“Oh no! you cannot. Were you even less pleasing—supposing her not to love you already (of which, however, I can have little doubt)—you would be safe. The gentleness and gratitude of her disposition would secure her all your own immediately. I do not think she would marry you without love—that is, if there is a girl in the world capable of being uninfluenced by ambition, I can suppose it her—but ask her to love you, and she will never have the heart to refuse.”

Henry was happy to talk at length, to dwell on his own sensations, on Fanny’s charms. Fanny’s beauty of face and figure, Fanny’s graces of manner and goodness of heart, were the exhaustless theme. The gentleness, modesty, and sweetness of her character! Her temper he had good reason to depend on and to praise. He had often seen it tried. Was there any one of the family, excepting Edmund, who had not in some way or other continually exercised her patience and forbearance?

Her affections were evidently strong. To see her with her brother! What could more delightfully prove that the warmth of her heart was equal to its gentleness, than with her love in view? Then, her understanding was beyond every suspicion—quick and clear, perceptive to the core. And her manners were the mirror of her own modest and elegant mind. Nor was this all. Henry Crawford had too much sense not to feel the worth of good principles in a wife. He talked of her having a steadiness and regularity of conduct, such a high notion of honour, observance of decorum, faith and integrity, her being well principled and religious.

“I could so wholly and absolutely confide in her,” said he; “and that is what I want.”

“The more I think of it,” Mary Crawford cried, “the more am I convinced that you are doing quite right. And though I should never have selected Fanny Price as the girl most likely to attach you, I am now persuaded she is the very one to make you happy. Your wicked project upon her peace turns out a clever thought indeed, with the best results.”

“It was bad, very bad of me. But I did not know her then; and she shall have no reason to lament the hour that first put it into my head. I will make her very happy, Mary; happier than she has ever yet been herself, or ever seen anybody else. I will not take her from Northamptonshire. I shall let Everingham, and rent a place in this neighbourhood; perhaps Stanwix Lodge.”

“Ha!” cried Mary; “settle in Northamptonshire! That is pleasant! Then we shall be all together.”

When she had spoken it, she recollected herself, and wished it unsaid. But there was no need; for her brother saw her only as the supposed inmate[26] of Mansfield parsonage.