Edmund now believed himself perfectly acquainted with all that Fanny could tell,
or could leave to be conjectured of her sentiments, and he was satisfied. It had
been, as he before presumed, too hasty a measure on Crawford's side, and time
must be given to make the idea first familiar, and then agreeable to her. She
must be used to the consideration of his being in love with her, and then a return
of affection might not be very distant.
He gave this opinion as the result of the conversation to his father; and
recommended there being nothing more said to her: no farther attempts to
influence or persuade; but that everything should be left to Crawford's assiduities,
and the natural workings of her own mind.
Sir Thomas promised that it should be so. Edmund's account of Fanny's
disposition he could believe to be just; he supposed she had all those feelings,
but he must consider it as very unfortunate that she had; for, less willing than his
son to trust to the future, he could not help fearing that if such very long
allowances of time and habit were necessary for her, she might not have
persuaded herself into receiving his addresses properly before the young man's
inclination for paying them were over. There was nothing to be done, however,
but to submit quietly and hope the best.
The promised visit from "her friend," as Edmund called Miss Crawford, was a
formidable threat to Fanny, and she lived in continual terror of it. As a sister, so
partial and so angry, and so little scrupulous of what she said, and in another
light so triumphant and secure, she was in every way an object of painful alarm.
Her displeasure, her penetration, and her happiness were all fearful to encounter;
and the dependence of having others present when they met was Fanny's only
support in looking forward to it. She absented herself as little as possible from
Lady Bertram, kept away from the East room, and took no solitary walk in the
shrubbery, in her caution to avoid any sudden attack.
She succeeded. She was safe in the breakfast-room, with her aunt, when Miss
Crawford did come; and the first misery over, and Miss Crawford looking and
speaking with much less particularity of expression than she had anticipated,
Fanny began to hope there would be nothing worse to be endured than a half-
hour of moderate agitation. But here she hoped too much; Miss Crawford was
not the slave of opportunity. She was determined to see Fanny alone, and
therefore said to her tolerably soon, in a low voice, "I must speak to you for a few
minutes somewhere"; words that Fanny felt all over her, in all her pulses and all
her nerves. Denial was impossible. Her habits of ready submission, on the
contrary, made her almost instantly rise and lead the way out of the room. She
did it with wretched feelings, but it was inevitable.
They were no sooner in the hall than all restraint of countenance was over on
Miss Crawford's side. She immediately shook her head at Fanny with arch, yet
affectionate reproach, and taking her hand, seemed hardly able to help beginning
directly. She said nothing, however, but, "Sad, sad girl! I do not know when I shall
have done scolding you," and had discretion enough to reserve the rest till they