October 28, 2025 • 24 mins
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Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter forty seven. It had been a miserable party, each
of the three believing themselves most miserable. Missus Norris, however,
as most attached to Maria, was really the greatest sufferer.
Mariah was her first favorite, the dearest of all. The
match had been her own, contriving as she had been
wont with such pride of heart to feel and say,
(00:22):
and this conclusion of it almost overpowered her. She was
an altered creature, quieted, stupefied, indifferent to everything that passed.
The being left with her sister and nephew and all
the house under her care, had been an advantage entirely
thrown away. She had been unable to direct or dictate,
or even fancy herself useful When really touched by affliction,
(00:44):
her active powers had been all benumbed, and neither Lady
Bertram nor Tom had received from her the smallest support
or attempt at support. She had done no more for
them than they had done for each other. They had
been all solitary, helpless and for lof alike, and now
the arrival of the others only established her superiority and wretchedness.
(01:06):
Her companions were relieved, but there was no good for her.
Edmund was almost as welcome to his brother as Fanny
to her aunt, but missus Norris, instead of having comfort
from either, was but the more irritated by the sight
of the person whom, in the blindness of her anger,
she could have charged as the demon of the peace.
Had Fanny accepted mister Crawford, this could not have happened. Susan, too,
(01:30):
was a grievance. She had not spirits to notice her
in more than a few repulsive looks, but she felt
her as a spy and an intruder, and an indigent niece,
and everything most odious by her other aunt. Susan was
received with quiet kindness. Lady Bertram could not give her
much time or many words, but she felt her as
Fanny's sister to have a claim at Mansfield, and was
(01:53):
ready to kiss and like her. And Susan was more
than satisfied, for she came perfectly aware that nothing but
ill humor was to be expected from Aunt Norris, and
was so provided with happiness, so strong in that best
of blessings, and escape from many certain evils, that she
could have stood against a great deal more indifference than
she met with from the others. She was now left
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a good deal to herself to get acquainted with the
house and grounds as she could, and spent her days
very happily in so doing, while those who might otherwise
have attended to her were shut up or wholly occupied,
each with the person quite dependent on them at this
time for everything like comfort Edmund trying to bury his
own feelings and exertions for the relief of his brothers,
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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 seemed so 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 and born with, and hear the voice of
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kindness and sympathy in 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 not think deeply, but guided by Sir Thomas, she
thought justly on all important points, and she saw therefore
in all its enormity what had happened, and neither endeavored
(03:16):
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 direct her thoughts to other subjects and
revive some interest in the usual occupations. But whenever Lady
Bertram was fixed on the event, she could see it
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only in one light, as comprehending the loss of a
daughter and a disgrace never to be wiped off. Fanny
learnt from her all the particulars which had yet 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, she could reasonably combine, was
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soon able to understand and quite as much as she wished.
Of the circumstances attending the story. Missus Rushworth had gone
for the Easter holidays to Twickenham with a family whom
she had just grown intimate, with a family of lively,
agreeable manners and probably of morals and discretion to suit
for to their house. Mister Crawford had constant access at
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all times, his having been in the same neighborhood. Fanny
already knew mister Rushworth had been gone at this time
to Bath to pass a 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 Street two or three weeks before
on a visit to some relations of Sir Thomas, a
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removal which her father and mother were now disposed to
attribute to some view of convenience on mister Yates's account.
Very soon after the Rushworths return to Wimpole Street, Sir
Thomas had received a letter from an old and most
particular friend in London, who, hearing and witnessing a good
deal to alarm him in that quarter, wrote to recommend
and Sir Thomas's coming to London himself, and using his
(05:03):
influence with his daughter to put an end to an
intimacy which was already exposing her to unpleasant remarks and
evidently making mister Rushworth uneasy. Sir Thomas was preparing to
act upon this letter without communicating its content to any
creature at Mansfield, when it was followed by another sent
express from the same friend to break to him the
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almost desperate situation in which affairs then stood with the
young people. Missus Rushworth had left her husband's house. Mister
Rushworth had been in great anger and distressed to him
Mister Harding for his advice. Mister Harding feared there had
been at least very flagrant indiscretion. The maid servant of
Missus Rushworth's senior threatened alarmingly he was doing all in
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his power to quiet everything with the hope of Missus
Rushworth's return, but was so much counteracted in Wimpole Street
by the influence of mister Rushworth's mother, that the worst
consequences might be apprehended. This dreadful communication could not be
kept from the rest of 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
(06:08):
what followed. The receipt of the next letters from London.
Everything was by that time public beyond a hope the
servant of Missus Rushworth. The mother had exposure in her power,
and supported by her mistress, was not to be silenced.
The two ladies, even in the short time they had
been together, had disagreed, and the bitterness of the elder
against her daughter in law might perhaps arise almost as
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much from the personal disrespect with which she herself had
been treated as from sensibility for her son. However that
might be, she was unmanageable. But had she been less obstinate,
or of less weight with her son, who was always
guided by the last speaker, by the person who could
get hold of and shut him up, the case would
still have been hopeless. For missus Rushworth did not appear again,
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and there was every reason to conclude her to be
concealed somewhere with mister Crawford, who had quitted his uncle's
house as for a day 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 father vice. Though all was lost on
the side of character his present state, Fanny could hardly
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bear to think of there was but one of his
children who was not, at this time a source of
misery to him. Tom's complaints had been greatly heightened by
the shock of his sister's conduct, and his recovery so
much thrown back by it, that even Lady Bertram had
been struck by the difference, and all her alarms were
regularly sent off to her husband and Julia's elopement. The
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additional blow which had met him on his arrival in London,
though its force had been deadened at the moment, must,
she knew, be sorely felt. She saw that it was
his letters expressed how much he deplored it. Under any circumstances,
it would have been an unwelcome alliance. But to have
it so clandestinely formed, and such a period chosen for
its completion, placed Julia's feelings in a most unfavorable life,
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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 as yet
more pardonable than Maria, as folly than vice, he could
not but regard the step she had taken as opening
the worst probabilities of a conclusion hereafter, like her sisters.
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Such was his opinion of the set into which she
had thrown herself. Fanny felt for him most acutely. He
could have no comfort, But in Edmund every other child
must be racking his heart his displeasure against herself, she
trusted reasoning differently from missus Norris would now be done away.
She should be justified. Mister Crawford would have fully acquitted
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her conduct in refusing him. But this, though most material
to herself, would be poor consolation to Sir Thomas. Her
uncle's displeasure was terrible to her, but what could her
justification or her gratitude and attachment do for him. His
stay must be on Edmond alone. She was mistaken, however,
in supposing that Edmond gave his father no present pain.
(09:04):
It was of a much less poignant nature than what
the others excited. But Sir Thomas was considering his happiness
as very deeply involved in the offense of his sister
and friend, cut off by it, as he must be
from the woman whom he had been pursuing with undoubted
attachment and strong probability of success, and who in everything
but this despicable brother, would have been so eligible a connection.
(09:26):
He was aware of 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 reason to think that one interview with miss
Crawford had taken place from which Edmund derived only increased distress,
had been as anxious on that account as on others
to get him out of town, and had engaged him
(09:46):
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 convasation with his son, he would
not have wished her to belong to him, though her
twenty thousand pounds had been forty that Edmund must be
(10:08):
forever divided from. Miss Crawford did not admit of a
doubt with Fanny, and yet till she knew that 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
which had sometimes been too much for her before, it
would be most consoling. But that she found was not
(10:29):
to be. She seldom saw him, never alone. He probably
avoided being alone with her. What was to be inferred
that his judgment submitted to all his own peculiar and
bitter share of this family affliction. But that it was
too keenly felt to be a subject of the highest communication.
This must be his state. He yielded, but it was
(10:49):
with agonies which did not admit of speech. Long long
would it be ere Miss Crawford's name passed his lips again,
or she could hope for a renewal of such confidential
intercourse had been. It was long. They reached Mansfield on Thursday,
and it was not till Sunday evening that Edmond began
to talk to her on the subject, sitting with her
(11:10):
on Sunday evening, a wet Sunday evening, the very time
of all others, when if her friend is at hand,
the heart must be 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 traced as to what came first, and
(11:32):
the usual declaration that if she would listen to him
for a few minutes, he should be very brief and
certainly never tax her kindness in the same way. Again,
she need not fear a repetition. It would be a
subject prohibited entirely. He entered upon the luxury of relating
circumstances and sensations of the first interest to himself, to
one of whose affectionate sympathy. He was quite convinced. How
(11:55):
Fanny listened with what curiosity and concern, what pain, and
what the light? How the agitation of his voice was watched,
and how carefully her own eyes were fixed 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 note from Lady Stornaway
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to beg him to call, and regarding it as what
was meant to be the last, last interview of friendship,
and investing her with all the feelings of shame and
wretchedness which Crawford's sister ought to have known. He had
gone to her in such a state of mind, so softened,
so devoted, as made it for a few moments impossible
to Fanny's fears that it should be the last. But
(12:37):
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 able to speak, one intelligible sentence. She had introduced
the subject in a manner which he owned had shocked him.
I heard you were in town, said she. I wanted
(12:57):
to see you. Let us talk over this sad business.
What can equal the folly of our two relations? I
could not answer, But I believe my looks spoke, she felt,
reproved sometimes how quick to 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
(13:19):
how she went on, Fanny is not fit, is hardly
fit to be repeated to you. I cannot recall all
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 on by
a woman whom he had never cared for to do
what must lose him the woman he adored. But still more,
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the folly of poor Maria in sacrificing such a situation,
plunging into such difficulties under the idea of being really
loved by 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 coolull to canvass it no reluctance, no horror,
(14:02):
no feminine shall I say, no modest loathings. This is
what the world does for Where Fanny, shall we find
a woman whom nature had so richly in doubt spoilt, spoilt.
After a little reflection he went on with a sort
of desperate calmness. I will tell you everything and then
have done forever. She saw it only as folly, and
(14:26):
that folly stamped only by exposure, the want of common discretion,
of caution, his going down to Richmond for the whole
time of her being at Twickenum, her putting herself in
the power of a servant. It was the detection, in short,
oh Fanny, It was the detection, not the offense which
she reprobated. It was the imprudence which had brought things
to extremity and obliged her brother to give up every
(14:48):
dearer plan in order to fly with her. He stopped,
and what said Fanny, believing herself required 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 began to talk of you,
regretting as well she might, the loss of such a
(15:11):
There she spoke very rationally, But she always has done
justice to you. He has thrown away, said she set
a woman as he will never see again. She would
have fixed him, She would have made him happy for ever.
My dearest Fanny, I am giving you, I hope, more
pleasure than pain by this retrospect of what might have been,
but what never can be. Now, you do not wish
(15:32):
me to be silent if you do give me but
a look a word, and I have 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 appointment of Providence that the heart which knew
no guile should not suffer. She spoke of you with
high praise and warm affection. Yet even here there was alloy,
(15:54):
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 accepted him as she ought, they might now
have been on the point of marriage, and Henry would
have been too happy and too busy to want any
other object. He would have taken no pains to be
on terms with Missus Rushworth again. It would all have
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ended in a regular standing flirtation in yearly meetings at
Southerton and Everingham. Could you have believed it possible? But
the charm is broken. My eyes are opened, cruel, said Fanny.
Quite cruel at such a moment, to give way to
gaiety and to speak with lightness and to you absolute cruelty.
Cruelty do you call it? We differ there. No, hers
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is not a cruel nature. I do not consider her
as meaning to wound my feelings. The evil lies yet
deeper in her total ignorance, unsuspiciousness of their being such feelings,
in a perversion of mind, which made it natural to
her to treat the subject as she did. She was
speaking only as she had been used to hear others speak,
as she imagined everybody body else would speak. Hers are
(17:02):
not faults of temper. She would not voluntarily give unnecessary
pain to any one. And though I may deceive myself,
I cannot but think that for me, for my feelings,
she would Hers are not faults of principal, Fanny of
blunted delicacy and a corrupted, vitiated mind. Perhaps it is
best for me, since it leaves me so little to regret.
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Not so, however, gladly would I submit to all the
increased pain of losing her, rather than to 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 that what remained now to
be done was to bring about a marriage between them.
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She spoke of it, Fanny with a steadier voice than
I can. He was obliged to pause more than once
as he continued. We must persuade Henry to marry her,
said she, And what with honor and the certainty of
having shut himself out forever from Fanny, I do not
despair of it. Fanny, he must give up. I do
not think that even he could now hope to succeed
(18:04):
with one of herstamp 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 her own family, people of respectability. As
they are, she may recover her footing in society to
a certain degree. In some circles we know she would
(18:25):
never be admitted. But with good dinners and large parties,
there will always be those who will be glad of
her acquaintance. And there is undoubtedly more liberality and candor
on those points than formerly. What I advise is that
your father be quiet. Do not let him injure his
own cause by interference. Persuade him to let things take
(18:46):
their course. If by any officious exertions of his she
is induced to leave Henry's protection, there will be much
less chance of his marrying her than if she remain
with him. I know how he is likely to be influenced.
Let said Thomas, trust to his honor and compassion, and
it may all end well. But if he get his
daughter away, it will be destroying the chief hold. After
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repeating this, Edmond was so much affected that Fanny, watching
him with silent but most tender concern, was almost sorry
that the subject had been entered on 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
(19:32):
not supposed it possible, coming in such a state of
mind into that house as I had done, that anything
could occur to make me suffer more, but that she
had been inflicting 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
to of some moment, it had not entered my imagination
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to conceive the difference could be such as she had
now proved it. That the manner in which she treated
the dreadful crime committed by her brother and my sister,
with whom lay the greatest 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 ill
consequences only as they were to be braved or overborne
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by a defiance of decency and impudence in wrong, and
last of 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 thought of her brother, should rather be prevented than sought.
All this together most grievously convinced me that I had
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never understood her before, and that as far as related
to mind, it had been the creature of my own imagination,
not Miss Crawford. That I had been too apt to
dwell on for 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,
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and would confess that could I have restored her to
what she had appeared to me before, I would infinitely
prefer any increase of the pain of parting for the
sake of carrying with me the right of tenderness and esteem.
This is what I said, the purpose of it, but,
as you may imagine, not spoken so collectedly or methodically
as I have repeated it to you. She was astonished,
(21:17):
exceedingly astonished. More than astonished. I saw her changed 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,
(21:39):
A pretty good lecture upon my word? Was it part
of your last sermon? At this rate, you will soon
reform everybody at Mansfield and Thornton Lacy. And when I
hear of you next, it may be as a celebrated
preacher in some great society of Methodists, or as a
missionary into foreign parts. She tried to speak carelessly, but
she was not so careless as she wanted to appear.
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I only said in reply that from my heart I
wished her well and earnestly hoped that she might soon
learn to think more justly and not owe the most
valuable knowledge we could any of us acquire, the knowledge
of ourselves and of our duty to the lessons of affliction.
And immediately left the room. I had gone a few steps, Fanny,
when I heard the door open behind me, mister Bertram
(22:23):
said she. I looked back, mister Bertram said, she with
a smile. But it was a smile ill suited to
the conversation that had passed, a saucy, playful smile, seeming
to invite in 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
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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 what
an acquaintance has it been. How have I been deceived
equally a brother and sister deceived? I thank you for
your patience, Fanny. This has been the greatest relief. And
(23:04):
now we will have done. And such was Fanny's dependence
on his words that for five minutes she thought they
had done. Then, however, it all came on again, or
something very like it, and nothing less than Lady Bertram's
rousing thoroughly up could really close such a conversation. Till
that happened. They continued to talk of miss Crawford alone,
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and how she had attached him, and how delightful nature
had made her, and how excellent she would have been
had she fallen into good hands earlier. Fanny, now at
liberty to speak openly, felt more than justified in adding
to his knowledge of her real character by some hint
of what his brother's state of health might be supposed
to have in her wish for a complete reconciliation. This
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was not an agreeable intimation. Nature resisted it for a while.
It would have been a vast deal pleasanter to have
had her more disinterested in her attachment. But his vanity
was 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
(24:07):
many counteractions of opposing habits, she had certainly been more
attached to him than could have been expected, and, for
his sake, been more near doing right. Fanny thought exactly
the same, and they were also quite agreed in their
opinion of the lasting effect. The indelible impression which such
a disappointment must make on his mind. Time would undoubtedly
(24:28):
abate somewhat of his sufferings, but still it was a
sort of thing which he could never 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. End of Chapter forty seven
Chapter forty seven. It had been a miserable party, each
of the three believing themselves most miserable. Missus Norris, however,
as most attached to Maria, was really the greatest sufferer.
Mariah was her first favorite, the dearest of all. The
match had been her own, contriving as she had been
wont with such pride of heart to feel and say,
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and this conclusion of it almost overpowered her. She was
an altered creature, quieted, stupefied, indifferent to everything that passed.
The being left with her sister and nephew and all
the house under her care, had been an advantage entirely
thrown away. She had been unable to direct or dictate,
or even fancy herself useful When really touched by affliction,
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her active powers had been all benumbed, and neither Lady
Bertram nor Tom had received from her the smallest support
or attempt at support. She had done no more for
them than they had done for each other. They had
been all solitary, helpless and for lof alike, and now
the arrival of the others only established her superiority and wretchedness.
(01:06):
Her companions were relieved, but there was no good for her.
Edmund was almost as welcome to his brother as Fanny
to her aunt, but missus Norris, instead of having comfort
from either, was but the more irritated by the sight
of the person whom, in the blindness of her anger,
she could have charged as the demon of the peace.
Had Fanny accepted mister Crawford, this could not have happened. Susan, too,
(01:30):
was a grievance. She had not spirits to notice her
in more than a few repulsive looks, but she felt
her as a spy and an intruder, and an indigent niece,
and everything most odious by her other aunt. Susan was
received with quiet kindness. Lady Bertram could not give her
much time or many words, but she felt her as
Fanny's sister to have a claim at Mansfield, and was
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ready to kiss and like her. And Susan was more
than satisfied, for she came perfectly aware that nothing but
ill humor was to be expected from Aunt Norris, and
was so provided with happiness, so strong in that best
of blessings, and escape from many certain evils, that she
could have stood against a great deal more indifference than
she met with from the others. She was now left
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a good deal to herself to get acquainted with the
house and grounds as she could, and spent her days
very happily in so doing, while those who might otherwise
have attended to her were shut up or wholly occupied,
each with the person quite dependent on them at this
time for everything like comfort Edmund trying to bury his
own feelings and exertions for the relief of his brothers,
(02:36):
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 seemed so 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 and born with, and hear the voice of
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kindness and sympathy in 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 not think deeply, but guided by Sir Thomas, she
thought justly on all important points, and she saw therefore
in all its enormity what had happened, and neither endeavored
(03:16):
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 direct her thoughts to other subjects and
revive some interest in the usual occupations. But whenever Lady
Bertram was fixed on the event, she could see it
(03:38):
only in one light, as comprehending the loss of a
daughter and a disgrace never to be wiped off. Fanny
learnt from her all the particulars which had yet 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, she could reasonably combine, was
(03:58):
soon able to understand and quite as much as she wished.
Of the circumstances attending the story. Missus Rushworth had gone
for the Easter holidays to Twickenham with a family whom
she had just grown intimate, with a family of lively,
agreeable manners and probably of morals and discretion to suit
for to their house. Mister Crawford had constant access at
(04:19):
all times, his having been in the same neighborhood. Fanny
already knew mister Rushworth had been gone at this time
to Bath to pass a 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 Street two or three weeks before
on a visit to some relations of Sir Thomas, a
(04:40):
removal which her father and mother were now disposed to
attribute to some view of convenience on mister Yates's account.
Very soon after the Rushworths return to Wimpole Street, Sir
Thomas had received a letter from an old and most
particular friend in London, who, hearing and witnessing a good
deal to alarm him in that quarter, wrote to recommend
and Sir Thomas's coming to London himself, and using his
(05:03):
influence with his daughter to put an end to an
intimacy which was already exposing her to unpleasant remarks and
evidently making mister Rushworth uneasy. Sir Thomas was preparing to
act upon this letter without communicating its content to any
creature at Mansfield, when it was followed by another sent
express from the same friend to break to him the
(05:23):
almost desperate situation in which affairs then stood with the
young people. Missus Rushworth had left her husband's house. Mister
Rushworth had been in great anger and distressed to him
Mister Harding for his advice. Mister Harding feared there had
been at least very flagrant indiscretion. The maid servant of
Missus Rushworth's senior threatened alarmingly he was doing all in
(05:45):
his power to quiet everything with the hope of Missus
Rushworth's return, but was so much counteracted in Wimpole Street
by the influence of mister Rushworth's mother, that the worst
consequences might be apprehended. This dreadful communication could not be
kept from the rest of 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
(06:08):
what followed. The receipt of the next letters from London.
Everything was by that time public beyond a hope the
servant of Missus Rushworth. The mother had exposure in her power,
and supported by her mistress, was not to be silenced.
The two ladies, even in the short time they had
been together, had disagreed, and the bitterness of the elder
against her daughter in law might perhaps arise almost as
(06:31):
much from the personal disrespect with which she herself had
been treated as from sensibility for her son. However that
might be, she was unmanageable. But had she been less obstinate,
or of less weight with her son, who was always
guided by the last speaker, by the person who could
get hold of and shut him up, the case would
still have been hopeless. For missus Rushworth did not appear again,
(06:53):
and there was every reason to conclude her to be
concealed somewhere with mister Crawford, who had quitted his uncle's
house as for a day 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 father vice. Though all was lost on
the side of character his present state, Fanny could hardly
(07:15):
bear to think of there was but one of his
children who was not, at this time a source of
misery to him. Tom's complaints had been greatly heightened by
the shock of his sister's conduct, and his recovery so
much thrown back by it, that even Lady Bertram had
been struck by the difference, and all her alarms were
regularly sent off to her husband and Julia's elopement. The
(07:36):
additional blow which had met him on his arrival in London,
though its force had been deadened at the moment, must,
she knew, be sorely felt. She saw that it was
his letters expressed how much he deplored it. Under any circumstances,
it would have been an unwelcome alliance. But to have
it so clandestinely formed, and such a period chosen for
its completion, placed Julia's feelings in a most unfavorable life,
(08:00):
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 as yet
more pardonable than Maria, as folly than vice, he could
not but regard the step she had taken as opening
the worst probabilities of a conclusion hereafter, like her sisters.
(08:20):
Such was his opinion of the set into which she
had thrown herself. Fanny felt for him most acutely. He
could have no comfort, But in Edmund every other child
must be racking his heart his displeasure against herself, she
trusted reasoning differently from missus Norris would now be done away.
She should be justified. Mister Crawford would have fully acquitted
(08:42):
her conduct in refusing him. But this, though most material
to herself, would be poor consolation to Sir Thomas. Her
uncle's displeasure was terrible to her, but what could her
justification or her gratitude and attachment do for him. His
stay must be on Edmond alone. She was mistaken, however,
in supposing that Edmond gave his father no present pain.
(09:04):
It was of a much less poignant nature than what
the others excited. But Sir Thomas was considering his happiness
as very deeply involved in the offense of his sister
and friend, cut off by it, as he must be
from the woman whom he had been pursuing with undoubted
attachment and strong probability of success, and who in everything
but this despicable brother, would have been so eligible a connection.
(09:26):
He was aware of 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 reason to think that one interview with miss
Crawford had taken place from which Edmund derived only increased distress,
had been as anxious on that account as on others
to get him out of town, and had engaged him
(09:46):
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 convasation with his son, he would
not have wished her to belong to him, though her
twenty thousand pounds had been forty that Edmund must be
(10:08):
forever divided from. Miss Crawford did not admit of a
doubt with Fanny, and yet till she knew that 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
which had sometimes been too much for her before, it
would be most consoling. But that she found was not
(10:29):
to be. She seldom saw him, never alone. He probably
avoided being alone with her. What was to be inferred
that his judgment submitted to all his own peculiar and
bitter share of this family affliction. But that it was
too keenly felt to be a subject of the highest communication.
This must be his state. He yielded, but it was
(10:49):
with agonies which did not admit of speech. Long long
would it be ere Miss Crawford's name passed his lips again,
or she could hope for a renewal of such confidential
intercourse had been. It was long. They reached Mansfield on Thursday,
and it was not till Sunday evening that Edmond began
to talk to her on the subject, sitting with her
(11:10):
on Sunday evening, a wet Sunday evening, the very time
of all others, when if her friend is at hand,
the heart must be 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 traced as to what came first, and
(11:32):
the usual declaration that if she would listen to him
for a few minutes, he should be very brief and
certainly never tax her kindness in the same way. Again,
she need not fear a repetition. It would be a
subject prohibited entirely. He entered upon the luxury of relating
circumstances and sensations of the first interest to himself, to
one of whose affectionate sympathy. He was quite convinced. How
(11:55):
Fanny listened with what curiosity and concern, what pain, and
what the light? How the agitation of his voice was watched,
and how carefully her own eyes were fixed 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 note from Lady Stornaway
(12:16):
to beg him to call, and regarding it as what
was meant to be the last, last interview of friendship,
and investing her with all the feelings of shame and
wretchedness which Crawford's sister ought to have known. He had
gone to her in such a state of mind, so softened,
so devoted, as made it for a few moments impossible
to Fanny's fears that it should be the last. But
(12:37):
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 able to speak, one intelligible sentence. She had introduced
the subject in a manner which he owned had shocked him.
I heard you were in town, said she. I wanted
(12:57):
to see you. Let us talk over this sad business.
What can equal the folly of our two relations? I
could not answer, But I believe my looks spoke, she felt,
reproved sometimes how quick to 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
(13:19):
how she went on, Fanny is not fit, is hardly
fit to be repeated to you. I cannot recall all
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 on by
a woman whom he had never cared for to do
what must lose him the woman he adored. But still more,
(13:40):
the folly of poor Maria in sacrificing such a situation,
plunging into such difficulties under the idea of being really
loved by 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 coolull to canvass it no reluctance, no horror,
(14:02):
no feminine shall I say, no modest loathings. This is
what the world does for Where Fanny, shall we find
a woman whom nature had so richly in doubt spoilt, spoilt.
After a little reflection he went on with a sort
of desperate calmness. I will tell you everything and then
have done forever. She saw it only as folly, and
(14:26):
that folly stamped only by exposure, the want of common discretion,
of caution, his going down to Richmond for the whole
time of her being at Twickenum, her putting herself in
the power of a servant. It was the detection, in short,
oh Fanny, It was the detection, not the offense which
she reprobated. It was the imprudence which had brought things
to extremity and obliged her brother to give up every
(14:48):
dearer plan in order to fly with her. He stopped,
and what said Fanny, believing herself required 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 began to talk of you,
regretting as well she might, the loss of such a
(15:11):
There she spoke very rationally, But she always has done
justice to you. He has thrown away, said she set
a woman as he will never see again. She would
have fixed him, She would have made him happy for ever.
My dearest Fanny, I am giving you, I hope, more
pleasure than pain by this retrospect of what might have been,
but what never can be. Now, you do not wish
(15:32):
me to be silent if you do give me but
a look a word, and I have 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 appointment of Providence that the heart which knew
no guile should not suffer. She spoke of you with
high praise and warm affection. Yet even here there was alloy,
(15:54):
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 accepted him as she ought, they might now
have been on the point of marriage, and Henry would
have been too happy and too busy to want any
other object. He would have taken no pains to be
on terms with Missus Rushworth again. It would all have
(16:16):
ended in a regular standing flirtation in yearly meetings at
Southerton and Everingham. Could you have believed it possible? But
the charm is broken. My eyes are opened, cruel, said Fanny.
Quite cruel at such a moment, to give way to
gaiety and to speak with lightness and to you absolute cruelty.
Cruelty do you call it? We differ there. No, hers
(16:40):
is not a cruel nature. I do not consider her
as meaning to wound my feelings. The evil lies yet
deeper in her total ignorance, unsuspiciousness of their being such feelings,
in a perversion of mind, which made it natural to
her to treat the subject as she did. She was
speaking only as she had been used to hear others speak,
as she imagined everybody body else would speak. Hers are
(17:02):
not faults of temper. She would not voluntarily give unnecessary
pain to any one. And though I may deceive myself,
I cannot but think that for me, for my feelings,
she would Hers are not faults of principal, Fanny of
blunted delicacy and a corrupted, vitiated mind. Perhaps it is
best for me, since it leaves me so little to regret.
(17:23):
Not so, however, gladly would I submit to all the
increased pain of losing her, rather than to 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 that what remained now to
be done was to bring about a marriage between them.
(17:44):
She spoke of it, Fanny with a steadier voice than
I can. He was obliged to pause more than once
as he continued. We must persuade Henry to marry her,
said she, And what with honor and the certainty of
having shut himself out forever from Fanny, I do not
despair of it. Fanny, he must give up. I do
not think that even he could now hope to succeed
(18:04):
with one of herstamp 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 her own family, people of respectability. As
they are, she may recover her footing in society to
a certain degree. In some circles we know she would
(18:25):
never be admitted. But with good dinners and large parties,
there will always be those who will be glad of
her acquaintance. And there is undoubtedly more liberality and candor
on those points than formerly. What I advise is that
your father be quiet. Do not let him injure his
own cause by interference. Persuade him to let things take
(18:46):
their course. If by any officious exertions of his she
is induced to leave Henry's protection, there will be much
less chance of his marrying her than if she remain
with him. I know how he is likely to be influenced.
Let said Thomas, trust to his honor and compassion, and
it may all end well. But if he get his
daughter away, it will be destroying the chief hold. After
(19:10):
repeating this, Edmond was so much affected that Fanny, watching
him with silent but most tender concern, was almost sorry
that the subject had been entered on 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
(19:32):
not supposed it possible, coming in such a state of
mind into that house as I had done, that anything
could occur to make me suffer more, but that she
had been inflicting 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
to of some moment, it had not entered my imagination
(19:53):
to conceive the difference could be such as she had
now proved it. That the manner in which she treated
the dreadful crime committed by her brother and my sister,
with whom lay the greatest 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 ill
consequences only as they were to be braved or overborne
(20:14):
by a defiance of decency and impudence in wrong, and
last of 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 thought of her brother, should rather be prevented than sought.
All this together most grievously convinced me that I had
(20:34):
never understood her before, and that as far as related
to mind, it had been the creature of my own imagination,
not Miss Crawford. That I had been too apt to
dwell on for 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,
(20:56):
and would confess that could I have restored her to
what she had appeared to me before, I would infinitely
prefer any increase of the pain of parting for the
sake of carrying with me the right of tenderness and esteem.
This is what I said, the purpose of it, but,
as you may imagine, not spoken so collectedly or methodically
as I have repeated it to you. She was astonished,
(21:17):
exceedingly astonished. More than astonished. I saw her changed 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,
(21:39):
A pretty good lecture upon my word? Was it part
of your last sermon? At this rate, you will soon
reform everybody at Mansfield and Thornton Lacy. And when I
hear of you next, it may be as a celebrated
preacher in some great society of Methodists, or as a
missionary into foreign parts. She tried to speak carelessly, but
she was not so careless as she wanted to appear.
(22:02):
I only said in reply that from my heart I
wished her well and earnestly hoped that she might soon
learn to think more justly and not owe the most
valuable knowledge we could any of us acquire, the knowledge
of ourselves and of our duty to the lessons of affliction.
And immediately left the room. I had gone a few steps, Fanny,
when I heard the door open behind me, mister Bertram
(22:23):
said she. I looked back, mister Bertram said, she with
a smile. But it was a smile ill suited to
the conversation that had passed, a saucy, playful smile, seeming
to invite in 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
(22:44):
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 what
an acquaintance has it been. How have I been deceived
equally a brother and sister deceived? I thank you for
your patience, Fanny. This has been the greatest relief. And
(23:04):
now we will have done. And such was Fanny's dependence
on his words that for five minutes she thought they
had done. Then, however, it all came on again, or
something very like it, and nothing less than Lady Bertram's
rousing thoroughly up could really close such a conversation. Till
that happened. They continued to talk of miss Crawford alone,
(23:25):
and how she had attached him, and how delightful nature
had made her, and how excellent she would have been
had she fallen into good hands earlier. Fanny, now at
liberty to speak openly, felt more than justified in adding
to his knowledge of her real character by some hint
of what his brother's state of health might be supposed
to have in her wish for a complete reconciliation. This
(23:47):
was not an agreeable intimation. Nature resisted it for a while.
It would have been a vast deal pleasanter to have
had her more disinterested in her attachment. But his vanity
was 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
(24:07):
many counteractions of opposing habits, she had certainly been more
attached to him than could have been expected, and, for
his sake, been more near doing right. Fanny thought exactly
the same, and they were also quite agreed in their
opinion of the lasting effect. The indelible impression which such
a disappointment must make on his mind. Time would undoubtedly
(24:28):
abate somewhat of his sufferings, but still it was a
sort of thing which he could never 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. End of Chapter forty seven
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