Mrs Ravenhill, suddenly enlightened, was beginning to say something in praise of such a character, when Fanny interrupted her.
“No. He’s absurd, ridiculous!” she cried, and tore him to tatters.
This was at breakfast. Afterwards, when Millie was alone with her mother, she flew at her with questions. What did she think? Was it possible? Mrs Ravenhill was as much at sea as herself. Everything pointed to unlikelihood, yet nothing else seemed to explain those rushing words with which Fanny had painted a noble nature. They talked amazedly. The last person they would have expected! Mrs Ravenhill was more quickly reconciled than Millie.
“If she respects him, I have no fear; and what else can have attracted her? I hope he does not think of her fortune, but I should not suspect him.”
“No, no! But a man that she laughs at!”
“It is her revenge on her own heart. I can hardly fancy Milborough approving, still—in a year she will be her own mistress. And, after all, Millie, we may have gone too far. It may be no more than girlish enthusiasm. You know, as well as I, how quickly Fanny is stirred by what she admires, and, poor child, Thorpe has not too much of that! If I were you, I would say nothing to her until she speaks herself.”
Not a word did Fanny breathe, and perhaps was unconscious of having betrayed feeling. A suggestion made that she might not care to accompany Mrs Ravenhill and Millie for some shopping, she set aside, declaring that with fashion changing every week, she must make the most of being at head-quarters. Mrs Ravenhill satisfied herself by leaving word, unknown to her, that if Mr Elliot appeared they would be at home for tea. However, the precaution was useless, for he did not come, and Fanny made no remark.
By the next day, Mrs Ravenhill, now on the look-out for signs, convinced herself that her guest was restless, and earned off Millie. Fanny, left to herself, wandered about the house, and peeped over the stairs when a hesitating ring sounded, declaring that it must be his.
“He cannot even ring like other people, he turns it into an apology,” she cried, angry with every shortcoming. But when only a card followed the ring she grew uneasy, beginning to fear she knew not what, wandered on the landing, watched from the balcony. “This living?—he is in the tortures of doubt; so am I. It would make all the difference; perhaps provide him with a tongue, at least give me an excuse. An excuse! Now, Fanny the coward, Fanny the worldly”—she scourged herself with scorn—“what excuse do you want? You know him—that he is worth a hundred of those butterfly nonentities who are suggested as appropriate husbands—yet you have not the courage of your convictions.” Then, with a laugh, she relented from her fierceness. “When the courage of convictions includes something extremely like having to offer oneself, one may be forgiven hesitation—”
At this point Mr Elliot was announced, and Fanny coloured as furiously as if she had been caught in the act she was contemplating. She even descended to an untruth by implication of surprise.