son; whose modesty
had prevented her from understanding his attentions, and who was still
overpowered by the suddenness of addresses so wholly unexpected, and the
novelty of a situation which her fancy had never taken into account.

Must it not follow of course, that, when he was understood, he should
succeed? He believed it fully. Love such as his, in a man like himself,
must with perseverance secure a return, and at no great distance; and
he had so much delight in the idea of obliging her to love him in a very
short time, that her not loving him now was scarcely regretted. A little
difficulty to be overcome was no evil to Henry Crawford. He rather
derived spirits from it. He had been apt to gain hearts too easily. His
situation was new and animating.

To Fanny, however, who had known too much opposition all her life to
find any charm in it, all this was unintelligible. She found that he did
mean to persevere; but how he could, after such language from her as she
felt herself obliged to use, was not to be understood. She told him that
she did not love him, could not love him, was sure she never should love
him; that such a change was quite impossible; that the subject was most
painful to her; that she must entreat him never to mention it again, to
allow her to leave him at once, and let it be considered as concluded
for ever. And when farther pressed, had added, that in her opinion their
dispositions were so totally dissimilar as to make mutual affection
incompatible; and that they were unfitted for each other by nature,
education, and habit. All this she had said, and with the earnestness
of sincerity; yet this was not enough, for he immediately denied there
being anything uncongenial in their characters, or anything unfriendly
in their situations; and positively declared, that he would still love,
and still hope!

Fanny knew her own meaning, but was no judge of her own manner. Her
manner was incurably gentle; and she was not aware how much it concealed
the sternness of her purpose. Her diffidence, gratitude, and softness
made every expression of indifference seem almost an effort of
self-denial; seem, at least, to be giving nearly as much pain to herself
as to him. Mr. Crawford was no longer the Mr. Crawford who, as the
clandestine, insidious, treacherous admirer of Maria Bertram, had been
her abhorrence, whom she had hated to see or to speak to, in whom she
could believe no good quality to exist, and whose power,