“Sorry! yes, I hope you are sorry; and you will probably have reason to be long sorry for this day’s transactions.”

“I am so perfectly convinced that I could never make him happy,” she said, “that I should be miserable myself.”

Another burst of tears—but in spite of that burst, and that great black word miserable, Sir Thomas began to think a little relenting, a little change of inclination, might have something to do with it; and to augur favourably from the personal entreaty of the young man himself.

He knew her to be very timid, exceedingly nervous; and thought it possible that her refusal might be overturned, with a little time and patience on the lover’s side. If the gentleman had but love enough to persevere, Sir Thomas began to have hopes. And these passing reflections cheered him.

“Well,” said he, in a tone of becoming gravity, but of less anger, “well, child, dry up your tears. They are no use, and can do no good. You must now come downstairs with me. Mr. Crawford has been kept waiting too long already. You must give him your own answer, and you only can explain to him the grounds for it.”

But Fanny shewed such reluctance, such misery, at the idea of going down to him, that Sir Thomas judged it better to indulge her. Indeed, when he looked at his niece, and saw the sorry state of feature and complexion, which her crying had brought her into, he thought there might be as much lost as gained by an immediate interview. Thus, he left by himself, leaving his poor niece to sit and cry over what had passed.

Her mind was all disorder. The past, present, future, everything was terrible. But her uncle’s anger gave her the severest pain of all.

She had no one to take her part, to speak for her. Her only friend was absent. He might have softened his father; but perhaps he too would think her selfish and ungrateful. She might have to endure the reproach again and again.

She could not but feel some resentment against Mr. Crawford. Yet—what if he really loved her, and was unhappy too! It was all wretchedness together.

In about a quarter of an hour her uncle returned. She was almost ready to faint at the sight of him. He spoke calmly, however, without austerity, without reproach, and she revived a little. He began with, “Mr. Crawford is gone: he has just left me. I do not want to add to anything you may now be feeling, by an account of what he has felt. Suffice it, that he has behaved in the most gentlemanlike, generous manner, and has confirmed my favourable opinion of him. Upon my representation of what you were suffering, he immediately, and with the greatest delicacy, ceased to urge to see you for the present.”

Here Fanny, who had looked up, looked down again.