be glad of better help than the upper housemaid's,and when dressed herself, she actually sent her own maidto assist her; too late, of course, to be of any use.Mrs. Chapman had just reached the attic floor, when MissPrice came out of her room completely dressed, and onlycivilities were necessary; but Fanny felt her aunt'sattention almost as much as Lady Bertram or Mrs. Chapmancould do themselves.