“And you know what your dinner will be,” said Mrs. Grant, smiling—”the turkey—and I assure you a very fine one; for, my dear”—turning to her husband—”cook insists upon the turkey’s being dressed tomorrow.”
“Very well, very well,” cried Dr. Grant, “all the better. I am glad to hear you have anything so good in the house. But Miss Price and Mr. Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their chance. We none of us want to hear the bill of fare. A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner, is all we have in view. A turkey or a goose, or a leg of mutton, or whatever you and your cook choose to give us.”
The two cousins walked home together; and except in the immediate discussion of this engagement, which Edmund spoke of with the warmest satisfaction, as so particularly desirable for her in the intimacy which he saw with so much pleasure established, it was a silent walk—for having finished that subject, he grew thoughtful and indisposed for any other.
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Chapter 23
“But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?” said Lady Bertram. “How came she to think of asking Fanny?—Fanny never dines there, you know, in this sort of way. I cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not want to go.—Fanny, you do not want to go, do you?”
“If you put such a question to her,” cried Edmund, preventing his cousin’s speaking, “Fanny will immediately say, no; but I am sure, my dear mother, she would like to go; and I can see no reason why she should not.”
“I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her.—She never did before.—She used to ask your sisters now and then, but she never asked Fanny.”
“If you cannot do without me, ma’am,” said Fanny, in a self-denying tone—
“But my mother will have my father with her all the evening.”
“To be sure, so I shall.”
“Suppose you take my father’s opinion, ma’am.”
“That’s well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas, as soon as he comes in, whether I can do without her.”
“As you please, ma’am, on that head; but I meant my father’s opinion as to the propriety of the invitation’s being accepted or not; and I think he will consider it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by Fanny, that being the first invitation it should be accepted.”
“I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very much surprised that Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all.”
There was nothing more to be said, or that could be said to any purpose, till Sir Thomas were present; but the subject involving, as it did, her own evening’s comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in Lady Bertram’s mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking in for a minute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room, she called him back again when he had almost closed the door, with “Sir Thomas, stop a moment—I have something to say to you.”
Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising her voice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came back. Her story began; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear herself the subject of any discussion with her uncle, was more than her nerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew—more anxious perhaps than she ought to be—for what was it after all whether she went or staid?—but if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and at last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly submissive and indifferent. Her cause meanwhile went on well. It began, on Lady Bertram’s part, with, “I have something to tell you that will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner!”
“Well,” said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise.
“Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?”
“She will be late,” said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch, “but what is your difficulty?”