It was her intention, as she felt it to be her duty, to try to overcome all that was excessive, all that bordered on selfishness, in her affection for Edmund.
To call or to fancy it a loss, a disappointment, would be a presumption for which she had not words strong enough to satisfy her own humility.
To think of him as Miss Crawford might 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 occur to her even enough to be reprobated and forbidden?
It ought not to have touched on the confines of her imagination.
She would endeavour to be rational, and to deserve the right of judging of Miss Crawford's character, and the privilege of true solicitude for him by a sound intellect and an honest heart.
She had all the heroism of principle, and was determined to do her duty; but having also many of the feelings of youth and nature, let her not be much wondered at, if, after making all these good resolutions on the side of self-government, she seized the scrap of paper on which Edmund had begun writing 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 she had ever received from him; she might never receive another; it was impossible that she ever should receive another so perfectly gratifying in the occasion and the style.
Two lines more prized had never fallen from the pen of the most distinguished author - never more completely blessed the researches of the fondest biographer.
The enthusiasm of a woman's love is even beyond the 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 being as Edmund's commonest handwriting gave!
This specimen, written in haste as it was, had not a fault; and there was a felicity in the flow of the first four words, in the arrangement of
"My very dear Fanny," which she could have looked at for ever.
Having regulated her thoughts and comforted her feelings by this happy mixture of reason and weakness, she was able in due time to go down and resume her usual employments near her aunt Bertram, and pay her the usual observances without any apparent want of spirits.
Thursday, predestined to hope and enjoyment, came; and opened with more kindness to Fanny than such self-willed, unmanageable days often volunteer, for soon after breakfast a very friendly note was brought from Mr. Crawford to William, stating that as he found himself obliged to go to London on the morrow for a few days, he could not help trying to procure a companion; and therefore hoped that if William could make up his mind to leave Mansfield half a day earlier than had been proposed, he would accept a place in his carriage.
Mr. Crawford meant to 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 likening it to going up with despatches, was saying at once everything in favour of its happiness and dignity which his imagination could suggest; and Fanny, from a different motive, was exceedingly pleased; for the original plan was that William should go up by the mail from Northampton the following night, which would not have allowed him an hour's rest before he must have got into a Portsmouth coach; and though this offer of Mr. Crawford's would rob her of many hours of his company, she was too happy in having William spared from the fatigue of such a journey, to think of anything else.
Sir Thomas approved of it for another reason.
His nephew's introduction to Admiral Crawford 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, deriving some accession of pleasure from its writer being himself to go away.
As for the ball, so near at hand, she had too many agitations and fears to have half the enjoyment in anticipation which she ought to have had, or must have been supposed to have by the many young ladies looking forward to the same event in situations more at ease, but under circumstances of less novelty, less interest, less peculiar gratification, than would be attributed to her.
Miss Price, known only by name to half the people 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 Price had 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 lessened her comfort by increasing the fears she already had of doing wrong and being looked at.
To dance without much observation or any extraordinary fatigue, to have strength and partners for about half the evening, to dance a little with Edmund, and not a great deal with Mr. Crawford, to see William enjoy himself, and be able to keep away from her aunt Norris, was the height of her ambition, and seemed to comprehend her greatest possibility of happiness.
As these were the best of her hopes, they could not always prevail; and in the course of a long morning, spent principally with her two aunts, she was often under the influence of much less sanguine views.
William, determined to make this last day a day of thorough enjoyment, was out snipe-shooting; Edmund, she had too much reason to suppose, was at the Parsonage; and left alone to bear the worrying of Mrs. Norris, who was cross because the housekeeper 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 evil belonging to the ball, and when sent off with a parting worry to dress, moved as languidly towards her own room, and felt as incapable of happiness as if she had been allowed no share in it.
As she walked slowly upstairs she thought of yesterday; it had been about the same hour that she had returned from the Parsonage, and found Edmund in the East room.
"Suppose I were to find him there again to-day!" said she to 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 she had just reached, Edmund himself, standing at the head of a different staircase.
He came towards her.
"You look tired 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 make no 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 with her 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 looked so conscious, that Fanny could think but of one errand, which turned her too sick for speech.
"I wished to engage Miss Crawford for the two first dances," was the explanation 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 smile that did not sit easy) "she says it is to be the last time that she ever will dance with me.
She is not serious.