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Title: The Garotters

Author: William D. Howells

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CHAPTER I

About thirty years ago Miss Maria Ward,
of Huntingdon,
with only seven thousand pounds,
had the good luck
to captivate Sir Thomas Bertram,
of Mansfield Park,
in the county of Northampton,
and
to be thereby raised
to the rank of a baronet's lady,
with all the comforts and consequences of an handsome house and large income.

All Huntingdon exclaimed on the greatness of the match,
and her uncle,
the lawyer,
himself,
allowed her
to be at least three thousand pounds short of any equitable claim
to it.

She had two sisters
to be benefited by her elevation;
and such of their acquaintance as thought Miss Ward and Miss Frances quite as handsome as Miss Maria,
did not scruple
to predict their marrying
with almost equal advantage.

But there certainly are not so many men of large fortune in the world as there are pretty women
to deserve them.

Miss Ward,
at the end of half a dozen years,
found herself obliged
to be attached
to the Rev.

Mr. Norris,
a friend of her brother-in-law,
with scarcely any private fortune,
and Miss Frances fared yet worse.

Miss Ward's match,
indeed,
when it came
to the point,
was not contemptible:

Sir Thomas being happily able
to give his friend an income in the living of Mansfield;
and Mr. and Mrs. Norris began their career of conjugal felicity
with very little less than a thousand a year.

But Miss Frances married,
in the common phrase,
to disoblige her family,
and by fixing on a lieutenant of marines,
without education,
fortune,
or connexions,
did it very thoroughly.

She could hardly have made a more untoward choice.

Sir Thomas Bertram had interest,
which,
from principle as well as pride--from a general wish of doing right,
and a desire of seeing all that were connected
with him in situations of respectability,
he would have been glad
to exert
for the advantage of Lady Bertram's sister;
but her husband's profession was such as no interest could reach;
and before he had time
to devise any other method of assisting them,
an absolute breach between the sisters had taken place.

It was the natural result of the conduct of each party,
and such as a very imprudent marriage almost always produces.

To save herself from useless remonstrance,
Mrs. Price never wrote
to her family on the subject till actually married.

Lady Bertram,
who was a woman of very tranquil feelings,
and a temper remarkably easy and indolent,
would have contented herself
with merely giving up her sister,
and thinking no more of the matter;
but Mrs. Norris had a spirit of activity,
which could not be satisfied till she had written a long and angry letter
to Fanny,
to point out the folly of her conduct,
and threaten her
with all its possible ill consequences.

Mrs. Price,
in her turn,
was injured and angry;
and an answer,
which comprehended each sister in its bitterness,
and bestowed such very disrespectful reflections on the pride of Sir Thomas as Mrs. Norris could not possibly keep
to herself,
put an end
to all intercourse between them
for a considerable period.

Their homes were so distant,
and the circles in which they moved so distinct,
as almost
to preclude the means of ever hearing of each other's existence during the eleven following years,
or,
at least,
to make it very wonderful
to Sir Thomas that Mrs. Norris should ever have it in her power
to tell them,
as she now and then did,
in an angry voice,
that Fanny had got another child.

By the end of eleven years,
however,
Mrs. Price could no longer afford
to cherish pride or resentment,
or
to lose one connexion that might possibly assist her.

A large and still increasing family,
an husband disabled
for active service,
but not the less equal
to company and good liquor,
and a very small income
to supply their wants,
made her eager
to regain the friends she had so carelessly sacrificed;
and she addressed Lady Bertram in a letter which spoke so much contrition and despondence,
such a superfluity of children,
and such a want of almost everything else,
as could not but dispose them all
to a reconciliation.

She was preparing
for her ninth lying-in;
and after bewailing the circumstance,
and imploring their countenance as sponsors
to the expected child,
she could not conceal how important she felt they might be
to the future maintenance of the eight already in being.

Her eldest was a boy of ten years old,
a fine spirited fellow,
who longed
to be out in the world;
but what could she do?

Was there any chance of his being hereafter useful
to Sir Thomas in the concerns of his West Indian property?

No situation would be beneath him;
or what did Sir Thomas think of Woolwich?

or how could a boy be sent out
to the East?

The letter was not unproductive.

It re-established peace and kindness.

Sir Thomas sent friendly advice and professions,
Lady Bertram dispatched money and baby-linen,
and Mrs. Norris wrote the letters.

Such were its immediate effects,
and within a twelvemonth a more important advantage
to Mrs. Price resulted from it.

Mrs. Norris was often observing
to the others that she could not get her poor sister and her family out of her head,
and that,
much as they had all done
for her,
she seemed
to be wanting
to do more;
and at length she could not but own it
to be her wish that poor Mrs. Price should be relieved from the charge and expense of one child entirely out of her great number.

"What if they were among them
to undertake the care of her eldest daughter,
a girl now nine years old,
of an age
to require more attention than her poor mother could possibly give?

The trouble and expense of it
to them would be nothing,
compared
with the benevolence of the action."



Lady Bertram agreed
with her instantly.

"I think we cannot do better,"
said she;
"let us send
for the child."



Sir Thomas could not give so instantaneous and unqualified a consent.

He debated and hesitated;--it was a serious charge;-- a girl so brought up must be adequately provided for,
or there would be cruelty instead of kindness in taking her from her family.

He thought of his own four children,
of his two sons,
of cousins in love,
etc.;--but no sooner had he deliberately begun
to state his objections,
than Mrs. Norris interrupted him
with a reply
to them all,
whether stated or not.

"My dear Sir Thomas,
I perfectly comprehend you,
and do justice
to the generosity and delicacy of your notions,
which indeed are quite of a piece
with your general conduct;
and I entirely agree
with you in the main as
to the propriety of doing everything one could by way of providing
for a child one had in a manner taken into one's own hands;
and I am sure I should be the last person in the world
to withhold my mite upon such an occasion.

Having no children of my own,
who should I look
to in any little matter I may ever have
to bestow,
but the children of my sisters?-- and I am sure Mr. Norris is too just--but you know I am a woman of few words and professions.

Do not let us be frightened from a good deed by a trifle.

Give a girl an education,
and introduce her properly into the world,
and ten
to one but she has the means of settling well,
without farther expense
to anybody.

A niece of ours,
Sir Thomas,
I may say,
or at least of _yours_,
would not grow up in this neighbourhood without many advantages.

I don't say she would be so handsome as her cousins.

I dare say she would not;
but she would be introduced into the society of this country under such very favourable circumstances as,
in all human probability,
would get her a creditable establishment.

You are thinking of your sons-- but do not you know that,
of all things upon earth,
_that_ is the least likely
to happen,
brought up as they would be,
always together like brothers and sisters?

It is morally impossible.

I never knew an instance of it.

It is,
in fact,
the only sure way of providing against the connexion.

Suppose her a pretty girl,
and seen by Tom or Edmund
for the first time seven years hence,
and I dare say there would be mischief.

The very idea of her having been suffered
to grow up at a distance from us all in poverty and neglect,
would be enough
to make either of the dear,
sweet-tempered boys in love
with her.

But breed her up
with them from this time,
and suppose her even
to have the beauty of an angel,
and she will never be more
to either than a sister."



"There is a great deal of truth in what you say,"
replied Sir Thomas,
"and far be it from me
to throw any fanciful impediment in the way of a plan which would be so consistent
with the relative situations of each.

I only meant
to observe that it ought not
to be lightly engaged in,
and that
to make it really serviceable
to Mrs. Price,
and creditable
to ourselves,
we must secure
to the child,
or consider ourselves engaged
to secure
to her hereafter,
as circumstances may arise,
the provision of a gentlewoman,
if no such establishment should offer as you are so sanguine in expecting."



"I thoroughly understand you,"
cried Mrs. Norris,
"you are everything that is generous and considerate,
and I am sure we shall never disagree on this point.

Whatever I can do,
as you well know,
I am always ready enough
to do
for the good of those I love;
and,
though I could never feel
for this little girl the hundredth part of the regard I bear your own dear children,
nor consider her,
in any respect,
so much my own,
I should hate myself if I were capable of neglecting her.

Is not she a sister's child?

and could I bear
to see her want while I had a bit of bread
to give her?

My dear Sir Thomas,
with all my faults I have a warm heart;
and,
poor as I am,
would rather deny myself the necessaries of life than do an ungenerous thing.

So,
if you are not against it,
I will write
to my poor sister tomorrow,
and make the proposal;
and,
as soon as matters are settled,
_I_ will engage
to get the child
to Mansfield;
_you_ shall have no trouble about it.

My own trouble,
you know,
I never regard.

I will send Nanny
to London on purpose,
and she may have a bed at her cousin the saddler's,
and the child be appointed
to meet her there.

They may easily get her from Portsmouth
to town by the coach,
under the care of any creditable person that may chance
to be going.

I dare say there is always some reputable tradesman's wife or other going up."



Except
to the attack on Nanny's cousin,
Sir Thomas no longer made any objection,
and a more respectable,
though less economical rendezvous being accordingly substituted,
everything was considered as settled,
and the pleasures of so benevolent a scheme were already enjoyed.

The division of gratifying sensations ought not,
in strict justice,
to have been equal;
for Sir Thomas was fully resolved
to be the real and consistent patron of the selected child,
and Mrs. Norris had not the least intention of being at any expense whatever in her maintenance.

As far as walking,
talking,
and contriving reached,
she was thoroughly benevolent,
and nobody knew better how
to dictate liberality
to others;
but her love of money was equal
to her love of directing,
and she knew quite as well how
to save her own as
to spend that of her friends.

Having married on a narrower income than she had been used
to look forward to,
she had,
from the first,
fancied a very strict line of economy necessary;
and what was begun as a matter of prudence,
soon grew into a matter of choice,
as an object of that needful solicitude which there were no children
to supply.

Had there been a family
to provide for,
Mrs. Norris might never have saved her money;
but having no care of that kind,
there was nothing
to impede her frugality,
or lessen the comfort of making a yearly addition
to an income which they had never lived up to.

Under this infatuating principle,
counteracted by no real affection
for her sister,
it was impossible
for her
to aim at more than the credit of projecting and arranging so expensive a charity;
though perhaps she might so little know herself as
to walk home
to the Parsonage,
after this conversation,
in the happy belief of being the most liberal-minded sister and aunt in the world.

When the subject was brought forward again,
her views were more fully explained;
and,
in reply
to Lady Bertram's calm inquiry of
"Where shall the child come
to first,
sister,
to you or
to us?"

Sir Thomas heard
with some surprise that it would be totally out of Mrs. Norris's power
to take any share in the personal charge of her.

He had been considering her as a particularly welcome addition at the Parsonage,
as a desirable companion
to an aunt who had no children of her own;
but he found himself wholly mistaken.

Mrs. Norris was sorry
to say that the little girl's staying
with them,
at least as things then were,
was quite out of the question.

Poor Mr. Norris's indifferent state of health made it an impossibility:

he could no more bear the noise of a child than he could fly;
if,
indeed,
he should ever get well of his gouty complaints,
it would be a different matter:

she should then be glad
to take her turn,
and think nothing of the inconvenience;
but just now,
poor Mr. Norris took up every moment of her time,
and the very mention of such a thing she was sure would distract him.

"Then she had better come
to us,"
said Lady Bertram,
with the utmost composure.

After a short pause Sir Thomas added
with dignity,
"Yes,
let her home be in this house.

We will endeavour
to do our duty by her,
and she will,
at least,
have the advantage of companions of her own age,
and of a regular instructress."



"Very true,"
cried Mrs. Norris,
"which are both very important considerations;
and it will be just the same
to Miss Lee whether she has three girls
to teach,
or only two--there can be no difference.

I only wish I could be more useful;
but you see I do all in my power.

I am not one of those that spare their own trouble;
and Nanny shall fetch her,
however it may put me
to inconvenience
to have my chief counsellor away
for three days.

I suppose,
sister,
you will put the child in the little white attic,
near the old nurseries.

It will be much the best place
for her,
so near Miss Lee,
and not far from the girls,
and close by the housemaids,
who could either of them help
to dress her,
you know,
and take care of her clothes,
for I suppose you would not think it fair
to expect Ellis
to wait on her as well as the others.

Indeed,
I do not see that you could possibly place her anywhere else."



Lady Bertram made no opposition.

"I hope she will prove a well-disposed girl,"
continued Mrs. Norris,
"and be sensible of her uncommon good fortune in having such friends."



"Should her disposition be really bad,"
said Sir Thomas,
"we must not,
for our own children's sake,
continue her in the family;
but there is no reason
to expect so great an evil.

We shall probably see much
to wish altered in her,
and must prepare ourselves
for gross ignorance,
some meanness of opinions,
and very distressing vulgarity of manner;
but these are not incurable faults;
nor,
I trust,
can they be dangerous
for her associates.

Had my daughters been _younger_ than herself,
I should have considered the introduction of such a companion as a matter of very serious moment;
but,
as it is,
I hope there can be nothing
to fear
for _them_,
and everything
to hope
for _her_,
from the association."



"That is exactly what I think,"
cried Mrs. Norris,
"and what I was saying
to my husband this morning.

It will be an education
for the child,
said I,
only being
with her cousins;
if Miss Lee taught her nothing,
she would learn
to be good and clever from _them_."



"I hope she will not tease my poor pug,"
said Lady Bertram;
"I have but just got Julia
to leave it alone."



"There will be some difficulty in our way,
Mrs. Norris,"
observed Sir Thomas,
"as
to the distinction proper
to be made between the girls as they grow up:

how
to preserve in the minds of my _daughters_ the consciousness of what they are,
without making them think too lowly of their cousin;
and how,
without depressing her spirits too far,
to make her remember that she is not a _Miss Bertram_.

I should wish
to see them very good friends,
and would,
on no account,
authorise in my girls the smallest degree of arrogance towards their relation;
but still they cannot be equals.

Their rank,
fortune,
rights,
and expectations will always be different.

It is a point of great delicacy,
and you must assist us in our endeavours
to choose exactly the right line of conduct."



Mrs. Norris was quite at his service;
and though she perfectly agreed
with him as
to its being a most difficult thing,
encouraged him
to hope that between them it would be easily managed.

It will be readily believed that Mrs. Norris did not write
to her sister in vain.

Mrs. Price seemed rather surprised that a girl should be fixed on,
when she had so many fine boys,
but accepted the offer most thankfully,
assuring them of her daughter's being a very well-disposed,
good-humoured girl,
and trusting they would never have cause
to throw her off.

She spoke of her farther as somewhat delicate and puny,
but was sanguine in the hope of her being materially better
for change of air.

Poor woman! she probably thought change of air might agree
with many of her children.

CHAPTER II The little girl performed her long journey in safety;
and at Northampton was met by Mrs. Norris,
who thus regaled in the credit of being foremost
to welcome her,
and in the importance of leading her in
to the others,
and recommending her
to their kindness.

Fanny Price was at this time just ten years old,
and though there might not be much in her first appearance
to captivate,
there was,
at least,
nothing
to disgust her relations.

She was small of her age,
with no glow of complexion,
nor any other striking beauty;
exceedingly timid and shy,
and shrinking from notice;
but her air,
though awkward,
was not vulgar,
her voice was sweet,
and when she spoke her countenance was pretty.

Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram received her very kindly;
and Sir Thomas,
seeing how much she needed encouragement,
tried
to be all that was conciliating:

but he had
to work against a most untoward gravity of deportment;
and Lady Bertram,
without taking half so much trouble,
or speaking one word where he spoke ten,
by the mere aid of a good-humoured smile,
became immediately the less awful character of the two.

The young people were all at home,
and sustained their share in the introduction very well,
with much good humour,
and no embarrassment,
at least on the part of the sons,
who,
at seventeen and sixteen,
and tall of their age,
had all the grandeur of men in the eyes of their little cousin.

The two girls were more at a loss from being younger and in greater awe of their father,
who addressed them on the occasion
with rather an injudicious particularity.

But they were too much used
to company and praise
to have anything like natural shyness;
and their confidence increasing from their cousin's total want of it,
they were soon able
to take a full survey of her face and her frock in easy indifference.

They were a remarkably fine family,
the sons very well-looking,
the daughters decidedly handsome,
and all of them well-grown and forward of their age,
which produced as striking a difference between the cousins in person,
as education had given
to their address;
and no one would have supposed the girls so nearly of an age as they really were.

There were in fact but two years between the youngest and Fanny.

Julia Bertram was only twelve,
and Maria but a year older.

The little visitor meanwhile was as unhappy as possible.

Afraid of everybody,
ashamed of herself,
and longing
for the home she had left,
she knew not how
to look up,
and could scarcely speak
to be heard,
or without crying.

Mrs. Norris had been talking
to her the whole way from Northampton of her wonderful good fortune,
and the extraordinary degree of gratitude and good behaviour which it ought
to produce,
and her consciousness of misery was therefore increased by the idea of its being a wicked thing
for her not
to be happy.

The fatigue,
too,
of so long a journey,
became soon no trifling evil.

In vain were the well-meant condescensions of Sir Thomas,
and all the officious prognostications of Mrs. Norris that she would be a good girl;
in vain did Lady Bertram smile and make her sit on the sofa
with herself and pug,
and vain was even the sight of a gooseberry tart towards giving her comfort;
she could scarcely swallow two mouthfuls before tears interrupted her,
and sleep seeming
to be her likeliest friend,
she was taken
to finish her sorrows in bed.

"This is not a very promising beginning,"
said Mrs. Norris,
when Fanny had left the room.

"After all that I said
to her as we came along,
I thought she would have behaved better;
I told her how much might depend upon her acquitting herself well at first.

I wish there may not be a little sulkiness of temper--her poor mother had a good deal;
but we must make allowances
for such a child--and I do not know that her being sorry
to leave her home is really against her,
for,
with all its faults,
it _was_ her home,
and she cannot as yet understand how much she has changed
for the better;
but then there is moderation in all things."



It required a longer time,
however,
than Mrs. Norris was inclined
to allow,
to reconcile Fanny
to the novelty of Mansfield Park,
and the separation from everybody she had been used to.

Her feelings were very acute,
and too little understood
to be properly attended to.

Nobody meant
to be unkind,
but nobody put themselves out of their way
to secure her comfort.

The holiday allowed
to the Miss Bertrams the next day,
on purpose
to afford leisure
for getting acquainted with,
and entertaining their young cousin,
produced little union.

They could not but hold her cheap on finding that she had but two sashes,
and had never learned French;
and when they perceived her
to be little struck
with the duet they were so good as
to play,
they could do no more than make her a generous present of some of their least valued toys,
and leave her
to herself,
while they adjourned
to whatever might be the favourite holiday sport of the moment,
making artificial flowers or wasting gold paper.

Fanny,
whether near or from her cousins,
whether in the schoolroom,
the drawing-room,
or the shrubbery,
was equally forlorn,
finding something
to fear in every person and place.

She was disheartened by Lady Bertram's silence,
awed by Sir Thomas's grave looks,
and quite overcome by Mrs. Norris's admonitions.

Her elder cousins mortified her by reflections on her size,
and abashed her by noticing her shyness:

Miss Lee wondered at her ignorance,
and the maid-servants sneered at her clothes;
and when
to these sorrows was added the idea of the brothers and sisters among whom she had always been important as playfellow,
instructress,
and nurse,
the despondence that sunk her little heart was severe.

The grandeur of the house astonished,
but could not console her.

The rooms were too large
for her
to move in
with ease:

whatever she touched she expected
to injure,
and she crept about in constant terror of something or other;
often retreating towards her own chamber
to cry;
and the little girl who was spoken of in the drawing-room when she left it at night as seeming so desirably sensible of her peculiar good fortune,
ended every day's sorrows by sobbing herself
to sleep.

A week had passed in this way,
and no suspicion of it conveyed by her quiet passive manner,
when she was found one morning by her cousin Edmund,
the youngest of the sons,
sitting crying on the attic stairs.

"My dear little cousin,"
said he,
with all the gentleness of an excellent nature,
"what can be the matter?"

And sitting down by her,
he was at great pains
to overcome her shame in being so surprised,
and persuade her
to speak openly.

Was she ill?

or was anybody angry
with her?

or had she quarrelled
with Maria and Julia?

or was she puzzled about anything in her lesson that he could explain?

Did she,
in short,
want anything he could possibly get her,
or do
for her?

For a long while no answer could be obtained beyond a
"no,
no--not at all--no,
thank you";
but he still persevered;
and no sooner had he begun
to revert
to her own home,
than her increased sobs explained
to him where the grievance lay.

He tried
to console her.

"You are sorry
to leave Mama,
my dear little Fanny,"
said he,
"which shows you
to be a very good girl;
but you must remember that you are
with relations and friends,
who all love you,
and wish
to make you happy.

Let us walk out in the park,
and you shall tell me all about your brothers and sisters."



On pursuing the subject,
he found that,
dear as all these brothers and sisters generally were,
there was one among them who ran more in her thoughts than the rest.

It was William whom she talked of most,
and wanted most
to see.

William,
the eldest,
a year older than herself,
her constant companion and friend;
her advocate
with her mother
(of whom he was the darling)
in every distress.

"William did not like she should come away;
he had told her he should miss her very much indeed."



"But William will write
to you,
I dare say."



"Yes,
he had promised he would,
but he had told _her_
to write first."



"And when shall you do it?"

She hung her head and answered hesitatingly,
"she did not know;
she had not any paper."



"If that be all your difficulty,
I will furnish you
with paper and every other material,
and you may write your letter whenever you choose.

Would it make you happy
to write
to William?"

"Yes,
very."



"Then let it be done now.

Come
with me into the breakfast-room,
we shall find everything there,
and be sure of having the room
to ourselves."



"But,
cousin,
will it go
to the post?"

"Yes,
depend upon me it shall:

it shall go
with the other letters;
and,
as your uncle will frank it,
it will cost William nothing."



"My uncle!"

repeated Fanny,
with a frightened look.

"Yes,
when you have written the letter,
I will take it
to my father
to frank."



Fanny thought it a bold measure,
but offered no further resistance;
and they went together into the breakfast-room,
where Edmund prepared her paper,
and ruled her lines
with all the goodwill that her brother could himself have felt,
and probably
with somewhat more exactness.

He continued
with her the whole time of her writing,
to assist her
with his penknife or his orthography,
as either were wanted;
and added
to these attentions,
which she felt very much,
a kindness
to her brother which delighted her beyond all the rest.

He wrote
with his own hand his love
to his cousin William,
and sent him half a guinea under the seal.

Fanny's feelings on the occasion were such as she believed herself incapable of expressing;
but her countenance and a few artless words fully conveyed all their gratitude and delight,
and her cousin began
to find her an interesting object.

He talked
to her more,
and,
from all that she said,
was convinced of her having an affectionate heart,
and a strong desire of doing right;
and he could perceive her
to be farther entitled
to attention by great sensibility of her situation,
and great timidity.

He had never knowingly given her pain,
but he now felt that she required more positive kindness;
and
with that view endeavoured,
in the first place,
to lessen her fears of them all,
and gave her especially a great deal of good advice as
to playing
with Maria and Julia,
and being as merry as possible.

From this day Fanny grew more comfortable.

She felt that she had a friend,
and the kindness of her cousin Edmund gave her better spirits
with everybody else.

The place became less strange,
and the people less formidable;
and if there were some amongst them whom she could not cease
to fear,
she began at least
to know their ways,
and
to catch the best manner of conforming
to them.

The little rusticities and awkwardnesses which had at first made grievous inroads on the tranquillity of all,
and not least of herself,
necessarily wore away,
and she was no longer materially afraid
to appear before her uncle,
nor did her aunt Norris's voice make her start very much.

To her cousins she became occasionally an acceptable companion.

Though unworthy,
from inferiority of age and strength,
to be their constant associate,
their pleasures and schemes were sometimes of a nature
to make a third very useful,
especially when that third was of an obliging,
yielding temper;
and they could not but own,
when their aunt inquired into her faults,
or their brother Edmund urged her claims
to their kindness,
that
"Fanny was good-natured enough."



Edmund was uniformly kind himself;
and she had nothing worse
to endure on the part of Tom than that sort of merriment which a young man of seventeen will always think fair
with a child of ten.

He was just entering into life,
full of spirits,
and
with all the liberal dispositions of an eldest son,
who feels born only
for expense and enjoyment.

His kindness
to his little cousin was consistent
with his situation and rights:

he made her some very pretty presents,
and laughed at her.

As her appearance and spirits improved,
Sir Thomas and Mrs. Norris thought
with greater satisfaction of their benevolent plan;
and it was pretty soon decided between them that,
though far from clever,
she showed a tractable disposition,
and seemed likely
to give them little trouble.

A mean opinion of her abilities was not confined
to _them_.

Fanny could read,
work,
and write,
but she had been taught nothing more;
and as her cousins found her ignorant of many things
with which they had been long familiar,
they thought her prodigiously stupid,
and
for the first two or three weeks were continually bringing some fresh report of it into the drawing-room.

"Dear mama,
only think,
my cousin cannot put the map of Europe together-- or my cousin cannot tell the principal rivers in Russia-- or,
she never heard of Asia Minor--or she does not know the difference between water-colours and crayons!-- How strange!--Did you ever hear anything so stupid?"

"My dear,"
their considerate aunt would reply,
"it is very bad,
but you must not expect everybody
to be as forward and quick at learning as yourself."



"But,
aunt,
she is really so very ignorant!--Do you know,
we asked her last night which way she would go
to get
to Ireland;
and she said,
she should cross
to the Isle of Wight.

She thinks of nothing but the Isle of Wight,
and she calls it _the_ _Island_,
as if there were no other island in the world.

I am sure I should have been ashamed of myself,
if I had not known better long before I was so old as she is.

I cannot remember the time when I did not know a great deal that she has not the least notion of yet.

How long ago it is,
aunt,
since we used
to repeat the chronological order of the kings of England,
with the dates of their accession,
and most of the principal events of their reigns!"

"Yes,"
added the other;
"and of the Roman emperors as low as Severus;
besides a great deal of the heathen mythology,
and all the metals,
semi-metals,
planets,
and distinguished philosophers."



"Very true indeed,
my dears,
but you are blessed
with wonderful memories,
and your poor cousin has probably none at all.

There is a vast deal of difference in memories,
as well as in everything else,
and therefore you must make allowance
for your cousin,
and pity her deficiency.

And remember that,
if you are ever so forward and clever yourselves,
you should always be modest;
for,
much as you know already,
there is a great deal more
for you
to learn."



"Yes,
I know there is,
till I am seventeen.

But I must tell you another thing of Fanny,
so odd and so stupid.

Do you know,
she says she does not want
to learn either music or drawing."



"To be sure,
my dear,
that is very stupid indeed,
and shows a great want of genius and emulation.

But,
all things considered,
I do not know whether it is not as well that it should be so,
for,
though you know
(owing
to me)
your papa and mama are so good as
to bring her up
with you,
it is not at all necessary that she should be as accomplished as you are;--on the contrary,
it is much more desirable that there should be a difference."



Such were the counsels by which Mrs. Norris assisted
to form her nieces'
minds;
and it is not very wonderful that,
with all their promising talents and early information,
they should be entirely deficient in the less common acquirements of self-knowledge,
generosity and humility.

In everything but disposition they were admirably taught.

Sir Thomas did not know what was wanting,
because,
though a truly anxious father,
he was not outwardly affectionate,
and the reserve of his manner repressed all the flow of their spirits before him.

To the education of her daughters Lady Bertram paid not the smallest attention.

She had not time
for such cares.

She was a woman who spent her days in sitting,
nicely dressed,
on a sofa,
doing some long piece of needlework,
of little use and no beauty,
thinking more of her pug than her children,
but very indulgent
to the latter when it did not put herself
to inconvenience,
guided in everything important by Sir Thomas,
and in smaller concerns by her sister.

Had she possessed greater leisure
for the service of her girls,
she would probably have supposed it unnecessary,
for they were under the care of a governess,
with proper masters,
and could want nothing more.

As
for Fanny's being stupid at learning,
"she could only say it was very unlucky,
but some people _were_ stupid,
and Fanny must take more pains:

she did not know what else was
to be done;
and,
except her being so dull,
she must add she saw no harm in the poor little thing,
and always found her very handy and quick in carrying messages,
and fetching,
what she wanted."



Fanny,
with all her faults of ignorance and timidity,
was fixed at Mansfield Park,
and learning
to transfer in its favour much of her attachment
to her former home,
grew up there not unhappily among her cousins.

There was no positive ill-nature in Maria or Julia;
and though Fanny was often mortified by their treatment of her,
she thought too lowly of her own claims
to feel injured by it.

From about the time of her entering the family,
Lady Bertram,
in consequence of a little ill-health,
and a great deal of indolence,
gave up the house in town,
which she had been used
to occupy every spring,
and remained wholly in the country,
leaving Sir Thomas
to attend his duty in Parliament,
with whatever increase or diminution of comfort might arise from her absence.

In the country,
therefore,
the Miss Bertrams continued
to exercise their memories,
practise their duets,
and grow tall and womanly:

and their father saw them becoming in person,
manner,
and accomplishments,
everything that could satisfy his anxiety.

His eldest son was careless and extravagant,
and had already given him much uneasiness;
but his other children promised him nothing but good.

His daughters,
he felt,
while they retained the name of Bertram,
must be giving it new grace,
and in quitting it,
he trusted,
would extend its respectable alliances;
and the character of Edmund,
his strong good sense and uprightness of mind,
bid most fairly
for utility,
honour,
and happiness
to himself and all his connexions.

He was
to be a clergyman.

Amid the cares and the complacency which his own children suggested,
Sir Thomas did not forget
to do what he could
for the children of Mrs. Price:

he assisted her liberally in the education and disposal of her sons as they became old enough
for a determinate pursuit;
and Fanny,
though almost totally separated from her family,
was sensible of the truest satisfaction in hearing of any kindness towards them,
or of anything at all promising in their situation or conduct.

Once,
and once only,
in the course of many years,
had she the happiness of being
with William.

Of the rest she saw nothing:

nobody seemed
to think of her ever going amongst them again,
even
for a visit,
nobody at home seemed
to want her;
but William determining,
soon after her removal,
to be a sailor,
was invited
to spend a week
with his sister in Northamptonshire before he went
to sea.

Their eager affection in meeting,
their exquisite delight in being together,
their hours of happy mirth,
and moments of serious conference,
may be imagined;
as well as the sanguine views and spirits of the boy even
to the last,
and the misery of the girl when he left her.

Luckily the visit happened in the Christmas holidays,
when she could directly look
for comfort
to her cousin Edmund;
and he told her such charming things of what William was
to do,
and be hereafter,
in consequence of his profession,
as made her gradually admit that the separation might have some use.

Edmund's friendship never failed her:

his leaving Eton
for Oxford made no change in his kind dispositions,
and only afforded more frequent opportunities of proving them.

Without any display of doing more than the rest,
or any fear of doing too much,
he was always true
to her interests,
and considerate of her feelings,
trying
to make her good qualities understood,
and
to conquer the diffidence which prevented their being more apparent;
giving her advice,
consolation,
and encouragement.

Kept back as she was by everybody else,
his single support could not bring her forward;
but his attentions were otherwise of the highest importance in assisting the improvement of her mind,
and extending its pleasures.

He knew her
to be clever,
to have a quick apprehension as well as good sense,
and a fondness
for reading,
which,
properly directed,
must be an education in itself.

Miss Lee taught her French,
and heard her read the daily portion of history;
but he recommended the books which charmed her leisure hours,
he encouraged her taste,
and corrected her judgment:

he made reading useful by talking
to her of what she read,
and heightened its attraction by judicious praise.

In return
for such services she loved him better than anybody in the world except William:

her heart was divided between the two.

CHAPTER III The first event of any importance in the family was the death of Mr. Norris,
which happened when Fanny was about fifteen,
and necessarily introduced alterations and novelties.

Mrs. Norris,
on quitting the Parsonage,
removed first
to the Park,
and afterwards
to a small house of Sir Thomas's in the village,
and consoled herself
for the loss of her husband by considering that she could do very well without him;
and
for her reduction of income by the evident necessity of stricter economy.

The living was hereafter
for Edmund;
and,
had his uncle died a few years sooner,
it would have been duly given
to some friend
to hold till he were old enough
for orders.

But Tom's extravagance had,
previous
to that event,
been so great as
to render a different disposal of the next presentation necessary,
and the younger brother must help
to pay
for the pleasures of the elder.

There was another family living actually held
for Edmund;
but though this circumstance had made the arrangement somewhat easier
to Sir Thomas's conscience,
he could not but feel it
to be an act of injustice,
and he earnestly tried
to impress his eldest son
with the same conviction,
in the hope of its producing a better effect than anything he had yet been able
to say or do.

"I blush
for you,
Tom,"
said he,
in his most dignified manner;
"I blush
for the expedient which I am driven on,
and I trust I may pity your feelings as a brother on the occasion.

You have robbed Edmund
for ten,
twenty,
thirty years,
perhaps
for life,
of more than half the income which ought
to be his.

It may hereafter be in my power,
or in yours
(I hope it will),
to procure him better preferment;
but it must not be forgotten that no benefit of that sort would have been beyond his natural claims on us,
and that nothing can,
in fact,
be an equivalent
for the certain advantage which he is now obliged
to forego through the urgency of your debts."



Tom listened
with some shame and some sorrow;
but escaping as quickly as possible,
could soon
with cheerful selfishness reflect,
firstly,
that he had not been half so much in debt as some of his friends;
secondly,
that his father had made a most tiresome piece of work of it;
and,
thirdly,
that the future incumbent,
whoever he might be,
would,
in all probability,
die very soon.

On Mr. Norris's death the presentation became the right of a Dr. Grant,
who came consequently
to reside at Mansfield;
and on proving
to be a hearty man of forty-five,
seemed likely
to disappoint Mr. Bertram's calculations.

But
"no,
he was a short-necked,
apoplectic sort of fellow,
and,
plied well
with good things,
would soon pop off."



He had a wife about fifteen years his junior,
but no children;
and they entered the neighbourhood
with the usual fair report of being very respectable,
agreeable people.

The time was now come when Sir Thomas expected his sister-in-law
to claim her share in their niece,
the change in Mrs. Norris's situation,
and the improvement in Fanny's age,
seeming not merely
to do away any former objection
to their living together,
but even
to give it the most decided eligibility;
and as his own circumstances were rendered less fair than heretofore,
by some recent losses on his West India estate,
in addition
to his eldest son's extravagance,
it became not undesirable
to himself
to be relieved from the expense of her support,
and the obligation of her future provision.

In the fullness of his belief that such a thing must be,
he mentioned its probability
to his wife;
and the first time of the subject's occurring
to her again happening
to be when Fanny was present,
she calmly observed
to her,
"So,
Fanny,
you are going
to leave us,
and live
with my sister.

How shall you like it?"

Fanny was too much surprised
to do more than repeat her aunt's words,
"Going
to leave you?"

"Yes,
my dear;
why should you be astonished?

You have been five years
with us,
and my sister always meant
to take you when Mr. Norris died.

But you must come up and tack on my patterns all the same."



The news was as disagreeable
to Fanny as it had been unexpected.

She had never received kindness from her aunt Norris,
and could not love her.

"I shall be very sorry
to go away,"
said she,
with a faltering voice.

"Yes,
I dare say you will;
_that's_ natural enough.

I suppose you have had as little
to vex you since you came into this house as any creature in the world."



"I hope I am not ungrateful,
aunt,"
said Fanny modestly.

"No,
my dear;
I hope not.

I have always found you a very good girl."



"And am I never
to live here again?"

"Never,
my dear;
but you are sure of a comfortable home.

It can make very little difference
to you,
whether you are in one house or the other."



Fanny left the room
with a very sorrowful heart;
she could not feel the difference
to be so small,
she could not think of living
with her aunt
with anything like satisfaction.

As soon as she met
with Edmund she told him her distress.

"Cousin,"
said she,
"something is going
to happen which I do not like at all;
and though you have often persuaded me into being reconciled
to things that I disliked at first,
you will not be able
to do it now.

I am going
to live entirely
with my aunt Norris."



"Indeed!"

"Yes;
my aunt Bertram has just told me so.

It is quite settled.

I am
to leave Mansfield Park,
and go
to the White House,
I suppose,
as soon as she is removed there."



"Well,
Fanny,
and if the plan were not unpleasant
to you,
I should call it an excellent one."



"Oh,
cousin!"

"It has everything else in its favour.

My aunt is acting like a sensible woman in wishing
for you.

She is choosing a friend and companion exactly where she ought,
and I am glad her love of money does not interfere.

You will be what you ought
to be
to her.

I hope it does not distress you very much,
Fanny?"

"Indeed it does:

I cannot like it.

I love this house and everything in it:

I shall love nothing there.

You know how uncomfortable I feel
with her."



"I can say nothing
for her manner
to you as a child;
but it was the same
with us all,
or nearly so.

She never knew how
to be pleasant
to children.

But you are now of an age
to be treated better;
I think she is behaving better already;
and when you are her only companion,
you _must_ be important
to her."



"I can never be important
to any one."



"What is
to prevent you?"

"Everything.

My situation,
my foolishness and awkwardness."



"As
to your foolishness and awkwardness,
my dear Fanny,
believe me,
you never have a shadow of either,
but in using the words so improperly.

There is no reason in the world why you should not be important where you are known.

You have good sense,
and a sweet temper,
and I am sure you have a grateful heart,
that could never receive kindness without wishing
to return it.

I do not know any better qualifications
for a friend and companion."



"You are too kind,"
said Fanny,
colouring at such praise;
"how shall I ever thank you as I ought,
for thinking so well of me.

Oh! cousin,
if I am
to go away,
I shall remember your goodness
to the last moment of my life."



"Why,
indeed,
Fanny,
I should hope
to be remembered at such a distance as the White House.

You speak as if you were going two hundred miles off instead of only across the park;
but you will belong
to us almost as much as ever.

The two families will be meeting every day in the year.

The only difference will be that,
living
with your aunt,
you will necessarily be brought forward as you ought
to be.

_Here_ there are too many whom you can hide behind;
but
with _her_ you will be forced
to speak
for yourself."



"Oh! I do not say so."



"I must say it,
and say it
with pleasure.

Mrs. Norris is much better fitted than my mother
for having the charge of you now.

She is of a temper
to do a great deal
for anybody she really interests herself about,
and she will force you
to do justice
to your natural powers."



Fanny sighed,
and said,
"I cannot see things as you do;
but I ought
to believe you
to be right rather than myself,
and I am very much obliged
to you
for trying
to reconcile me
to what must be.

If I could suppose my aunt really
to care
for me,
it would be delightful
to feel myself of consequence
to anybody.

_Here_,
I know,
I am of none,
and yet I love the place so well."



"The place,
Fanny,
is what you will not quit,
though you quit the house.

You will have as free a command of the park and gardens as ever.

Even _your_ constant little heart need not take fright at such a nominal change.

You will have the same walks
to frequent,
the same library
to choose from,
the same people
to look at,
the same horse
to ride."



"Very true.

Yes,
dear old grey pony! Ah! cousin,
when I remember how much I used
to dread riding,
what terrors it gave me
to hear it talked of as likely
to do me good
(oh! how I have trembled at my uncle's opening his lips if horses were talked of),
and then think of the kind pains you took
to reason and persuade me out of my fears,
and convince me that I should like it after a little while,
and feel how right you proved
to be,
I am inclined
to hope you may always prophesy as well."



"And I am quite convinced that your being
with Mrs. Norris will be as good
for your mind as riding has been
for your health,
and as much
for your ultimate happiness too."



So ended their discourse,
which,
for any very appropriate service it could render Fanny,
might as well have been spared,
for Mrs. Norris had not the smallest intention of taking her.

It had never occurred
to her,
on the present occasion,
but as a thing
to be carefully avoided.

To prevent its being expected,
she had fixed on the smallest habitation which could rank as genteel among the buildings of Mansfield parish,
the White House being only just large enough
to receive herself and her servants,
and allow a spare room
for a friend,
of which she made a very particular point.

The spare rooms at the Parsonage had never been wanted,
but the absolute necessity of a spare room
for a friend was now never forgotten.

Not all her precautions,
however,
could save her from being suspected of something better;
or,
perhaps,
her very display of the importance of a spare room might have misled Sir Thomas
to suppose it really intended
for Fanny.

Lady Bertram soon brought the matter
to a certainty by carelessly observing
to Mrs. Norris--
"I think,
sister,
we need not keep Miss Lee any longer,
when Fanny goes
to live
with you."



Mrs. Norris almost started.

"Live
with me,
dear Lady Bertram! what do you mean?"

"Is she not
to live
with you?

I thought you had settled it
with Sir Thomas."



"Me! never.

I never spoke a syllable about it
to Sir Thomas,
nor he
to me.

Fanny live
with me! the last thing in the world
for me
to think of,
or
for anybody
to wish that really knows us both.

Good heaven! what could I do
with Fanny?

Me! a poor,
helpless,
forlorn widow,
unfit
for anything,
my spirits quite broke down;
what could I do
with a girl at her time of life?

A girl of fifteen! the very age of all others
to need most attention and care,
and put the cheerfullest spirits
to the test! Sure Sir Thomas could not seriously expect such a thing! Sir Thomas is too much my friend.

Nobody that wishes me well,
I am sure,
would propose it.

How came Sir Thomas
to speak
to you about it?"

"Indeed,
I do not know.

I suppose he thought it best."



"But what did he say?

He could not say he _wished_ me
to take Fanny.

I am sure in his heart he could not wish me
to do it."



"No;
he only said he thought it very likely;
and I thought so too.

We both thought it would be a comfort
to you.

But if you do not like it,
there is no more
to be said.

She is no encumbrance here."



"Dear sister,
if you consider my unhappy state,
how can she be any comfort
to me?

Here am I,
a poor desolate widow,
deprived of the best of husbands,
my health gone in attending and nursing him,
my spirits still worse,
all my peace in this world destroyed,
with hardly enough
to support me in the rank of a gentlewoman,
and enable me
to live so as not
to disgrace the memory of the dear departed-- what possible comfort could I have in taking such a charge upon me as Fanny?

If I could wish it
for my own sake,
I would not do so unjust a thing by the poor girl.

She is in good hands,
and sure of doing well.

I must struggle through my sorrows and difficulties as I can."



"Then you will not mind living by yourself quite alone?"

"Lady Bertram,
I do not complain.

I know I cannot live as I have done,
but I must retrench where I can,
and learn
to be a better manager.

I _have_ _been_ a liberal housekeeper enough,
but I shall not be ashamed
to practise economy now.

My situation is as much altered as my income.

A great many things were due from poor Mr. Norris,
as clergyman of the parish,
that cannot be expected from me.

It is unknown how much was consumed in our kitchen by odd comers and goers.

At the White House,
matters must be better looked after.

I _must_ live within my income,
or I shall be miserable;
and I own it would give me great satisfaction
to be able
to do rather more,
to lay by a little at the end of the year."



"I dare say you will.

You always do,
don't you?"

"My object,
Lady Bertram,
is
to be of use
to those that come after me.

It is
for your children's good that I wish
to be richer.

I have nobody else
to care for,
but I should be very glad
to think I could leave a little trifle among them worth their having."



"You are very good,
but do not trouble yourself about them.

They are sure of being well provided for.

Sir Thomas will take care of that."



"Why,
you know,
Sir Thomas's means will be rather straitened if the Antigua estate is
to make such poor returns."



"Oh! _that_ will soon be settled.

Sir Thomas has been writing about it,
I know."



"Well,
Lady Bertram,"
said Mrs. Norris,
moving
to go,
"I can only say that my sole desire is
to be of use
to your family:

and so,
if Sir Thomas should ever speak again about my taking Fanny,
you will be able
to say that my health and spirits put it quite out of the question;
besides that,
I really should not have a bed
to give her,
for I must keep a spare room
for a friend."



Lady Bertram repeated enough of this conversation
to her husband
to convince him how much he had mistaken his sister-in-law's views;
and she was from that moment perfectly safe from all expectation,
or the slightest allusion
to it from him.

He could not but wonder at her refusing
to do anything
for a niece whom she had been so forward
to adopt;
but,
as she took early care
to make him,
as well as Lady Bertram,
understand that whatever she possessed was designed
for their family,
he soon grew reconciled
to a distinction which,
at the same time that it was advantageous and complimentary
to them,
would enable him better
to provide
for Fanny himself.

Fanny soon learnt how unnecessary had been her fears of a removal;
and her spontaneous,
untaught felicity on the discovery,
conveyed some consolation
to Edmund
for his disappointment in what he had expected
to be so essentially serviceable
to her.

Mrs. Norris took possession of the White House,
the Grants arrived at the Parsonage,
and these events over,
everything at Mansfield went on
for some time as usual.

The Grants showing a disposition
to be friendly and sociable,
gave great satisfaction in the main among their new acquaintance.

They had their faults,
and Mrs. Norris soon found them out.

The Doctor was very fond of eating,
and would have a good dinner every day;
and Mrs. Grant,
instead of contriving
to gratify him at little expense,
gave her cook as high wages as they did at Mansfield Park,
and was scarcely ever seen in her offices.

Mrs. Norris could not speak
with any temper of such grievances,
nor of the quantity of butter and eggs that were regularly consumed in the house.

"Nobody loved plenty and hospitality more than herself;
nobody more hated pitiful doings;
the Parsonage,
she believed,
had never been wanting in comforts of any sort,
had never borne a bad character in _her_ _time_,
but this was a way of going on that she could not understand.

A fine lady in a country parsonage was quite out of place.

_Her_ store-room,
she thought,
might have been good enough
for Mrs. Grant
to go into.

Inquire where she would,
she could not find out that Mrs. Grant had ever had more than five thousand pounds."



Lady Bertram listened without much interest
to this sort of invective.

She could not enter into the wrongs of an economist,
but she felt all the injuries of beauty in Mrs. Grant's being so well settled in life without being handsome,
and expressed her astonishment on that point almost as often,
though not so diffusely,
as Mrs. Norris discussed the other.

These opinions had been hardly canvassed a year before another event arose of such importance in the family,
as might fairly claim some place in the thoughts and conversation of the ladies.

Sir Thomas found it expedient
to go
to Antigua himself,
for the better arrangement of his affairs,
and he took his eldest son
with him,
in the hope of detaching him from some bad connexions at home.

They left England
with the probability of being nearly a twelvemonth absent.

The necessity of the measure in a pecuniary light,
and the hope of its utility
to his son,
reconciled Sir Thomas
to the effort of quitting the rest of his family,
and of leaving his daughters
to the direction of others at their present most interesting time of life.

He could not think Lady Bertram quite equal
to supply his place
with them,
or rather,
to perform what should have been her own;
but,
in Mrs. Norris's watchful attention,
and in Edmund's judgment,
he had sufficient confidence
to make him go without fears
for their conduct.

Lady Bertram did not at all like
to have her husband leave her;
but she was not disturbed by any alarm
for his safety,
or solicitude
for his comfort,
being one of those persons who think nothing can be dangerous,
or difficult,
or fatiguing
to anybody but themselves.

The Miss Bertrams were much
to be pitied on the occasion:

not
for their sorrow,
but
for their want of it.

Their father was no object of love
to them;
he had never seemed the friend of their pleasures,
and his absence was unhappily most welcome.

They were relieved by it from all restraint;
and without aiming at one gratification that would probably have been forbidden by Sir Thomas,
they felt themselves immediately at their own disposal,
and
to have every indulgence within their reach.

Fanny's relief,
and her consciousness of it,
were quite equal
to her cousins';
but a more tender nature suggested that her feelings were ungrateful,
and she really grieved because she could not grieve.

"Sir Thomas,
who had done so much
for her and her brothers,
and who was gone perhaps never
to return! that she should see him go without a tear! it was a shameful insensibility."



He had said
to her,
moreover,
on the very last morning,
that he hoped she might see William again in the course of the ensuing winter,
and had charged her
to write and invite him
to Mansfield as soon as the squadron
to which he belonged should be known
to be in England.

"This was so thoughtful and kind!"

and would he only have smiled upon her,
and called her
"my dear Fanny,"
while he said it,
every former frown or cold address might have been forgotten.

But he had ended his speech in a way
to sink her in sad mortification,
by adding,
"If William does come
to Mansfield,
I hope you may be able
to convince him that the many years which have passed since you parted have not been spent on your side entirely without improvement;
though,
I fear,
he must find his sister at sixteen in some respects too much like his sister at ten."



She cried bitterly over this reflection when her uncle was gone;
and her cousins,
on seeing her
with red eyes,
set her down as a hypocrite.

CHAPTER IV Tom Bertram had of late spent so little of his time at home that he could be only nominally missed;
and Lady Bertram was soon astonished
to find how very well they did even without his father,
how well Edmund could supply his place in carving,
talking
to the steward,
writing
to the attorney,
settling
with the servants,
and equally saving her from all possible fatigue or exertion in every particular but that of directing her letters.

The earliest intelligence of the travellers'
safe arrival at Antigua,
after a favourable voyage,
was received;
though not before Mrs. Norris had been indulging in very dreadful fears,
and trying
to make Edmund participate them whenever she could get him alone;
and as she depended on being the first person made acquainted
with any fatal catastrophe,
she had already arranged the manner of breaking it
to all the others,
when Sir Thomas's assurances of their both being alive and well made it necessary
to lay by her agitation and affectionate preparatory speeches
for a while.

The winter came and passed without their being called for;
the accounts continued perfectly good;
and Mrs. Norris,
in promoting gaieties
for her nieces,
assisting their toilets,
displaying their accomplishments,
and looking about
for their future husbands,
had so much
to do as,
in addition
to all her own household cares,
some interference in those of her sister,
and Mrs. Grant's wasteful doings
to overlook,
left her very little occasion
to be occupied in fears
for the absent.

The Miss Bertrams were now fully established among the belles of the neighbourhood;
and as they joined
to beauty and brilliant acquirements a manner naturally easy,
and carefully formed
to general civility and obligingness,
they possessed its favour as well as its admiration.

Their vanity was in such good order that they seemed
to be quite free from it,
and gave themselves no airs;
while the praises attending such behaviour,
secured and brought round by their aunt,
served
to strengthen them in believing they had no faults.

Lady Bertram did not go into public
with her daughters.

She was too indolent even
to accept a mother's gratification in witnessing their success and enjoyment at the expense of any personal trouble,
and the charge was made over
to her sister,
who desired nothing better than a post of such honourable representation,
and very thoroughly relished the means it afforded her of mixing in society without having horses
to hire.

Fanny had no share in the festivities of the season;
but she enjoyed being avowedly useful as her aunt's companion when they called away the rest of the family;
and,
as Miss Lee had left Mansfield,
she naturally became everything
to Lady Bertram during the night of a ball or a party.

She talked
to her,
listened
to her,
read
to her;
and the tranquillity of such evenings,
her perfect security in such a _tete-a-tete_ from any sound of unkindness,
was unspeakably welcome
to a mind which had seldom known a pause in its alarms or embarrassments.

As
to her cousins'
gaieties,
she loved
to hear an account of them,
especially of the balls,
and whom Edmund had danced with;
but thought too lowly of her own situation
to imagine she should ever be admitted
to the same,
and listened,
therefore,
without an idea of any nearer concern in them.

Upon the whole,
it was a comfortable winter
to her;
for though it brought no William
to England,
the never-failing hope of his arrival was worth much.

The ensuing spring deprived her of her valued friend,
the old grey pony;
and
for some time she was in danger of feeling the loss in her health as well as in her affections;
for in spite of the acknowledged importance of her riding on horse-back,
no measures were taken
for mounting her again,
"because,"
as it was observed by her aunts,
"she might ride one of her cousin's horses at any time when they did not want them,"
and as the Miss Bertrams regularly wanted their horses every fine day,
and had no idea of carrying their obliging manners
to the sacrifice of any real pleasure,
that time,
of course,
never came.

They took their cheerful rides in the fine mornings of April and May;
and Fanny either sat at home the whole day
with one aunt,
or walked beyond her strength at the instigation of the other:

Lady Bertram holding exercise
to be as unnecessary
for everybody as it was unpleasant
to herself;
and Mrs. Norris,
who was walking all day,
thinking everybody ought
to walk as much.

Edmund was absent at this time,
or the evil would have been earlier remedied.

When he returned,
to understand how Fanny was situated,
and perceived its ill effects,
there seemed
with him but one thing
to be done;
and that
"Fanny must have a horse"
was the resolute declaration
with which he opposed whatever could be urged by the supineness of his mother,
or the economy of his aunt,
to make it appear unimportant.

Mrs. Norris could not help thinking that some steady old thing might be found among the numbers belonging
to the Park that would do vastly well;
or that one might be borrowed of the steward;
or that perhaps Dr. Grant might now and then lend them the pony he sent
to the post.

She could not but consider it as absolutely unnecessary,
and even improper,
that Fanny should have a regular lady's horse of her own,
in the style of her cousins.

She was sure Sir Thomas had never intended it:

and she must say that,
to be making such a purchase in his absence,
and adding
to the great expenses of his stable,
at a time when a large part of his income was unsettled,
seemed
to her very unjustifiable.

"Fanny must have a horse,"
was Edmund's only reply.

Mrs. Norris could not see it in the same light.

Lady Bertram did:

she entirely agreed
with her son as
to the necessity of it,
and as
to its being considered necessary by his father;
she only pleaded against there being any hurry;
she only wanted him
to wait till Sir Thomas's return,
and then Sir Thomas might settle it all himself.

He would be at home in September,
and where would be the harm of only waiting till September?

Though Edmund was much more displeased
with his aunt than
with his mother,
as evincing least regard
for her niece,
he could not help paying more attention
to what she said;
and at length determined on a method of proceeding which would obviate the risk of his father's thinking he had done too much,
and at the same time procure
for Fanny the immediate means of exercise,
which he could not bear she should be without.

He had three horses of his own,
but not one that would carry a woman.

Two of them were hunters;
the third,
a useful road-horse:

this third he resolved
to exchange
for one that his cousin might ride;
he knew where such a one was
to be met with;
and having once made up his mind,
the whole business was soon completed.

The new mare proved a treasure;
with a very little trouble she became exactly calculated
for the purpose,
and Fanny was then put in almost full possession of her.

She had not supposed before that anything could ever suit her like the old grey pony;
but her delight in Edmund's mare was far beyond any former pleasure of the sort;
and the addition it was ever receiving in the consideration of that kindness from which her pleasure sprung,
was beyond all her words
to express.

She regarded her cousin as an example of everything good and great,
as possessing worth which no one but herself could ever appreciate,
and as entitled
to such gratitude from her as no feelings could be strong enough
to pay.

Her sentiments towards him were compounded of all that was respectful,
grateful,
confiding,
and tender.

As the horse continued in name,
as well as fact,
the property of Edmund,
Mrs. Norris could tolerate its being
for Fanny's use;
and had Lady Bertram ever thought about her own objection again,
he might have been excused in her eyes
for not waiting till Sir Thomas's return in September,
for when September came Sir Thomas was still abroad,
and without any near prospect of finishing his business.

Unfavourable circumstances had suddenly arisen at a moment when he was beginning
to turn all his thoughts towards England;
and the very great uncertainty in which everything was then involved determined him on sending home his son,
and waiting the final arrangement by himself Tom arrived safely,
bringing an excellent account of his father's health;
but
to very little purpose,
as far as Mrs. Norris was concerned.

Sir Thomas's sending away his son seemed
to her so like a parent's care,
under the influence of a foreboding of evil
to himself,
that she could not help feeling dreadful presentiments;
and as the long evenings of autumn came on,
was so terribly haunted by these ideas,
in the sad solitariness of her cottage,
as
to be obliged
to take daily refuge in the dining-room of the Park.

The return of winter engagements,
however,
was not without its effect;
and in the course of their progress,
her mind became so pleasantly occupied in superintending the fortunes of her eldest niece,
as tolerably
to quiet her nerves.

"If poor Sir Thomas were fated never
to return,
it would be peculiarly consoling
to see their dear Maria well married,"
she very often thought;
always when they were in the company of men of fortune,
and particularly on the introduction of a young man who had recently succeeded
to one of the largest estates and finest places in the country.

Mr. Rushworth was from the first struck
with the beauty of Miss Bertram,
and,
being inclined
to marry,
soon fancied himself in love.

He was a heavy young man,
with not more than common sense;
but as there was nothing disagreeable in his figure or address,
the young lady was well pleased
with her conquest.

Being now in her twenty-first year,
Maria Bertram was beginning
to think matrimony a duty;
and as a marriage
with Mr. Rushworth would give her the enjoyment of a larger income than her father's,
as well as ensure her the house in town,
which was now a prime object,
it became,
by the same rule of moral obligation,
her evident duty
to marry Mr. Rushworth if she could.

Mrs. Norris was most zealous in promoting the match,
by every suggestion and contrivance likely
to enhance its desirableness
to either party;
and,
among other means,
by seeking an intimacy
with the gentleman's mother,
who at present lived
with him,
and
to whom she even forced Lady Bertram
to go through ten miles of indifferent road
to pay a morning visit.

It was not long before a good understanding took place between this lady and herself.

Mrs. Rushworth acknowledged herself very desirous that her son should marry,
and declared that of all the young ladies she had ever seen,
Miss Bertram seemed,
by her amiable qualities and accomplishments,
the best adapted
to make him happy.

Mrs. Norris accepted the compliment,
and admired the nice discernment of character which could so well distinguish merit.

Maria was indeed the pride and delight of them all--perfectly faultless-- an angel;
and,
of course,
so surrounded by admirers,
must be difficult in her choice:

but yet,
as far as Mrs. Norris could allow herself
to decide on so short an acquaintance,
Mr. Rushworth appeared precisely the young man
to deserve and attach her.

After dancing
with each other at a proper number of balls,
the young people justified these opinions,
and an engagement,
with a due reference
to the absent Sir Thomas,
was entered into,
much
to the satisfaction of their respective families,
and of the general lookers-on of the neighbourhood,
who had,
for many weeks past,
felt the expediency of Mr. Rushworth's marrying Miss Bertram.

It was some months before Sir Thomas's consent could be received;
but,
in the meanwhile,
as no one felt a doubt of his most cordial pleasure in the connexion,
the intercourse of the two families was carried on without restraint,
and no other attempt made at secrecy than Mrs. Norris's talking of it everywhere as a matter not
to be talked of at present.

Edmund was the only one of the family who could see a fault in the business;
but no representation of his aunt's could induce him
to find Mr. Rushworth a desirable companion.

He could allow his sister
to be the best judge of her own happiness,
but he was not pleased that her happiness should centre in a large income;
nor could he refrain from often saying
to himself,
in Mr. Rushworth's company--
"If this man had not twelve thousand a year,
he would be a very stupid fellow."



Sir Thomas,
however,
was truly happy in the prospect of an alliance so unquestionably advantageous,
and of which he heard nothing but the perfectly good and agreeable.

It was a connexion exactly of the right sort-- in the same county,
and the same interest--and his most hearty concurrence was conveyed as soon as possible.

He only conditioned that the marriage should not take place before his return,
which he was again looking eagerly forward to.

He wrote in April,
and had strong hopes of settling everything
to his entire satisfaction,
and leaving Antigua before the end of the summer.

Such was the state of affairs in the month of July;
and Fanny had just reached her eighteenth year,
when the society of the village received an addition in the brother and sister of Mrs. Grant,
a Mr. and Miss Crawford,
the children of her mother by a second marriage.

They were young people of fortune.

The son had a good estate in Norfolk,
the daughter twenty thousand pounds.

As children,
their sister had been always very fond of them;
but,
as her own marriage had been soon followed by the death of their common parent,
which left them
to the care of a brother of their father,
of whom Mrs. Grant knew nothing,
she had scarcely seen them since.

In their uncle's house they had found a kind home.

Admiral and Mrs. Crawford,
though agreeing in nothing else,
were united in affection
for these children,
or,
at least,
were no farther adverse in their feelings than that each had their favourite,
to whom they showed the greatest fondness of the two.

The Admiral delighted in the boy,
Mrs. Crawford doted on the girl;
and it was the lady's death which now obliged her _protegee_,
after some months'
further trial at her uncle's house,
to find another home.

Admiral Crawford was a man of vicious conduct,
who chose,
instead of retaining his niece,
to bring his mistress under his own roof;
and
to this Mrs. Grant was indebted
for her sister's proposal of coming
to her,
a measure quite as welcome on one side as it could be expedient on the other;
for Mrs. Grant,
having by this time run through the usual resources of ladies residing in the country without a family of children--having more than filled her favourite sitting-room
with pretty furniture,
and made a choice collection of plants and poultry--was very much in want of some variety at home.

The arrival,
therefore,
of a sister whom she had always loved,
and now hoped
to retain
with her as long as she remained single,
was highly agreeable;
and her chief anxiety was lest Mansfield should not satisfy the habits of a young woman who had been mostly used
to London.

Miss Crawford was not entirely free from similar apprehensions,
though they arose principally from doubts of her sister's style of living and tone of society;
and it was not till after she had tried in vain
to persuade her brother
to settle
with her at his own country house,
that she could resolve
to hazard herself among her other relations.

To anything like a permanence of abode,
or limitation of society,
Henry Crawford had,
unluckily,
a great dislike:

he could not accommodate his sister in an article of such importance;
but he escorted her,
with the utmost kindness,
into Northamptonshire,
and as readily engaged
to fetch her away again,
at half an hour's notice,
whenever she were weary of the place.

The meeting was very satisfactory on each side.

Miss Crawford found a sister without preciseness or rusticity,
a sister's husband who looked the gentleman,
and a house commodious and well fitted up;
and Mrs. Grant received in those whom she hoped
to love better than ever a young man and woman of very prepossessing appearance.

Mary Crawford was remarkably pretty;
Henry,
though not handsome,
had air and countenance;
the manners of both were lively and pleasant,
and Mrs. Grant immediately gave them credit
for everything else.

She was delighted
with each,
but Mary was her dearest object;
and having never been able
to glory in beauty of her own,
she thoroughly enjoyed the power of being proud of her sister's.

She had not waited her arrival
to look out
for a suitable match
for her:

she had fixed on Tom Bertram;
the eldest son of a baronet was not too good
for a girl of twenty thousand pounds,
with all the elegance and accomplishments which Mrs. Grant foresaw in her;
and being a warm-hearted,
unreserved woman,
Mary had not been three hours in the house before she told her what she had planned.

Miss Crawford was glad
to find a family of such consequence so very near them,
and not at all displeased either at her sister's early care,
or the choice it had fallen on.

Matrimony was her object,
provided she could marry well:

and having seen Mr. Bertram in town,
she knew that objection could no more be made
to his person than
to his situation in life.

While she treated it as a joke,
therefore,
she did not forget
to think of it seriously.

The scheme was soon repeated
to Henry.

"And now,"
added Mrs. Grant,
"I have thought of something
to make it complete.

I should dearly love
to settle you both in this country;
and therefore,
Henry,
you shall marry the youngest Miss Bertram,
a nice,
handsome,
good-humoured,
accomplished girl,
who will make you very happy."



Henry bowed and thanked her.

"My dear sister,"
said Mary,
"if you can persuade him into anything of the sort,
it will be a fresh matter of delight
to me
to find myself allied
to anybody so clever,
and I shall only regret that you have not half a dozen daughters
to dispose of.

If you can persuade Henry
to marry,
you must have the address of a Frenchwoman.

All that English abilities can do has been tried already.

I have three very particular friends who have been all dying
for him in their turn;
and the pains which they,
their mothers
(very clever women),
as well as my dear aunt and myself,
have taken
to reason,
coax,
or trick him into marrying,
is inconceivable! He is the most horrible flirt that can be imagined.

If your Miss Bertrams do not like
to have their hearts broke,
let them avoid Henry."



"My dear brother,
I will not believe this of you."



"No,
I am sure you are too good.

You will be kinder than Mary.

You will allow
for the doubts of youth and inexperience.

I am of a cautious temper,
and unwilling
to risk my happiness in a hurry.

Nobody can think more highly of the matrimonial state than myself I consider the blessing of a wife as most justly described in those discreet lines of the poet--'Heaven's _last_ best gift.'


"
"There,
Mrs. Grant,
you see how he dwells on one word,
and only look at his smile.

I assure you he is very detestable;
the Admiral's lessons have quite spoiled him."



"I pay very little regard,"
said Mrs. Grant,
"to what any young person says on the subject of marriage.

If they profess a disinclination
for it,
I only set it down that they have not yet seen the right person."



Dr. Grant laughingly congratulated Miss Crawford on feeling no disinclination
to the state herself.

"Oh yes! I am not at all ashamed of it.

I would have everybody marry if they can do it properly:

I do not like
to have people throw themselves away;
but everybody should marry as soon as they can do it
to advantage."



CHAPTER V The young people were pleased
with each other from the first.

On each side there was much
to attract,
and their acquaintance soon promised as early an intimacy as good manners would warrant.

Miss Crawford's beauty did her no disservice
with the Miss BertraMs. They were too handsome themselves
to dislike any woman
for being so too,
and were almost as much charmed as their brothers
with her lively dark eye,
clear brown complexion,
and general prettiness.

Had she been tall,
full formed,
and fair,
it might have been more of a trial:

but as it was,
there could be no comparison;
and she was most allowably a sweet,
pretty girl,
while they were the finest young women in the country.

Her brother was not handsome:

no,
when they first saw him he was absolutely plain,
black and plain;
but still he was the gentleman,
with a pleasing address.

The second meeting proved him not so very plain:

he was plain,
to be sure,
but then he had so much countenance,
and his teeth were so good,
and he was so well made,
that one soon forgot he was plain;
and after a third interview,
after dining in company
with him at the Parsonage,
he was no longer allowed
to be called so by anybody.

He was,
in fact,
the most agreeable young man the sisters had ever known,
and they were equally delighted
with him.

Miss Bertram's engagement made him in equity the property of Julia,
of which Julia was fully aware;
and before he had been at Mansfield a week,
she was quite ready
to be fallen in love with.

Maria's notions on the subject were more confused and indistinct.

She did not want
to see or understand.

"There could be no harm in her liking an agreeable man-- everybody knew her situation--Mr. Crawford must take care of himself."



Mr. Crawford did not mean
to be in any danger! the Miss Bertrams were worth pleasing,
and were ready
to be pleased;
and he began
with no object but of making them like him.

He did not want them
to die of love;
but
with sense and temper which ought
to have made him judge and feel better,
he allowed himself great latitude on such points.

"I like your Miss Bertrams exceedingly,
sister,"
said he,
as he returned from attending them
to their carriage after the said dinner visit;
"they are very elegant,
agreeable girls."



"So they are indeed,
and I am delighted
to hear you say it.

But you like Julia best."



"Oh yes! I like Julia best."



"But do you really?

for Miss Bertram is in general thought the handsomest."



"So I should suppose.

She has the advantage in every feature,
and I prefer her countenance;
but I like Julia best;
Miss Bertram is certainly the handsomest,
and I have found her the most agreeable,
but I shall always like Julia best,
because you order me."



"I shall not talk
to you,
Henry,
but I know you _will_ like her best at last."



"Do not I tell you that I like her best _at_ _first_?"

"And besides,
Miss Bertram is engaged.

Remember that,
my dear brother.

Her choice is made."



"Yes,
and I like her the better
for it.

An engaged woman is always more agreeable than a disengaged.

She is satisfied
with herself.

Her cares are over,
and she feels that she may exert all her powers of pleasing without suspicion.

All is safe
with a lady engaged:

no harm can be done."



"Why,
as
to that,
Mr. Rushworth is a very good sort of young man,
and it is a great match
for her."



"But Miss Bertram does not care three straws
for him;
_that_ is your opinion of your intimate friend.

_I_ do not subscribe
to it.

I am sure Miss Bertram is very much attached
to Mr. Rushworth.

I could see it in her eyes,
when he was mentioned.

I think too well of Miss Bertram
to suppose she would ever give her hand without her heart."



"Mary,
how shall we manage him?"

"We must leave him
to himself,
I believe.

Talking does no good.

He will be taken in at last."



"But I would not have him _taken_ _in_;
I would not have him duped;
I would have it all fair and honourable."



"Oh dear! let him stand his chance and be taken in.

It will do just as well.

Everybody is taken in at some period or other."



"Not always in marriage,
dear Mary."



"In marriage especially.

With all due respect
to such of the present company as chance
to be married,
my dear Mrs. Grant,
there is not one in a hundred of either sex who is not taken in when they marry.

Look where I will,
I see that it _is_ so;
and I feel that it _must_ be so,
when I consider that it is,
of all transactions,
the one in which people expect most from others,
and are least honest themselves."



"Ah! You have been in a bad school
for matrimony,
in Hill Street."



"My poor aunt had certainly little cause
to love the state;
but,
however,
speaking from my own observation,
it is a manoeuvring business.

I know so many who have married in the full expectation and confidence of some one particular advantage in the connexion,
or accomplishment,
or good quality in the person,
who have found themselves entirely deceived,
and been obliged
to put up
with exactly the reverse.

What is this but a take in?"

"My dear child,
there must be a little imagination here.

I beg your pardon,
but I cannot quite believe you.

Depend upon it,
you see but half.

You see the evil,
but you do not see the consolation.

There will be little rubs and disappointments everywhere,
and we are all apt
to expect too much;
but then,
if one scheme of happiness fails,
human nature turns
to another;
if the first calculation is wrong,
we make a second better:

we find comfort somewhere--and those evil-minded observers,
dearest Mary,
who make much of a little,
are more taken in and deceived than the parties themselves."



"Well done,
sister! I honour your _esprit_ _du_ _corps_.

When I am a wife,
I mean
to be just as staunch myself;
and I wish my friends in general would be so too.

It would save me many a heartache."



"You are as bad as your brother,
Mary;
but we will cure you both.

Mansfield shall cure you both,
and without any taking in.

Stay
with us,
and we will cure you."



The Crawfords,
without wanting
to be cured,
were very willing
to stay.

Mary was satisfied
with the Parsonage as a present home,
and Henry equally ready
to lengthen his visit.

He had come,
intending
to spend only a few days
with them;
but Mansfield promised well,
and there was nothing
to call him elsewhere.

It delighted Mrs. Grant
to keep them both
with her,
and Dr. Grant was exceedingly well contented
to have it so:

a talking pretty young woman like Miss Crawford is always pleasant society
to an indolent,
stay-at-home man;
and Mr. Crawford's being his guest was an excuse
for drinking claret every day.

The Miss Bertrams'
admiration of Mr. Crawford was more rapturous than anything which Miss Crawford's habits made her likely
to feel.

She acknowledged,
however,
that the Mr. Bertrams were very fine young men,
that two such young men were not often seen together even in London,
and that their manners,
particularly those of the eldest,
were very good.

_He_ had been much in London,
and had more liveliness and gallantry than Edmund,
and must,
therefore,
be preferred;
and,
indeed,
his being the eldest was another strong claim.

She had felt an early presentiment that she _should_ like the eldest best.

She knew it was her way.

Tom Bertram must have been thought pleasant,
indeed,
at any rate;
he was the sort of young man
to be generally liked,
his agreeableness was of the kind
to be oftener found agreeable than some endowments of a higher stamp,
for he had easy manners,
excellent spirits,
a large acquaintance,
and a great deal
to say;
and the reversion of Mansfield Park,
and a baronetcy,
did no harm
to all this.

Miss Crawford soon felt that he and his situation might do.

She looked about her
with due consideration,
and found almost everything in his favour:

a park,
a real park,
five miles round,
a spacious modern-built house,
so well placed and well screened as
to deserve
to be in any collection of engravings of gentlemen's seats in the kingdom,
and wanting only
to be completely new furnished--pleasant sisters,
a quiet mother,
and an agreeable man himself--with the advantage of being tied up from much gaming at present by a promise
to his father,
and of being Sir Thomas hereafter.

It might do very well;
she believed she should accept him;
and she began accordingly
to interest herself a little about the horse which he had
to run at the B------- races.

These races were
to call him away not long after their acquaintance began;
and as it appeared that the family did not,
from his usual goings on,
expect him back again
for many weeks,
it would bring his passion
to an early proof.

Much was said on his side
to induce her
to attend the races,
and schemes were made
for a large party
to them,
with all the eagerness of inclination,
but it would only do
to be talked of.

And Fanny,
what was _she_ doing and thinking all this while?

and what was _her_ opinion of the newcomers?

Few young ladies of eighteen could be less called on
to speak their opinion than Fanny.

In a quiet way,
very little attended to,
she paid her tribute of admiration
to Miss Crawford's beauty;
but as she still continued
to think Mr. Crawford very plain,
in spite of her two cousins having repeatedly proved the contrary,
she never mentioned _him_.

The notice,
which she excited herself,
was
to this effect.

"I begin now
to understand you all,
except Miss Price,"
said Miss Crawford,
as she was walking
with the Mr. BertraMs. "Pray,
is she out,
or is she not?

I am puzzled.

She dined at the Parsonage,
with the rest of you,
which seemed like being _out_;
and yet she says so little,
that I can hardly suppose she _is_."



Edmund,
to whom this was chiefly addressed,
replied,
"I believe I know what you mean,
but I will not undertake
to answer the question.

My cousin is grown up.

She has the age and sense of a woman,
but the outs and not outs are beyond me."



"And yet,
in general,
nothing can be more easily ascertained.

The distinction is so broad.

Manners as well as appearance are,
generally speaking,
so totally different.

Till now,
I could not have supposed it possible
to be mistaken as
to a girl's being out or not.

A girl not out has always the same sort of dress:

a close bonnet,
for instance;
looks very demure,
and never says a word.

You may smile,
but it is so,
I assure you;
and except that it is sometimes carried a little too far,
it is all very proper.

Girls should be quiet and modest.

The most objectionable part is,
that the alteration of manners on being introduced into company is frequently too sudden.

They sometimes pass in such very little time from reserve
to quite the opposite--to confidence! _That_ is the faulty part of the present system.

One does not like
to see a girl of eighteen or nineteen so immediately up
to every thing--and perhaps when one has seen her hardly able
to speak the year before.

Mr. Bertram,
I dare say _you_ have sometimes met
with such changes."



"I believe I have,
but this is hardly fair;
I see what you are at.

You are quizzing me and Miss Anderson."



"No,
indeed.

Miss Anderson! I do not know who or what you mean.

I am quite in the dark.

But I _will_ quiz you
with a great deal of pleasure,
if you will tell me what about."



"Ah! you carry it off very well,
but I cannot be quite so far imposed on.

You must have had Miss Anderson in your eye,
in describing an altered young lady.

You paint too accurately
for mistake.

It was exactly so.

The Andersons of Baker Street.

We were speaking of them the other day,
you know.

Edmund,
you have heard me mention Charles Anderson.

The circumstance was precisely as this lady has represented it.

When Anderson first introduced me
to his family,
about two years ago,
his sister was not _out_,
and I could not get her
to speak
to me.

I sat there an hour one morning waiting
for Anderson,
with only her and a little girl or two in the room,
the governess being sick or run away,
and the mother in and out every moment
with letters of business,
and I could hardly get a word or a look from the young lady-- nothing like a civil answer--she screwed up her mouth,
and turned from me
with such an air! I did not see her again
for a twelvemonth.

She was then _out_.

I met her at Mrs. Holford's,
and did not recollect her.

She came up
to me,
claimed me as an acquaintance,
stared me out of countenance;
and talked and laughed till I did not know which way
to look.

I felt that I must be the jest of the room at the time,
and Miss Crawford,
it is plain,
has heard the story."



"And a very pretty story it is,
and
with more truth in it,
I dare say,
than does credit
to Miss Anderson.

It is too common a fault.

Mothers certainly have not yet got quite the right way of managing their daughters.

I do not know where the error lies.

I do not pretend
to set people right,
but I do see that they are often wrong."



"Those who are showing the world what female manners _should_ be,"
said Mr. Bertram gallantly,
"are doing a great deal
to set them right."



"The error is plain enough,"
said the less courteous Edmund;
"such girls are ill brought up.

They are given wrong notions from the beginning.

They are always acting upon motives of vanity,
and there is no more real modesty in their behaviour _before_ they appear in public than afterwards."



"I do not know,"
replied Miss Crawford hesitatingly.

"Yes,
I cannot agree
with you there.

It is certainly the modestest part of the business.

It is much worse
to have girls not out give themselves the same airs and take the same liberties as if they were,
which I have seen done.

That is worse than anything--quite disgusting!"

"Yes,
_that_ is very inconvenient indeed,"
said Mr. Bertram.

"It leads one astray;
one does not know what
to do.

The close bonnet and demure air you describe so well
(and nothing was ever juster),
tell one what is expected;
but I got into a dreadful scrape last year from the want of them.

I went down
to Ramsgate
for a week
with a friend last September,
just after my return from the West Indies.

My friend Sneyd--you have heard me speak of Sneyd,
Edmund-- his father,
and mother,
and sisters,
were there,
all new
to me.

When we reached Albion Place they were out;
we went after them,
and found them on the pier:

Mrs. and the two Miss Sneyds,
with others of their acquaintance.

I made my bow in form;
and as Mrs. Sneyd was surrounded by men,
attached myself
to one of her daughters,
walked by her side all the way home,
and made myself as agreeable as I could;
the young lady perfectly easy in her manners,
and as ready
to talk as
to listen.

I had not a suspicion that I could be doing anything wrong.

They looked just the same:

both well-dressed,
with veils and parasols like other girls;
but I afterwards found that I had been giving all my attention
to the youngest,
who was not _out_,
and had most excessively offended the eldest.

Miss Augusta ought not
to have been noticed
for the next six months;
and Miss Sneyd,
I believe,
has never forgiven me."



"That was bad indeed.

Poor Miss Sneyd.

Though I have no younger sister,
I feel
for her.

To be neglected before one's time must be very vexatious;
but it was entirely the mother's fault.

Miss Augusta should have been
with her governess.

Such half-and-half doings never prosper.

But now I must be satisfied about Miss Price.

Does she go
to balls?

Does she dine out every where,
as well as at my sister's?"

"No,"
replied Edmund;
"I do not think she has ever been
to a ball.

My mother seldom goes into company herself,
and dines nowhere but
with Mrs. Grant,
and Fanny stays at home
with _her_."



"Oh! then the point is clear.

Miss Price is not out."



CHAPTER VI Mr. Bertram set off for--------,
and Miss Crawford was prepared
to find a great chasm in their society,
and
to miss him decidedly in the meetings which were now becoming almost daily between the families;
and on their all dining together at the Park soon after his going,
she retook her chosen place near the bottom of the table,
fully expecting
to feel a most melancholy difference in the change of masters.

It would be a very flat business,
she was sure.

In comparison
with his brother,
Edmund would have nothing
to say.

The soup would be sent round in a most spiritless manner,
wine drank without any smiles or agreeable trifling,
and the venison cut up without supplying one pleasant anecdote of any former haunch,
or a single entertaining story,
about
"my friend such a one."



She must try
to find amusement in what was passing at the upper end of the table,
and in observing Mr. Rushworth,
who was now making his appearance at Mansfield
for the first time since the Crawfords'
arrival.

He had been visiting a friend in the neighbouring county,
and that friend having recently had his grounds laid out by an improver,
Mr. Rushworth was returned
with his head full of the subject,
and very eager
to be improving his own place in the same way;
and though not saying much
to the purpose,
could talk of nothing else.

The subject had been already handled in the drawing-room;
it was revived in the dining-parlour.

Miss Bertram's attention and opinion was evidently his chief aim;
and though her deportment showed rather conscious superiority than any solicitude
to oblige him,
the mention of Sotherton Court,
and the ideas attached
to it,
gave her a feeling of complacency,
which prevented her from being very ungracious.

"I wish you could see Compton,"
said he;
"it is the most complete thing! I never saw a place so altered in my life.

I told Smith I did not know where I was.

The approach _now_,
is one of the finest things in the country:

you see the house in the most surprising manner.

I declare,
when I got back
to Sotherton yesterday,
it looked like a prison-- quite a dismal old prison."



"Oh,
for shame!"

cried Mrs. Norris.

"A prison indeed?

Sotherton Court is the noblest old place in the world."



"It wants improvement,
ma'am,
beyond anything.

I never saw a place that wanted so much improvement in my life;
and it is so forlorn that I do not know what can be done
with it."



"No wonder that Mr. Rushworth should think so at present,"
said Mrs. Grant
to Mrs. Norris,
with a smile;
"but depend upon it,
Sotherton will have _every_ improvement in time which his heart can desire."



"I must try
to do something
with it,"
said Mr. Rushworth,
"but I do not know what.

I hope I shall have some good friend
to help me."



"Your best friend upon such an occasion,"
said Miss Bertram calmly,
"would be Mr. Repton,
I imagine."



"That is what I was thinking of.

As he has done so well by Smith,
I think I had better have him at once.

His terms are five guineas a day."



"Well,
and if they were _ten_,"
cried Mrs. Norris,
"I am sure _you_ need not regard it.

The expense need not be any impediment.

If I were you,
I should not think of the expense.

I would have everything done in the best style,
and made as nice as possible.

Such a place as Sotherton Court deserves everything that taste and money can do.

You have space
to work upon there,
and grounds that will well reward you.

For my own part,
if I had anything within the fiftieth part of the size of Sotherton,
I should be always planting and improving,
for naturally I am excessively fond of it.

It would be too ridiculous
for me
to attempt anything where I am now,
with my little half acre.

It would be quite a burlesque.

But if I had more room,
I should take a prodigious delight in improving and planting.

We did a vast deal in that way at the Parsonage:

we made it quite a different place from what it was when we first had it.

You young ones do not remember much about it,
perhaps;
but if dear Sir Thomas were here,
he could tell you what improvements we made:

and a great deal more would have been done,
but
for poor Mr. Norris's sad state of health.

He could hardly ever get out,
poor man,
to enjoy anything,
and _that_ disheartened me from doing several things that Sir Thomas and I used
to talk of.

If it had not been
for _that_,
we should have carried on the garden wall,
and made the plantation
to shut out the churchyard,
just as Dr. Grant has done.

We were always doing something as it was.

It was only the spring twelvemonth before Mr. Norris's death that we put in the apricot against the stable wall,
which is now grown such a noble tree,
and getting
to such perfection,
sir,"
addressing herself then
to Dr. Grant.

"The tree thrives well,
beyond a doubt,
madam,"
replied Dr. Grant.

"The soil is good;
and I never pass it without regretting that the fruit should be so little worth the trouble of gathering."



"Sir,
it is a Moor Park,
we bought it as a Moor Park,
and it cost us--that is,
it was a present from Sir Thomas,
but I saw the bill--and I know it cost seven shillings,
and was charged as a Moor Park."



"You were imposed on,
ma'am,"
replied Dr. Grant:

"these potatoes have as much the flavour of a Moor Park apricot as the fruit from that tree.

It is an insipid fruit at the best;
but a good apricot is eatable,
which none from my garden are."



"The truth is,
ma'am,"
said Mrs. Grant,
pretending
to whisper across the table
to Mrs. Norris,
"that Dr. Grant hardly knows what the natural taste of our apricot is:

he is scarcely ever indulged
with one,
for it is so valuable a fruit;
with a little assistance,
and ours is such a remarkably large,
fair sort,
that what
with early tarts and preserves,
my cook contrives
to get them all."



Mrs. Norris,
who had begun
to redden,
was appeased;
and,
for a little while,
other subjects took place of the improvements of Sotherton.

Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris were seldom good friends;
their acquaintance had begun in dilapidations,
and their habits were totally dissimilar.

After a short interruption Mr. Rushworth began again.

"Smith's place is the admiration of all the country;
and it was a mere nothing before Repton took it in hand.

I think I shall have Repton."



"Mr. Rushworth,"
said Lady Bertram,
"if I were you,
I would have a very pretty shrubbery.

One likes
to get out into a shrubbery in fine weather."



Mr. Rushworth was eager
to assure her ladyship of his acquiescence,
and tried
to make out something complimentary;
but,
between his submission
to _her_ taste,
and his having always intended the same himself,
with the superadded objects of professing attention
to the comfort of ladies in general,
and of insinuating that there was one only whom he was anxious
to please,
he grew puzzled,
and Edmund was glad
to put an end
to his speech by a proposal of wine.

Mr. Rushworth,
however,
though not usually a great talker,
had still more
to say on the subject next his heart.

"Smith has not much above a hundred acres altogether in his grounds,
which is little enough,
and makes it more surprising that the place can have been so improved.

Now,
at Sotherton we have a good seven hundred,
without reckoning the water meadows;
so that I think,
if so much could be done at Compton,
we need not despair.

There have been two or three fine old trees cut down,
that grew too near the house,
and it opens the prospect amazingly,
which makes me think that Repton,
or anybody of that sort,
would certainly have the avenue at Sotherton down:

the avenue that leads from the west front
to the top of the hill,
you know,"
turning
to Miss Bertram particularly as he spoke.

But Miss Bertram thought it most becoming
to reply--
"The avenue! Oh! I do not recollect it.

I really know very little of Sotherton."



Fanny,
who was sitting on the other side of Edmund,
exactly opposite Miss Crawford,
and who had been attentively listening,
now looked at him,
and said in a low voice--
"Cut down an avenue! What a pity! Does it not make you think of Cowper?

'Ye fallen avenues,
once more I mourn your fate unmerited.'


"
He smiled as he answered,
"I am afraid the avenue stands a bad chance,
Fanny."



"I should like
to see Sotherton before it is cut down,
to see the place as it is now,
in its old state;
but I do not suppose I shall."



"Have you never been there?

No,
you never can;
and,
unluckily,
it is out of distance
for a ride.

I wish we could contrive it."



"Oh! it does not signify.

Whenever I do see it,
you will tell me how it has been altered."



"I collect,"
said Miss Crawford,
"that Sotherton is an old place,
and a place of some grandeur.

In any particular style of building?"

"The house was built in Elizabeth's time,
and is a large,
regular,
brick building;
heavy,
but respectable looking,
and has many good rooMs. It is ill placed.

It stands in one of the lowest spots of the park;
in that respect,
unfavourable
for improvement.

But the woods are fine,
and there is a stream,
which,
I dare say,
might be made a good deal of.

Mr. Rushworth is quite right,
I think,
in meaning
to give it a modern dress,
and I have no doubt that it will be all done extremely well."



Miss Crawford listened
with submission,
and said
to herself,
"He is a well-bred man;
he makes the best of it."



"I do not wish
to influence Mr. Rushworth,"
he continued;
"but,
had I a place
to new fashion,
I should not put myself into the hands of an improver.

I would rather have an inferior degree of beauty,
of my own choice,
and acquired progressively.

I would rather abide by my own blunders than by his."



"_You_ would know what you were about,
of course;
but that would not suit _me_.

I have no eye or ingenuity
for such matters,
but as they are before me;
and had I a place of my own in the country,
I should be most thankful
to any Mr. Repton who would undertake it,
and give me as much beauty as he could
for my money;
and I should never look at it till it was complete."



"It would be delightful
to _me_
to see the progress of it all,"
said Fanny.

"Ay,
you have been brought up
to it.

It was no part of my education;
and the only dose I ever had,
being administered by not the first favourite in the world,
has made me consider improvements _in_ _hand_ as the greatest of nuisances.

Three years ago the Admiral,
my honoured uncle,
bought a cottage at Twickenham
for us all
to spend our summers in;
and my aunt and I went down
to it quite in raptures;
but it being excessively pretty,
it was soon found necessary
to be improved,
and
for three months we were all dirt and confusion,
without a gravel walk
to step on,
or a bench fit
for use.

I would have everything as complete as possible in the country,
shrubberies and flower-gardens,
and rustic seats innumerable:

but it must all be done without my care.

Henry is different;
he loves
to be doing."



Edmund was sorry
to hear Miss Crawford,
whom he was much disposed
to admire,
speak so freely of her uncle.

It did not suit his sense of propriety,
and he was silenced,
till induced by further smiles and liveliness
to put the matter by
for the present.

"Mr. Bertram,"
said she,
"I have tidings of my harp at last.

I am assured that it is safe at Northampton;
and there it has probably been these ten days,
in spite of the solemn assurances we have so often received
to the contrary."



Edmund expressed his pleasure and surprise.

"The truth is,
that our inquiries were too direct;
we sent a servant,
we went ourselves:

this will not do seventy miles from London;
but this morning we heard of it in the right way.

It was seen by some farmer,
and he told the miller,
and the miller told the butcher,
and the butcher's son-in-law left word at the shop."



"I am very glad that you have heard of it,
by whatever means,
and hope there will be no further delay."



"I am
to have it to-morrow;
but how do you think it is
to be conveyed?

Not by a wagon or cart:

oh no! nothing of that kind could be hired in the village.

I might as well have asked
for porters and a handbarrow."



"You would find it difficult,
I dare say,
just now,
in the middle of a very late hay harvest,
to hire a horse and cart?"

"I was astonished
to find what a piece of work was made of it!
to want a horse and cart in the country seemed impossible,
so I told my maid
to speak
for one directly;
and as I cannot look out of my dressing-closet without seeing one farmyard,
nor walk in the shrubbery without passing another,
I thought it would be only ask and have,
and was rather grieved that I could not give the advantage
to all.

Guess my surprise,
when I found that I had been asking the most unreasonable,
most impossible thing in the world;
had offended all the farmers,
all the labourers,
all the hay in the parish! As
for Dr. Grant's bailiff,
I believe I had better keep out of _his_ way;
and my brother-in-law himself,
who is all kindness in general,
looked rather black upon me when he found what I had been at."



"You could not be expected
to have thought on the subject before;
but when you _do_ think of it,
you must see the importance of getting in the grass.

The hire of a cart at any time might not be so easy as you suppose:

our farmers are not in the habit of letting them out;
but,
in harvest,
it must be quite out of their power
to spare a horse."



"I shall understand all your ways in time;
but,
coming down
with the true London maxim,
that everything is
to be got
with money,
I was a little embarrassed at first by the sturdy independence of your country custoMs. However,
I am
to have my harp fetched to-morrow.

Henry,
who is good-nature itself,
has offered
to fetch it in his barouche.

Will it not be honourably conveyed?"

Edmund spoke of the harp as his favourite instrument,
and hoped
to be soon allowed
to hear her.

Fanny had never heard the harp at all,
and wished
for it very much.

"I shall be most happy
to play
to you both,"
said Miss Crawford;
"at least as long as you can like
to listen:

probably much longer,
for I dearly love music myself,
and where the natural taste is equal the player must always be best off,
for she is gratified in more ways than one.

Now,
Mr. Bertram,
if you write
to your brother,
I entreat you
to tell him that my harp is come:

he heard so much of my misery about it.

And you may say,
if you please,
that I shall prepare my most plaintive airs against his return,
in compassion
to his feelings,
as I know his horse will lose."



"If I write,
I will say whatever you wish me;
but I do not,
at present,
foresee any occasion
for writing."



"No,
I dare say,
nor if he were
to be gone a twelvemonth,
would you ever write
to him,
nor he
to you,
if it could be helped.

The occasion would never be foreseen.

What strange creatures brothers are! You would not write
to each other but upon the most urgent necessity in the world;
and when obliged
to take up the pen
to say that such a horse is ill,
or such a relation dead,
it is done in the fewest possible words.

You have but one style among you.

I know it perfectly.

Henry,
who is in every other respect exactly what a brother should be,
who loves me,
consults me,
confides in me,
and will talk
to me by the hour together,
has never yet turned the page in a letter;
and very often it is nothing more than--'Dear Mary,
I am just arrived.

Bath seems full,
and everything as usual.

Yours sincerely.'



That is the true manly style;
that is a complete brother's letter."



"When they are at a distance from all their family,"
said Fanny,
colouring
for William's sake,
"they can write long letters."



"Miss Price has a brother at sea,"
said Edmund,
"whose excellence as a correspondent makes her think you too severe upon us."



"At sea,
has she?

In the king's service,
of course?"

Fanny would rather have had Edmund tell the story,
but his determined silence obliged her
to relate her brother's situation:

her voice was animated in speaking of his profession,
and the foreign stations he had been on;
but she could not mention the number of years that he had been absent without tears in her eyes.

Miss Crawford civilly wished him an early promotion.

"Do you know anything of my cousin's captain?"

said Edmund;
"Captain Marshall?

You have a large acquaintance in the navy,
I conclude?"

"Among admirals,
large enough;
but,"
with an air of grandeur,
"we know very little of the inferior ranks.

Post-captains may be very good sort of men,
but they do not belong
to _us_.

Of various admirals I could tell you a great deal:

of them and their flags,
and the gradation of their pay,
and their bickerings and jealousies.

But,
in general,
I can assure you that they are all passed over,
and all very ill used.

Certainly,
my home at my uncle's brought me acquainted
with a circle of admirals.

Of _Rears_ and _Vices_ I saw enough.

Now do not be suspecting me of a pun,
I entreat."



Edmund again felt grave,
and only replied,
"It is a noble profession."



"Yes,
the profession is well enough under two circumstances:

if it make the fortune,
and there be discretion in spending it;
but,
in short,
it is not a favourite profession of mine.

It has never worn an amiable form
to _me_."



Edmund reverted
to the harp,
and was again very happy in the prospect of hearing her play.

The subject of improving grounds,
meanwhile,
was still under consideration among the others;
and Mrs. Grant could not help addressing her brother,
though it was calling his attention from Miss Julia Bertram.

"My dear Henry,
have _you_ nothing
to say?

You have been an improver yourself,
and from what I hear of Everingham,
it may vie
with any place in England.

Its natural beauties,
I am sure,
are great.

Everingham,
as it _used_
to be,
was perfect in my estimation:

such a happy fall of ground,
and such timber! What would I not give
to see it again?"

"Nothing could be so gratifying
to me as
to hear your opinion of it,"
was his answer;
"but I fear there would be some disappointment:

you would not find it equal
to your present ideas.

In extent,
it is a mere nothing;
you would be surprised at its insignificance;
and,
as
for improvement,
there was very little
for me
to do-- too little:

I should like
to have been busy much longer."



"You are fond of the sort of thing?"

said Julia.

"Excessively;
but what
with the natural advantages of the ground,
which pointed out,
even
to a very young eye,
what little remained
to be done,
and my own consequent resolutions,
I had not been of age three months before Everingham was all that it is now.

My plan was laid at Westminster,
a little altered,
perhaps,
at Cambridge,
and at one-and-twenty executed.

I am inclined
to envy Mr. Rushworth
for having so much happiness yet before him.

I have been a devourer of my own."



"Those who see quickly,
will resolve quickly,
and act quickly,"
said Julia.

"_You_ can never want employment.

Instead of envying Mr. Rushworth,
you should assist him
with your opinion."



Mrs. Grant,
hearing the latter part of this speech,
enforced it warmly,
persuaded that no judgment could be equal
to her brother's;
and as Miss Bertram caught at the idea likewise,
and gave it her full support,
declaring that,
in her opinion,
it was infinitely better
to consult
with friends and disinterested advisers,
than immediately
to throw the business into the hands of a professional man,
Mr. Rushworth was very ready
to request the favour of Mr. Crawford's assistance;
and Mr. Crawford,
after properly depreciating his own abilities,
was quite at his service in any way that could be useful.

Mr. Rushworth then began
to propose Mr. Crawford's doing him the honour of coming over
to Sotherton,
and taking a bed there;
when Mrs. Norris,
as if reading in her two nieces'
minds their little approbation of a plan which was
to take Mr. Crawford away,
interposed
with an amendment.

"There can be no doubt of Mr. Crawford's willingness;
but why should not more of us go?

Why should not we make a little party?

Here are many that would be interested in your improvements,
my dear Mr. Rushworth,
and that would like
to hear Mr. Crawford's opinion on the spot,
and that might be of some small use
to you
with _their_ opinions;
and,
for my own part,
I have been long wishing
to wait upon your good mother again;
nothing but having no horses of my own could have made me so remiss;
but now I could go and sit a few hours
with Mrs. Rushworth,
while the rest of you walked about and settled things,
and then we could all return
to a late dinner here,
or dine at Sotherton,
just as might be most agreeable
to your mother,
and have a pleasant drive home by moonlight.

I dare say Mr. Crawford would take my two nieces and me in his barouche,
and Edmund can go on horseback,
you know,
sister,
and Fanny will stay at home
with you."



Lady Bertram made no objection;
and every one concerned in the going was forward in expressing their ready concurrence,
excepting Edmund,
who heard it all and said nothing.

CHAPTER VII
"Well,
Fanny,
and how do you like Miss Crawford _now_?"

said Edmund the next day,
after thinking some time on the subject himself.

"How did you like her yesterday?"

"Very well--very much.

I like
to hear her talk.

She entertains me;
and she is so extremely pretty,
that I have great pleasure in looking at her."



"It is her countenance that is so attractive.

She has a wonderful play of feature! But was there nothing in her conversation that struck you,
Fanny,
as not quite right?"

"Oh yes! she ought not
to have spoken of her uncle as she did.

I was quite astonished.

An uncle
with whom she has been living so many years,
and who,
whatever his faults may be,
is so very fond of her brother,
treating him,
they say,
quite like a son.

I could not have believed it!"

"I thought you would be struck.

It was very wrong;
very indecorous."



"And very ungrateful,
I think."



"Ungrateful is a strong word.

I do not know that her uncle has any claim
to her _gratitude_;
his wife certainly had;
and it is the warmth of her respect
for her aunt's memory which misleads her here.

She is awkwardly circumstanced.

With such warm feelings and lively spirits it must be difficult
to do justice
to her affection
for Mrs. Crawford,
without throwing a shade on the Admiral.

I do not pretend
to know which was most
to blame in their disagreements,
though the Admiral's present conduct might incline one
to the side of his wife;
but it is natural and amiable that Miss Crawford should acquit her aunt entirely.

I do not censure her _opinions_;
but there certainly _is_ impropriety in making them public."



"Do not you think,"
said Fanny,
after a little consideration,
"that this impropriety is a reflection itself upon Mrs. Crawford,
as her niece has been entirely brought up by her?

She cannot have given her right notions of what was due
to the Admiral."



"That is a fair remark.

Yes,
we must suppose the faults of the niece
to have been those of the aunt;
and it makes one more sensible of the disadvantages she has been under.

But I think her present home must do her good.

Mrs. Grant's manners are just what they ought
to be.

She speaks of her brother
with a very pleasing affection."



"Yes,
except as
to his writing her such short letters.

She made me almost laugh;
but I cannot rate so very highly the love or good-nature of a brother who will not give himself the trouble of writing anything worth reading
to his sisters,
when they are separated.

I am sure William would never have used _me_ so,
under any circumstances.

And what right had she
to suppose that _you_ would not write long letters when you were absent?"

"The right of a lively mind,
Fanny,
seizing whatever may contribute
to its own amusement or that of others;
perfectly allowable,
when untinctured by ill-humour or roughness;
and there is not a shadow of either in the countenance or manner of Miss Crawford:

nothing sharp,
or loud,
or coarse.

She is perfectly feminine,
except in the instances we have been speaking of.

There she cannot be justified.

I am glad you saw it all as I did."



Having formed her mind and gained her affections,
he had a good chance of her thinking like him;
though at this period,
and on this subject,
there began now
to be some danger of dissimilarity,
for he was in a line of admiration of Miss Crawford,
which might lead him where Fanny could not follow.

Miss Crawford's attractions did not lessen.

The harp arrived,
and rather added
to her beauty,
wit,
and good-humour;
for she played
with the greatest obligingness,
with an expression and taste which were peculiarly becoming,
and there was something clever
to be said at the close of every air.

Edmund was at the Parsonage every day,
to be indulged
with his favourite instrument:

one morning secured an invitation
for the next;
for the lady could not be unwilling
to have a listener,
and every thing was soon in a fair train.

A young woman,
pretty,
lively,
with a harp as elegant as herself,
and both placed near a window,
cut down
to the ground,
and opening on a little lawn,
surrounded by shrubs in the rich foliage of summer,
was enough
to catch any man's heart.

The season,
the scene,
the air,
were all favourable
to tenderness and sentiment.

Mrs. Grant and her tambour frame were not without their use:

it was all in harmony;
and as everything will turn
to account when love is once set going,
even the sandwich tray,
and Dr. Grant doing the honours of it,
were worth looking at.

Without studying the business,
however,
or knowing what he was about,
Edmund was beginning,
at the end of a week of such intercourse,
to be a good deal in love;
and
to the credit of the lady it may be added that,
without his being a man of the world or an elder brother,
without any of the arts of flattery or the gaieties of small talk,
he began
to be agreeable
to her.

She felt it
to be so,
though she had not foreseen,
and could hardly understand it;
for he was not pleasant by any common rule:

he talked no nonsense;
he paid no compliments;
his opinions were unbending,
his attentions tranquil and simple.

There was a charm,
perhaps,
in his sincerity,
his steadiness,
his integrity,
which Miss Crawford might be equal
to feel,
though not equal
to discuss
with herself.

She did not think very much about it,
however:

he pleased her
for the present;
she liked
to have him near her;
it was enough.

Fanny could not wonder that Edmund was at the Parsonage every morning;
she would gladly have been there too,
might she have gone in uninvited and unnoticed,
to hear the harp;
neither could she wonder that,
when the evening stroll was over,
and the two families parted again,
he should think it right
to attend Mrs. Grant and her sister
to their home,
while Mr. Crawford was devoted
to the ladies of the Park;
but she thought it a very bad exchange;
and if Edmund were not there
to mix the wine and water
for her,
would rather go without it than not.

She was a little surprised that he could spend so many hours
with Miss Crawford,
and not see more of the sort of fault which he had already observed,
and of which _she_ was almost always reminded by a something of the same nature whenever she was in her company;
but so it was.

Edmund was fond of speaking
to her of Miss Crawford,
but he seemed
to think it enough that the Admiral had since been spared;
and she scrupled
to point out her own remarks
to him,
lest it should appear like ill-nature.

The first actual pain which Miss Crawford occasioned her was the consequence of an inclination
to learn
to ride,
which the former caught,
soon after her being settled at Mansfield,
from the example of the young ladies at the Park,
and which,
when Edmund's acquaintance
with her increased,
led
to his encouraging the wish,
and the offer of his own quiet mare
for the purpose of her first attempts,
as the best fitted
for a beginner that either stable could furnish.

No pain,
no injury,
however,
was designed by him
to his cousin in this offer:

_she_ was not
to lose a day's exercise by it.

The mare was only
to be taken down
to the Parsonage half an hour before her ride were
to begin;
and Fanny,
on its being first proposed,
so far from feeling slighted,
was almost over-powered
with gratitude that he should be asking her leave
for it.

Miss Crawford made her first essay
with great credit
to herself,
and no inconvenience
to Fanny.

Edmund,
who had taken down the mare and presided at the whole,
returned
with it in excellent time,
before either Fanny or the steady old coachman,
who always attended her when she rode without her cousins,
were ready
to set forward.

The second day's trial was not so guiltless.

Miss Crawford's enjoyment of riding was such that she did not know how
to leave off.

Active and fearless,
and though rather small,
strongly made,
she seemed formed
for a horsewoman;
and
to the pure genuine pleasure of the exercise,
something was probably added in Edmund's attendance and instructions,
and something more in the conviction of very much surpassing her sex in general by her early progress,
to make her unwilling
to dismount.

Fanny was ready and waiting,
and Mrs. Norris was beginning
to scold her
for not being gone,
and still no horse was announced,
no Edmund appeared.

To avoid her aunt,
and look
for him,
she went out.

The houses,
though scarcely half a mile apart,
were not within sight of each other;
but,
by walking fifty yards from the hall door,
she could look down the park,
and command a view of the Parsonage and all its demesnes,
gently rising beyond the village road;
and in Dr. Grant's meadow she immediately saw the group--Edmund and Miss Crawford both on horse-back,
riding side by side,
Dr. and Mrs. Grant,
and Mr. Crawford,
with two or three grooms,
standing about and looking on.

A happy party it appeared
to her,
all interested in one object:

cheerful beyond a doubt,
for the sound of merriment ascended even
to her.

It was a sound which did not make _her_ cheerful;
she wondered that Edmund should forget her,
and felt a pang.

She could not turn her eyes from the meadow;
she could not help watching all that passed.

At first Miss Crawford and her companion made the circuit of the field,
which was not small,
at a foot's pace;
then,
at _her_ apparent suggestion,
they rose into a canter;
and
to Fanny's timid nature it was most astonishing
to see how well she sat.

After a few minutes they stopped entirely.

Edmund was close
to her;
he was speaking
to her;
he was evidently directing her management of the bridle;
he had hold of her hand;
she saw it,
or the imagination supplied what the eye could not reach.

She must not wonder at all this;
what could be more natural than that Edmund should be making himself useful,
and proving his good-nature by any one?

She could not but think,
indeed,
that Mr. Crawford might as well have saved him the trouble;
that it would have been particularly proper and becoming in a brother
to have done it himself;
but Mr. Crawford,
with all his boasted good-nature,
and all his coachmanship,
probably knew nothing of the matter,
and had no active kindness in comparison of Edmund.

She began
to think it rather hard upon the mare
to have such double duty;
if she were forgotten,
the poor mare should be remembered.

Her feelings
for one and the other were soon a little tranquillised by seeing the party in the meadow disperse,
and Miss Crawford still on horseback,
but attended by Edmund on foot,
pass through a gate into the lane,
and so into the park,
and make towards the spot where she stood.

She began then
to be afraid of appearing rude and impatient;
and walked
to meet them
with a great anxiety
to avoid the suspicion.

"My dear Miss Price,"
said Miss Crawford,
as soon as she was at all within hearing,
"I am come
to make my own apologies
for keeping you waiting;
but I have nothing in the world
to say
for myself--I knew it was very late,
and that I was behaving extremely ill;
and therefore,
if you please,
you must forgive me.

Selfishness must always be forgiven,
you know,
because there is no hope of a cure."



Fanny's answer was extremely civil,
and Edmund added his conviction that she could be in no hurry.

"For there is more than time enough
for my cousin
to ride twice as far as she ever goes,"
said he,
"and you have been promoting her comfort by preventing her from setting off half an hour sooner:

clouds are now coming up,
and she will not suffer from the heat as she would have done then.

I wish _you_ may not be fatigued by so much exercise.

I wish you had saved yourself this walk home."



"No part of it fatigues me but getting off this horse,
I assure you,"
said she,
as she sprang down
with his help;
"I am very strong.

Nothing ever fatigues me but doing what I do not like.

Miss Price,
I give way
to you
with a very bad grace;
but I sincerely hope you will have a pleasant ride,
and that I may have nothing but good
to hear of this dear,
delightful,
beautiful animal."



The old coachman,
who had been waiting about
with his own horse,
now joining them,
Fanny was lifted on hers,
and they set off across another part of the park;
her feelings of discomfort not lightened by seeing,
as she looked back,
that the others were walking down the hill together
to the village;
nor did her attendant do her much good by his comments on Miss Crawford's great cleverness as a horse-woman,
which he had been watching
with an interest almost equal
to her own.

"It is a pleasure
to see a lady
with such a good heart
for riding!"

said he.

"I never see one sit a horse better.

She did not seem
to have a thought of fear.

Very different from you,
miss,
when you first began,
six years ago come next Easter.

Lord bless you! how you did tremble when Sir Thomas first had you put on!"

In the drawing-room Miss Crawford was also celebrated.

Her merit in being gifted by Nature
with strength and courage was fully appreciated by the Miss Bertrams;
her delight in riding was like their own;
her early excellence in it was like their own,
and they had great pleasure in praising it.

"I was sure she would ride well,"
said Julia;
"she has the make
for it.

Her figure is as neat as her brother's."



"Yes,"
added Maria,
"and her spirits are as good,
and she has the same energy of character.

I cannot but think that good horsemanship has a great deal
to do
with the mind."



When they parted at night Edmund asked Fanny whether she meant
to ride the next day.

"No,
I do not know--not if you want the mare,"
was her answer.

"I do not want her at all
for myself,"
said he;
"but whenever you are next inclined
to stay at home,
I think Miss Crawford would be glad
to have her a longer time--
for a whole morning,
in short.

She has a great desire
to get as far as Mansfield Common:

Mrs. Grant has been telling her of its fine views,
and I have no doubt of her being perfectly equal
to it.

But any morning will do
for this.

She would be extremely sorry
to interfere
with you.

It would be very wrong if she did.

_She_ rides only
for pleasure;
_you_
for health."



"I shall not ride to-morrow,
certainly,"
said Fanny;
"I have been out very often lately,
and would rather stay at home.

You know I am strong enough now
to walk very well."



Edmund looked pleased,
which must be Fanny's comfort,
and the ride
to Mansfield Common took place the next morning:

the party included all the young people but herself,
and was much enjoyed at the time,
and doubly enjoyed again in the evening discussion.

A successful scheme of this sort generally brings on another;
and the having been
to Mansfield Common disposed them all
for going somewhere else the day after.

There were many other views
to be shewn;
and though the weather was hot,
there were shady lanes wherever they wanted
to go.

A young party is always provided
with a shady lane.

Four fine mornings successively were spent in this manner,
in shewing the Crawfords the country,
and doing the honours of its finest spots.

Everything answered;
it was all gaiety and good-humour,
the heat only supplying inconvenience enough
to be talked of
with pleasure-- till the fourth day,
when the happiness of one of the party was exceedingly clouded.

Miss Bertram was the one.

Edmund and Julia were invited
to dine at the Parsonage,
and _she_ was excluded.

It was meant and done by Mrs. Grant,
with perfect good-humour,
on Mr. Rushworth's account,
who was partly expected at the Park that day;
but it was felt as a very grievous injury,
and her good manners were severely taxed
to conceal her vexation and anger till she reached home.

As Mr. Rushworth did _not_ come,
the injury was increased,
and she had not even the relief of shewing her power over him;
she could only be sullen
to her mother,
aunt,
and cousin,
and throw as great a gloom as possible over their dinner and dessert.

Between ten and eleven Edmund and Julia walked into the drawing-room,
fresh
with the evening air,
glowing and cheerful,
the very reverse of what they found in the three ladies sitting there,
for Maria would scarcely raise her eyes from her book,
and Lady Bertram was half-asleep;
and even Mrs. Norris,
discomposed by her niece's ill-humour,
and having asked one or two questions about the dinner,
which were not immediately attended to,
seemed almost determined
to say no more.

For a few minutes the brother and sister were too eager in their praise of the night and their remarks on the stars,
to think beyond themselves;
but when the first pause came,
Edmund,
looking around,
said,
"But where is Fanny?

Is she gone
to bed?"

"No,
not that I know of,"
replied Mrs. Norris;
"she was here a moment ago."



Her own gentle voice speaking from the other end of the room,
which was a very long one,
told them that she was on the sofa.

Mrs. Norris began scolding.

"That is a very foolish trick,
Fanny,
to be idling away all the evening upon a sofa.

Why cannot you come and sit here,
and employ yourself as _we_ do?

If you have no work of your own,
I can supply you from the poor basket.

There is all the new calico,
that was bought last week,
not touched yet.

I am sure I almost broke my back by cutting it out.

You should learn
to think of other people;
and,
take my word
for it,
it is a shocking trick
for a young person
to be always lolling upon a sofa."



Before half this was said,
Fanny was returned
to her seat at the table,
and had taken up her work again;
and Julia,
who was in high good-humour,
from the pleasures of the day,
did her the justice of exclaiming,
"I must say,
ma'am,
that Fanny is as little upon the sofa as anybody in the house."



"Fanny,"
said Edmund,
after looking at her attentively,
"I am sure you have the headache."



She could not deny it,
but said it was not very bad.

"I can hardly believe you,"
he replied;
"I know your looks too well.

How long have you had it?"

"Since a little before dinner.

It is nothing but the heat."



"Did you go out in the heat?"

"Go out!
to be sure she did,"
said Mrs. Norris:

"would you have her stay within such a fine day as this?

Were not we _all_ out?

Even your mother was out to-day
for above an hour."



"Yes,
indeed,
Edmund,"
added her ladyship,
who had been thoroughly awakened by Mrs. Norris's sharp reprimand
to Fanny;
"I was out above an hour.

I sat three-quarters of an hour in the flower-garden,
while Fanny cut the roses;
and very pleasant it was,
I assure you,
but very hot.

It was shady enough in the alcove,
but I declare I quite dreaded the coming home again."



"Fanny has been cutting roses,
has she?"

"Yes,
and I am afraid they will be the last this year.

Poor thing! _She_ found it hot enough;
but they were so full-blown that one could not wait."



"There was no help
for it,
certainly,"
rejoined Mrs. Norris,
in a rather softened voice;
"but I question whether her headache might not be caught _then_,
sister.

There is nothing so likely
to give it as standing and stooping in a hot sun;
but I dare say it will be well to-morrow.

Suppose you let her have your aromatic vinegar;
I always forget
to have mine filled."



"She has got it,"
said Lady Bertram;
"she has had it ever since she came back from your house the second time."



"What!"

cried Edmund;
"has she been walking as well as cutting roses;
walking across the hot park
to your house,
and doing it twice,
ma'am?

No wonder her head aches."



Mrs. Norris was talking
to Julia,
and did not hear.

"I was afraid it would be too much
for her,"
said Lady Bertram;
"but when the roses were gathered,
your aunt wished
to have them,
and then you know they must be taken home."



"But were there roses enough
to oblige her
to go twice?"

"No;
but they were
to be put into the spare room
to dry;
and,
unluckily,
Fanny forgot
to lock the door of the room and bring away the key,
so she was obliged
to go again."



Edmund got up and walked about the room,
saying,
"And could nobody be employed on such an errand but Fanny?

Upon my word,
ma'am,
it has been a very ill-managed business."



"I am sure I do not know how it was
to have been done better,"
cried Mrs. Norris,
unable
to be longer deaf;
"unless I had gone myself,
indeed;
but I cannot be in two places at once;
and I was talking
to Mr. Green at that very time about your mother's dairymaid,
by _her_ desire,
and had promised John Groom
to write
to Mrs. Jefferies about his son,
and the poor fellow was waiting
for me half an hour.

I think nobody can justly accuse me of sparing myself upon any occasion,
but really I cannot do everything at once.

And as
for Fanny's just stepping down
to my house
for me-- it is not much above a quarter of a mile--I cannot think I was unreasonable
to ask it.

How often do I pace it three times a day,
early and late,
ay,
and in all weathers too,
and say nothing about it?"

"I wish Fanny had half your strength,
ma'am."



"If Fanny would be more regular in her exercise,
she would not be knocked up so soon.

She has not been out on horseback now this long while,
and I am persuaded that,
when she does not ride,
she ought
to walk.

If she had been riding before,
I should not have asked it of her.

But I thought it would rather do her good after being stooping among the roses;
for there is nothing so refreshing as a walk after a fatigue of that kind;
and though the sun was strong,
it was not so very hot.

Between ourselves,
Edmund,"
nodding significantly at his mother,
"it was cutting the roses,
and dawdling about in the flower-garden,
that did the mischief."



"I am afraid it was,
indeed,"
said the more candid Lady Bertram,
who had overheard her;
"I am very much afraid she caught the headache there,
for the heat was enough
to kill anybody.

It was as much as I could bear myself.

Sitting and calling
to Pug,
and trying
to keep him from the flower-beds,
was almost too much
for me."



Edmund said no more
to either lady;
but going quietly
to another table,
on which the supper-tray yet remained,
brought a glass of Madeira
to Fanny,
and obliged her
to drink the greater part.

She wished
to be able
to decline it;
but the tears,
which a variety of feelings created,
made it easier
to swallow than
to speak.

Vexed as Edmund was
with his mother and aunt,
he was still more angry
with himself.

His own forgetfulness of her was worse than anything which they had done.

Nothing of this would have happened had she been properly considered;
but she had been left four days together without any choice of companions or exercise,
and without any excuse
for avoiding whatever her unreasonable aunts might require.

He was ashamed
to think that
for four days together she had not had the power of riding,
and very seriously resolved,
however unwilling he must be
to check a pleasure of Miss Crawford's,
that it should never happen again.

Fanny went
to bed
with her heart as full as on the first evening of her arrival at the Park.

The state of her spirits had probably had its share in her indisposition;
for she had been feeling neglected,
and been struggling against discontent and envy
for some days past.

As she leant on the sofa,
to which she had retreated that she might not be seen,
the pain of her mind had been much beyond that in her head;
and the sudden change which Edmund's kindness had then occasioned,
made her hardly know how
to support herself.

CHAPTER VIII Fanny's rides recommenced the very next day;
and as it was a pleasant fresh-feeling morning,
less hot than the weather had lately been,
Edmund trusted that her losses,
both of health and pleasure,
would be soon made good.

While she was gone Mr. Rushworth arrived,
escorting his mother,
who came
to be civil and
to shew her civility especially,
in urging the execution of the plan
for visiting Sotherton,
which had been started a fortnight before,
and which,
in consequence of her subsequent absence from home,
had since lain dormant.

Mrs. Norris and her nieces were all well pleased
with its revival,
and an early day was named and agreed to,
provided Mr. Crawford should be disengaged:

the young ladies did not forget that stipulation,
and though Mrs. Norris would willingly have answered
for his being so,
they would neither authorise the liberty nor run the risk;
and at last,
on a hint from Miss Bertram,
Mr. Rushworth discovered that the properest thing
to be done was
for him
to walk down
to the Parsonage directly,
and call on Mr. Crawford,
and inquire whether Wednesday would suit him or not.

Before his return Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford came in.

Having been out some time,
and taken a different route
to the house,
they had not met him.

Comfortable hopes,
however,
were given that he would find Mr. Crawford at home.

The Sotherton scheme was mentioned of course.

It was hardly possible,
indeed,
that anything else should be talked of,
for Mrs. Norris was in high spirits about it;
and Mrs. Rushworth,
a well-meaning,
civil,
prosing,
pompous woman,
who thought nothing of consequence,
but as it related
to her own and her son's concerns,
had not yet given over pressing Lady Bertram
to be of the party.

Lady Bertram constantly declined it;
but her placid manner of refusal made Mrs. Rushworth still think she wished
to come,
till Mrs. Norris's more numerous words and louder tone convinced her of the truth.

"The fatigue would be too much
for my sister,
a great deal too much,
I assure you,
my dear Mrs. Rushworth.

Ten miles there,
and ten back,
you know.

You must excuse my sister on this occasion,
and accept of our two dear girls and myself without her.

Sotherton is the only place that could give her a _wish_
to go so far,
but it cannot be,
indeed.

She will have a companion in Fanny Price,
you know,
so it will all do very well;
and as
for Edmund,
as he is not here
to speak
for himself,
I will answer
for his being most happy
to join the party.

He can go on horseback,
you know."



Mrs. Rushworth being obliged
to yield
to Lady Bertram's staying at home,
could only be sorry.

"The loss of her ladyship's company would be a great drawback,
and she should have been extremely happy
to have seen the young lady too,
Miss Price,
who had never been at Sotherton yet,
and it was a pity she should not see the place."



"You are very kind,
you are all kindness,
my dear madam,"
cried Mrs. Norris;
"but as
to Fanny,
she will have opportunities in plenty of seeing Sotherton.

She has time enough before her;
and her going now is quite out of the question.

Lady Bertram could not possibly spare her."



"Oh no! I cannot do without Fanny."



Mrs. Rushworth proceeded next,
under the conviction that everybody must be wanting
to see Sotherton,
to include Miss Crawford in the invitation;
and though Mrs. Grant,
who had not been at the trouble of visiting Mrs. Rushworth,
on her coming into the neighbourhood,
civilly declined it on her own account,
she was glad
to secure any pleasure
for her sister;
and Mary,
properly pressed and persuaded,
was not long in accepting her share of the civility.

Mr. Rushworth came back from the Parsonage successful;
and Edmund made his appearance just in time
to learn what had been settled
for Wednesday,
to attend Mrs. Rushworth
to her carriage,
and walk half-way down the park
with the two other ladies.

On his return
to the breakfast-room,
he found Mrs. Norris trying
to make up her mind as
to whether Miss Crawford's being of the party were desirable or not,
or whether her brother's barouche would not be full without her.

The Miss Bertrams laughed at the idea,
assuring her that the barouche would hold four perfectly well,
independent of the box,
on which _one_ might go
with him.

"But why is it necessary,"
said Edmund,
"that Crawford's carriage,
or his _only_,
should be employed?

Why is no use
to be made of my mother's chaise?

I could not,
when the scheme was first mentioned the other day,
understand why a visit from the family were not
to be made in the carriage of the family."



"What!"

cried Julia:

"go boxed up three in a postchaise in this weather,
when we may have seats in a barouche! No,
my dear Edmund,
that will not quite do."



"Besides,"
said Maria,
"I know that Mr. Crawford depends upon taking us.

After what passed at first,
he would claim it as a promise."



"And,
my dear Edmund,"
added Mrs. Norris,
"taking out _two_ carriages when _one_ will do,
would be trouble
for nothing;
and,
between ourselves,
coachman is not very fond of the roads between this and Sotherton:

he always complains bitterly of the narrow lanes scratching his carriage,
and you know one should not like
to have dear Sir Thomas,
when he comes home,
find all the varnish scratched off."



"That would not be a very handsome reason
for using Mr. Crawford's,"
said Maria;
"but the truth is,
that Wilcox is a stupid old fellow,
and does not know how
to drive.

I will answer
for it that we shall find no inconvenience from narrow roads on Wednesday."



"There is no hardship,
I suppose,
nothing unpleasant,"
said Edmund,
"in going on the barouche box."



"Unpleasant!"

cried Maria:

"oh dear! I believe it would be generally thought the favourite seat.

There can be no comparison as
to one's view of the country.

Probably Miss Crawford will choose the barouche-box herself."



"There can be no objection,
then,
to Fanny's going
with you;
there can be no doubt of your having room
for her."



"Fanny!"

repeated Mrs. Norris;
"my dear Edmund,
there is no idea of her going
with us.

She stays
with her aunt.

I told Mrs. Rushworth so.

She is not expected."



"You can have no reason,
I imagine,
madam,"
said he,
addressing his mother,
"for wishing Fanny _not_
to be of the party,
but as it relates
to yourself,
to your own comfort.

If you could do without her,
you would not wish
to keep her at home?"

"To be sure not,
but I _cannot_ do without her."



"You can,
if I stay at home
with you,
as I mean
to do."



There was a general cry out at this.

"Yes,"
he continued,
"there is no necessity
for my going,
and I mean
to stay at home.

Fanny has a great desire
to see Sotherton.

I know she wishes it very much.

She has not often a gratification of the kind,
and I am sure,
ma'am,
you would be glad
to give her the pleasure now?"

"Oh yes! very glad,
if your aunt sees no objection."



Mrs. Norris was very ready
with the only objection which could remain--their having positively assured Mrs. Rushworth that Fanny could not go,
and the very strange appearance there would consequently be in taking her,
which seemed
to her a difficulty quite impossible
to be got over.

It must have the strangest appearance! It would be something so very unceremonious,
so bordering on disrespect
for Mrs. Rushworth,
whose own manners were such a pattern of good-breeding and attention,
that she really did not feel equal
to it.

Mrs. Norris had no affection
for Fanny,
and no wish of procuring her pleasure at any time;
but her opposition
to Edmund _now_,
arose more from partiality
for her own scheme,
because it _was_ her own,
than from anything else.

She felt that she had arranged everything extremely well,
and that any alteration must be
for the worse.

When Edmund,
therefore,
told her in reply,
as he did when she would give him the hearing,
that she need not distress herself on Mrs. Rushworth's account,
because he had taken the opportunity,
as he walked
with her through the hall,
of mentioning Miss Price as one who would probably be of the party,
and had directly received a very sufficient invitation
for his cousin,
Mrs. Norris was too much vexed
to submit
with a very good grace,
and would only say,
"Very well,
very well,
just as you chuse,
settle it your own way,
I am sure I do not care about it."



"It seems very odd,"
said Maria,
"that you should be staying at home instead of Fanny."



"I am sure she ought
to be very much obliged
to you,"
added Julia,
hastily leaving the room as she spoke,
from a consciousness that she ought
to offer
to stay at home herself.

"Fanny will feel quite as grateful as the occasion requires,"
was Edmund's only reply,
and the subject dropt.

Fanny's gratitude,
when she heard the plan,
was,
in fact,
much greater than her pleasure.

She felt Edmund's kindness
with all,
and more than all,
the sensibility which he,
unsuspicious of her fond attachment,
could be aware of;
but that he should forego any enjoyment on her account gave her pain,
and her own satisfaction in seeing Sotherton would be nothing without him.

The next meeting of the two Mansfield families produced another alteration in the plan,
and one that was admitted
with general approbation.

Mrs. Grant offered herself as companion
for the day
to Lady Bertram in lieu of her son,
and Dr. Grant was
to join them at dinner.

Lady Bertram was very well pleased
to have it so,
and the young ladies were in spirits again.

Even Edmund was very thankful
for an arrangement which restored him
to his share of the party;
and Mrs. Norris thought it an excellent plan,
and had it at her tongue's end,
and was on the point of proposing it,
when Mrs. Grant spoke.

Wednesday was fine,
and soon after breakfast the barouche arrived,
Mr. Crawford driving his sisters;
and as everybody was ready,
there was nothing
to be done but
for Mrs. Grant
to alight and the others
to take their places.

The place of all places,
the envied seat,
the post of honour,
was unappropriated.

To whose happy lot was it
to fall?

While each of the Miss Bertrams were meditating how best,
and
with the most appearance of obliging the others,
to secure it,
the matter was settled by Mrs. Grant's saying,
as she stepped from the carriage,
"As there are five of you,
it will be better that one should sit
with Henry;
and as you were saying lately that you wished you could drive,
Julia,
I think this will be a good opportunity
for you
to take a lesson."



Happy Julia! Unhappy Maria! The former was on the barouche-box in a moment,
the latter took her seat within,
in gloom and mortification;
and the carriage drove off amid the good wishes of the two remaining ladies,
and the barking of Pug in his mistress's arMs. Their road was through a pleasant country;
and Fanny,
whose rides had never been extensive,
was soon beyond her knowledge,
and was very happy in observing all that was new,
and admiring all that was pretty.

She was not often invited
to join in the conversation of the others,
nor did she desire it.

Her own thoughts and reflections were habitually her best companions;
and,
in observing the appearance of the country,
the bearings of the roads,
the difference of soil,
the state of the harvest,
the cottages,
the cattle,
the children,
she found entertainment that could only have been heightened by having Edmund
to speak
to of what she felt.

That was the only point of resemblance between her and the lady who sat by her:

in everything but a value
for Edmund,
Miss Crawford was very unlike her.

She had none of Fanny's delicacy of taste,
of mind,
of feeling;
she saw Nature,
inanimate Nature,
with little observation;
her attention was all
for men and women,
her talents
for the light and lively.

In looking back after Edmund,
however,
when there was any stretch of road behind them,
or when he gained on them in ascending a considerable hill,
they were united,
and a
"there he is"
broke at the same moment from them both,
more than once.

For the first seven miles Miss Bertram had very little real comfort:

her prospect always ended in Mr. Crawford and her sister sitting side by side,
full of conversation and merriment;
and
to see only his expressive profile as he turned
with a smile
to Julia,
or
to catch the laugh of the other,
was a perpetual source of irritation,
which her own sense of propriety could but just smooth over.

When Julia looked back,
it was
with a countenance of delight,
and whenever she spoke
to them,
it was in the highest spirits:

"her view of the country was charming,
she wished they could all see it,"
etc.;
but her only offer of exchange was addressed
to Miss Crawford,
as they gained the summit of a long hill,
and was not more inviting than this:

"Here is a fine burst of country.

I wish you had my seat,
but I dare say you will not take it,
let me press you ever so much;"
and Miss Crawford could hardly answer before they were moving again at a good pace.

When they came within the influence of Sotherton associations,
it was better
for Miss Bertram,
who might be said
to have two strings
to her bow.

She had Rushworth feelings,
and Crawford feelings,
and in the vicinity of Sotherton the former had considerable effect.

Mr. Rushworth's consequence was hers.

She could not tell Miss Crawford that
"those woods belonged
to Sotherton,"
she could not carelessly observe that
"she believed that it was now all Mr. Rushworth's property on each side of the road,"
without elation of heart;
and it was a pleasure
to increase
with their approach
to the capital freehold mansion,
and ancient manorial residence of the family,
with all its rights of court-leet and court-baron.

"Now we shall have no more rough road,
Miss Crawford;
our difficulties are over.

The rest of the way is such as it ought
to be.

Mr. Rushworth has made it since he succeeded
to the estate.

Here begins the village.

Those cottages are really a disgrace.

The church spire is reckoned remarkably handsome.

I am glad the church is not so close
to the great house as often happens in old places.

The annoyance of the bells must be terrible.

There is the parsonage:

a tidy-looking house,
and I understand the clergyman and his wife are very decent people.

Those are almshouses,
built by some of the family.

To the right is the steward's house;
he is a very respectable man.

Now we are coming
to the lodge-gates;
but we have nearly a mile through the park still.

It is not ugly,
you see,
at this end;
there is some fine timber,
but the situation of the house is dreadful.

We go down hill
to it
for half a mile,
and it is a pity,
for it would not be an ill-looking place if it had a better approach."



Miss Crawford was not slow
to admire;
she pretty well guessed Miss Bertram's feelings,
and made it a point of honour
to promote her enjoyment
to the utmost.

Mrs. Norris was all delight and volubility;
and even Fanny had something
to say in admiration,
and might be heard
with complacency.

Her eye was eagerly taking in everything within her reach;
and after being at some pains
to get a view of the house,
and observing that
"it was a sort of building which she could not look at but
with respect,"
she added,
"Now,
where is the avenue?

The house fronts the east,
I perceive.

The avenue,
therefore,
must be at the back of it.

Mr. Rushworth talked of the west front."



"Yes,
it is exactly behind the house;
begins at a little distance,
and ascends
for half a mile
to the extremity of the grounds.

You may see something of it here-- something of the more distant trees.

It is oak entirely."



Miss Bertram could now speak
with decided information of what she had known nothing about when Mr. Rushworth had asked her opinion;
and her spirits were in as happy a flutter as vanity and pride could furnish,
when they drove up
to the spacious stone steps before the principal entrance.

CHAPTER IX Mr. Rushworth was at the door
to receive his fair lady;
and the whole party were welcomed by him
with due attention.

In the drawing-room they were met
with equal cordiality by the mother,
and Miss Bertram had all the distinction
with each that she could wish.

After the business of arriving was over,
it was first necessary
to eat,
and the doors were thrown open
to admit them through one or two intermediate rooms into the appointed dining-parlour,
where a collation was prepared
with abundance and elegance.

Much was said,
and much was ate,
and all went well.

The particular object of the day was then considered.

How would Mr. Crawford like,
in what manner would he chuse,
to take a survey of the grounds?

Mr. Rushworth mentioned his curricle.

Mr. Crawford suggested the greater desirableness of some carriage which might convey more than two.

"To be depriving themselves of the advantage of other eyes and other judgments,
might be an evil even beyond the loss of present pleasure."



Mrs. Rushworth proposed that the chaise should be taken also;
but this was scarcely received as an amendment:

the young ladies neither smiled nor spoke.

Her next proposition,
of shewing the house
to such of them as had not been there before,
was more acceptable,
for Miss Bertram was pleased
to have its size displayed,
and all were glad
to be doing something.

The whole party rose accordingly,
and under Mrs. Rushworth's guidance were shewn through a number of rooms,
all lofty,
and many large,
and amply furnished in the taste of fifty years back,
with shining floors,
solid mahogany,
rich damask,
marble,
gilding,
and carving,
each handsome in its way.

Of pictures there were abundance,
and some few good,
but the larger part were family portraits,
no longer anything
to anybody but Mrs. Rushworth,
who had been at great pains
to learn all that the housekeeper could teach,
and was now almost equally well qualified
to shew the house.

On the present occasion she addressed herself chiefly
to Miss Crawford and Fanny,
but there was no comparison in the willingness of their attention;
for Miss Crawford,
who had seen scores of great houses,
and cared
for none of them,
had only the appearance of civilly listening,
while Fanny,
to whom everything was almost as interesting as it was new,
attended
with unaffected earnestness
to all that Mrs. Rushworth could relate of the family in former times,
its rise and grandeur,
regal visits and loyal efforts,
delighted
to connect anything
with history already known,
or warm her imagination
with scenes of the past.

The situation of the house excluded the possibility of much prospect from any of the rooms;
and while Fanny and some of the others were attending Mrs. Rushworth,
Henry Crawford was looking grave and shaking his head at the windows.

Every room on the west front looked across a lawn
to the beginning of the avenue immediately beyond tall iron palisades and gates.

Having visited many more rooms than could be supposed
to be of any other use than
to contribute
to the window-tax,
and find employment
for housemaids,
"Now,"
said Mrs. Rushworth,
"we are coming
to the chapel,
which properly we ought
to enter from above,
and look down upon;
but as we are quite among friends,
I will take you in this way,
if you will excuse me."



They entered.

Fanny's imagination had prepared her
for something grander than a mere spacious,
oblong room,
fitted up
for the purpose of devotion:

with nothing more striking or more solemn than the profusion of mahogany,
and the crimson velvet cushions appearing over the ledge of the family gallery above.

"I am disappointed,"
said she,
in a low voice,
to Edmund.

"This is not my idea of a chapel.

There is nothing awful here,
nothing melancholy,
nothing grand.

Here are no aisles,
no arches,
no inscriptions,
no banners.

No banners,
cousin,
to be
'blown by the night wind of heaven.'



No signs that a
'Scottish monarch sleeps below.'


"
"You forget,
Fanny,
how lately all this has been built,
and
for how confined a purpose,
compared
with the old chapels of castles and monasteries.

It was only
for the private use of the family.

They have been buried,
I suppose,
in the parish church.

_There_ you must look
for the banners and the achievements."



"It was foolish of me not
to think of all that;
but I am disappointed."



Mrs. Rushworth began her relation.

"This chapel was fitted up as you see it,
in James the Second's time.

Before that period,
as I understand,
the pews were only wainscot;
and there is some reason
to think that the linings and cushions of the pulpit and family seat were only purple cloth;
but this is not quite certain.

It is a handsome chapel,
and was formerly in constant use both morning and evening.

Prayers were always read in it by the domestic chaplain,
within the memory of many;
but the late Mr. Rushworth left it off."



"Every generation has its improvements,"
said Miss Crawford,
with a smile,
to Edmund.

Mrs. Rushworth was gone
to repeat her lesson
to Mr. Crawford;
and Edmund,
Fanny,
and Miss Crawford remained in a cluster together.

"It is a pity,"
cried Fanny,
"that the custom should have been discontinued.

It was a valuable part of former times.

There is something in a chapel and chaplain so much in character
with a great house,
with one's ideas of what such a household should be! A whole family assembling regularly
for the purpose of prayer is fine!"

"Very fine indeed,"
said Miss Crawford,
laughing.

"It must do the heads of the family a great deal of good
to force all the poor housemaids and footmen
to leave business and pleasure,
and say their prayers here twice a day,
while they are inventing excuses themselves
for staying away."



"_That_ is hardly Fanny's idea of a family assembling,"
said Edmund.

"If the master and mistress do _not_ attend themselves,
there must be more harm than good in the custom."



"At any rate,
it is safer
to leave people
to their own devices on such subjects.

Everybody likes
to go their own way--to chuse their own time and manner of devotion.

The obligation of attendance,
the formality,
the restraint,
the length of time--altogether it is a formidable thing,
and what nobody likes;
and if the good people who used
to kneel and gape in that gallery could have foreseen that the time would ever come when men and women might lie another ten minutes in bed,
when they woke
with a headache,
without danger of reprobation,
because chapel was missed,
they would have jumped
with joy and envy.

Cannot you imagine
with what unwilling feelings the former belles of the house of Rushworth did many a time repair
to this chapel?

The young Mrs. Eleanors and Mrs. Bridgets-- starched up into seeming piety,
but
with heads full of something very different--especially if the poor chaplain were not worth looking at--and,
in those days,
I fancy parsons were very inferior even
to what they are now."



For a few moments she was unanswered.

Fanny coloured and looked at Edmund,
but felt too angry
for speech;
and he needed a little recollection before he could say,
"Your lively mind can hardly be serious even on serious subjects.

You have given us an amusing sketch,
and human nature cannot say it was not so.

We must all feel _at_ _times_ the difficulty of fixing our thoughts as we could wish;
but if you are supposing it a frequent thing,
that is
to say,
a weakness grown into a habit from neglect,
what could be expected from the _private_ devotions of such persons?

Do you think the minds which are suffered,
which are indulged in wanderings in a chapel,
would be more collected in a closet?"

"Yes,
very likely.

They would have two chances at least in their favour.

There would be less
to distract the attention from without,
and it would not be tried so long."



"The mind which does not struggle against itself under _one_ circumstance,
would find objects
to distract it in the _other_,
I believe;
and the influence of the place and of example may often rouse better feelings than are begun with.

The greater length of the service,
however,
I admit
to be sometimes too hard a stretch upon the mind.

One wishes it were not so;
but I have not yet left Oxford long enough
to forget what chapel prayers are."



While this was passing,
the rest of the party being scattered about the chapel,
Julia called Mr. Crawford's attention
to her sister,
by saying,
"Do look at Mr. Rushworth and Maria,
standing side by side,
exactly as if the ceremony were going
to be performed.

Have not they completely the air of it?"

Mr. Crawford smiled his acquiescence,
and stepping forward
to Maria,
said,
in a voice which she only could hear,
"I do not like
to see Miss Bertram so near the altar."



Starting,
the lady instinctively moved a step or two,
but recovering herself in a moment,
affected
to laugh,
and asked him,
in a tone not much louder,
"If he would give her away?"

"I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly,"
was his reply,
with a look of meaning.

Julia,
joining them at the moment,
carried on the joke.

"Upon my word,
it is really a pity that it should not take place directly,
if we had but a proper licence,
for here we are altogether,
and nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant."



And she talked and laughed about it
with so little caution as
to catch the comprehension of Mr. Rushworth and his mother,
and expose her sister
to the whispered gallantries of her lover,
while Mrs. Rushworth spoke
with proper smiles and dignity of its being a most happy event
to her whenever it took place.

"If Edmund were but in orders!"

cried Julia,
and running
to where he stood
with Miss Crawford and Fanny:

"My dear Edmund,
if you were but in orders now,
you might perform the ceremony directly.

How unlucky that you are not ordained;
Mr. Rushworth and Maria are quite ready."



Miss Crawford's countenance,
as Julia spoke,
might have amused a disinterested observer.

She looked almost aghast under the new idea she was receiving.

Fanny pitied her.

"How distressed she will be at what she said just now,"
passed across her mind.

"Ordained!"

said Miss Crawford;
"what,
are you
to be a clergyman?"

"Yes;
I shall take orders soon after my father's return-- probably at Christmas."



Miss Crawford,
rallying her spirits,
and recovering her complexion,
replied only,
"If I had known this before,
I would have spoken of the cloth
with more respect,"
and turned the subject.

The chapel was soon afterwards left
to the silence and stillness which reigned in it,
with few interruptions,
throughout the year.

Miss Bertram,
displeased
with her sister,
led the way,
and all seemed
to feel that they had been there long enough.

The lower part of the house had been now entirely shewn,
and Mrs. Rushworth,
never weary in the cause,
would have proceeded towards the principal staircase,
and taken them through all the rooms above,
if her son had not interposed
with a doubt of there being time enough.

"For if,"
said he,
with the sort of self-evident proposition which many a clearer head does not always avoid,
"we are _too_ long going over the house,
we shall not have time
for what is
to be done out of doors.

It is past two,
and we are
to dine at five."



Mrs. Rushworth submitted;
and the question of surveying the grounds,
with the who and the how,
was likely
to be more fully agitated,
and Mrs. Norris was beginning
to arrange by what junction of carriages and horses most could be done,
when the young people,
meeting
with an outward door,
temptingly open on a flight of steps which led immediately
to turf and shrubs,
and all the sweets of pleasure-grounds,
as by one impulse,
one wish
for air and liberty,
all walked out.

"Suppose we turn down here
for the present,"
said Mrs. Rushworth,
civilly taking the hint and following them.

"Here are the greatest number of our plants,
and here are the curious pheasants."



"Query,"
said Mr. Crawford,
looking round him,
"whether we may not find something
to employ us here before we go farther?

I see walls of great promise.

Mr. Rushworth,
shall we summon a council on this lawn?"

"James,"
said Mrs. Rushworth
to her son,
"I believe the wilderness will be new
to all the party.

The Miss Bertrams have never seen the wilderness yet."



No objection was made,
but
for some time there seemed no inclination
to move in any plan,
or
to any distance.

All were attracted at first by the plants or the pheasants,
and all dispersed about in happy independence.

Mr. Crawford was the first
to move forward
to examine the capabilities of that end of the house.

The lawn,
bounded on each side by a high wall,
contained beyond the first planted area a bowling-green,
and beyond the bowling-green a long terrace walk,
backed by iron palisades,
and commanding a view over them into the tops of the trees of the wilderness immediately adjoining.

It was a good spot
for fault-finding.

Mr. Crawford was soon followed by Miss Bertram and Mr. Rushworth;
and when,
after a little time,
the others began
to form into parties,
these three were found in busy consultation on the terrace by Edmund,
Miss Crawford,
and Fanny,
who seemed as naturally
to unite,
and who,
after a short participation of their regrets and difficulties,
left them and walked on.

The remaining three,
Mrs. Rushworth,
Mrs. Norris,
and Julia,
were still far behind;
for Julia,
whose happy star no longer prevailed,
was obliged
to keep by the side of Mrs. Rushworth,
and restrain her impatient feet
to that lady's slow pace,
while her aunt,
having fallen in
with the housekeeper,
who was come out
to feed the pheasants,
was lingering behind in gossip
with her.

Poor Julia,
the only one out of the nine not tolerably satisfied
with their lot,
was now in a state of complete penance,
and as different from the Julia of the barouche-box as could well be imagined.

The politeness which she had been brought up
to practise as a duty made it impossible
for her
to escape;
while the want of that higher species of self-command,
that just consideration of others,
that knowledge of her own heart,
that principle of right,
which had not formed any essential part of her education,
made her miserable under it.

"This is insufferably hot,"
said Miss Crawford,
when they had taken one turn on the terrace,
and were drawing a second time
to the door in the middle which opened
to the wilderness.

"Shall any of us object
to being comfortable?

Here is a nice little wood,
if one can but get into it.

What happiness if the door should not be locked! but of course it is;
for in these great places the gardeners are the only people who can go where they like."



The door,
however,
proved not
to be locked,
and they were all agreed in turning joyfully through it,
and leaving the unmitigated glare of day behind.

A considerable flight of steps landed them in the wilderness,
which was a planted wood of about two acres,
and though chiefly of larch and laurel,
and beech cut down,
and though laid out
with too much regularity,
was darkness and shade,
and natural beauty,
compared
with the bowling-green and the terrace.

They all felt the refreshment of it,
and
for some time could only walk and admire.

At length,
after a short pause,
Miss Crawford began with,
"So you are
to be a clergyman,
Mr. Bertram.

This is rather a surprise
to me."



"Why should it surprise you?

You must suppose me designed
for some profession,
and might perceive that I am neither a lawyer,
nor a soldier,
nor a sailor."



"Very true;
but,
in short,
it had not occurred
to me.

And you know there is generally an uncle or a grandfather
to leave a fortune
to the second son."



"A very praiseworthy practice,"
said Edmund,
"but not quite universal.

I am one of the exceptions,
and _being_ one,
must do something
for myself."



"But why are you
to be a clergyman?

I thought _that_ was always the lot of the youngest,
where there were many
to chuse before him."



"Do you think the church itself never chosen,
then?"

"_Never_ is a black word.

But yes,
in the _never_ of conversation,
which means _not_ _very_ _often_,
I do think it.

For what is
to be done in the church?

Men love
to distinguish themselves,
and in either of the other lines distinction may be gained,
but not in the church.

A clergyman is nothing."



"The _nothing_ of conversation has its gradations,
I hope,
as well as the _never_.

A clergyman cannot be high in state or fashion.

He must not head mobs,
or set the ton in dress.

But I cannot call that situation nothing which has the charge of all that is of the first importance
to mankind,
individually or collectively considered,
temporally and eternally,
which has the guardianship of religion and morals,
and consequently of the manners which result from their influence.

No one here can call the _office_ nothing.

If the man who holds it is so,
it is by the neglect of his duty,
by foregoing its just importance,
and stepping out of his place
to appear what he ought not
to appear."



"_You_ assign greater consequence
to the clergyman than one has been used
to hear given,
or than I can quite comprehend.

One does not see much of this influence and importance in society,
and how can it be acquired where they are so seldom seen themselves?

How can two sermons a week,
even supposing them worth hearing,
supposing the preacher
to have the sense
to prefer Blair's
to his own,
do all that you speak of?

govern the conduct and fashion the manners of a large congregation
for the rest of the week?

One scarcely sees a clergyman out of his pulpit."



"_You_ are speaking of London,
_I_ am speaking of the nation at large."



"The metropolis,
I imagine,
is a pretty fair sample of the rest."



"Not,
I should hope,
of the proportion of virtue
to vice throughout the kingdom.

We do not look in great cities
for our best morality.

It is not there that respectable people of any denomination can do most good;
and it certainly is not there that the influence of the clergy can be most felt.

A fine preacher is followed and admired;
but it is not in fine preaching only that a good clergyman will be useful in his parish and his neighbourhood,
where the parish and neighbourhood are of a size capable of knowing his private character,
and observing his general conduct,
which in London can rarely be the case.

The clergy are lost there in the crowds of their parishioners.

They are known
to the largest part only as preachers.

And
with regard
to their influencing public manners,
Miss Crawford must not misunderstand me,
or suppose I mean
to call them the arbiters of good-breeding,
the regulators of refinement and courtesy,
the masters of the ceremonies of life.

The _manners_ I speak of might rather be called _conduct_,
perhaps,
the result of good principles;
the effect,
in short,
of those doctrines which it is their duty
to teach and recommend;
and it will,
I believe,
be everywhere found,
that as the clergy are,
or are not what they ought
to be,
so are the rest of the nation."



"Certainly,"
said Fanny,
with gentle earnestness.

"There,"
cried Miss Crawford,
"you have quite convinced Miss Price already."



"I wish I could convince Miss Crawford too."



"I do not think you ever will,"
said she,
with an arch smile;
"I am just as much surprised now as I was at first that you should intend
to take orders.

You really are fit
for something better.

Come,
do change your mind.

It is not too late.

Go into the law."



"Go into the law!
with as much ease as I was told
to go into this wilderness."



"Now you are going
to say something about law being the worst wilderness of the two,
but I forestall you;
remember,
I have forestalled you."



"You need not hurry when the object is only
to prevent my saying a _bon_ _mot_,
for there is not the least wit in my nature.

I am a very matter-of-fact,
plain-spoken being,
and may blunder on the borders of a repartee
for half an hour together without striking it out."



A general silence succeeded.

Each was thoughtful.

Fanny made the first interruption by saying,
"I wonder that I should be tired
with only walking in this sweet wood;
but the next time we come
to a seat,
if it is not disagreeable
to you,
I should be glad
to sit down
for a little while."



"My dear Fanny,"
cried Edmund,
immediately drawing her arm within his,
"how thoughtless I have been! I hope you are not very tired.

Perhaps,"
turning
to Miss Crawford,
"my other companion may do me the honour of taking an arm."



"Thank you,
but I am not at all tired."



She took it,
however,
as she spoke,
and the gratification of having her do so,
of feeling such a connexion
for the first time,
made him a little forgetful of Fanny.

"You scarcely touch me,"
said he.

"You do not make me of any use.

What a difference in the weight of a woman's arm from that of a man! At Oxford I have been a good deal used
to have a man lean on me
for the length of a street,
and you are only a fly in the comparison."



"I am really not tired,
which I almost wonder at;
for we must have walked at least a mile in this wood.

Do not you think we have?"

"Not half a mile,"
was his sturdy answer;
for he was not yet so much in love as
to measure distance,
or reckon time,
with feminine lawlessness.

"Oh! you do not consider how much we have wound about.

We have taken such a very serpentine course,
and the wood itself must be half a mile long in a straight line,
for we have never seen the end of it yet since we left the first great path."



"But if you remember,
before we left that first great path,
we saw directly
to the end of it.

We looked down the whole vista,
and saw it closed by iron gates,
and it could not have been more than a furlong in length."



"Oh! I know nothing of your furlongs,
but I am sure it is a very long wood,
and that we have been winding in and out ever since we came into it;
and therefore,
when I say that we have walked a mile in it,
I must speak within compass."



"We have been exactly a quarter of an hour here,"
said Edmund,
taking out his watch.

"Do you think we are walking four miles an hour?"

"Oh! do not attack me
with your watch.

A watch is always too fast or too slow.

I cannot be dictated
to by a watch."



A few steps farther brought them out at the bottom of the very walk they had been talking of;
and standing back,
well shaded and sheltered,
and looking over a ha-ha into the park,
was a comfortable-sized bench,
on which they all sat down.

"I am afraid you are very tired,
Fanny,"
said Edmund,
observing her;
"why would not you speak sooner?

This will be a bad day's amusement
for you if you are
to be knocked up.

Every sort of exercise fatigues her so soon,
Miss Crawford,
except riding."



"How abominable in you,
then,
to let me engross her horse as I did all last week! I am ashamed of you and of myself,
but it shall never happen again."



"_Your_ attentiveness and consideration makes me more sensible of my own neglect.

Fanny's interest seems in safer hands
with you than
with me."



"That she should be tired now,
however,
gives me no surprise;
for there is nothing in the course of one's duties so fatiguing as what we have been doing this morning:

seeing a great house,
dawdling from one room
to another,
straining one's eyes and one's attention,
hearing what one does not understand,
admiring what one does not care for.

It is generally allowed
to be the greatest bore in the world,
and Miss Price has found it so,
though she did not know it."



"I shall soon be rested,"
said Fanny;
"to sit in the shade on a fine day,
and look upon verdure,
is the most perfect refreshment."



After sitting a little while Miss Crawford was up again.

"I must move,"
said she;
"resting fatigues me.

I have looked across the ha-ha till I am weary.

I must go and look through that iron gate at the same view,
without being able
to see it so well."



Edmund left the seat likewise.

"Now,
Miss Crawford,
if you will look up the walk,
you will convince yourself that it cannot be half a mile long,
or half half a mile."



"It is an immense distance,"
said she;
"I see _that_
with a glance."



He still reasoned
with her,
but in vain.

She would not calculate,
she would not compare.

She would only smile and assert.

The greatest degree of rational consistency could not have been more engaging,
and they talked
with mutual satisfaction.

At last it was agreed that they should endeavour
to determine the dimensions of the wood by walking a little more about it.

They would go
to one end of it,
in the line they were then in--
for there was a straight green walk along the bottom by the side of the ha-ha--and perhaps turn a little way in some other direction,
if it seemed likely
to assist them,
and be back in a few minutes.

Fanny said she was rested,
and would have moved too,
but this was not suffered.

Edmund urged her remaining where she was
with an earnestness which she could not resist,
and she was left on the bench
to think
with pleasure of her cousin's care,
but
with great regret that she was not stronger.

She watched them till they had turned the corner,
and listened till all sound of them had ceased.

CHAPTER X A quarter of an hour,
twenty minutes,
passed away,
and Fanny was still thinking of Edmund,
Miss Crawford,
and herself,
without interruption from any one.

She began
to be surprised at being left so long,
and
to listen
with an anxious desire of hearing their steps and their voices again.

She listened,
and at length she heard;
she heard voices and feet approaching;
but she had just satisfied herself that it was not those she wanted,
when Miss Bertram,
Mr. Rushworth,
and Mr. Crawford issued from the same path which she had trod herself,
and were before her.

"Miss Price all alone"
and
"My dear Fanny,
how comes this?"

were the first salutations.

She told her story.

"Poor dear Fanny,"
cried her cousin,
"how ill you have been used by them! You had better have staid
with us."



Then seating herself
with a gentleman on each side,
she resumed the conversation which had engaged them before,
and discussed the possibility of improvements
with much animation.

Nothing was fixed on;
but Henry Crawford was full of ideas and projects,
and,
generally speaking,
whatever he proposed was immediately approved,
first by her,
and then by Mr. Rushworth,
whose principal business seemed
to be
to hear the others,
and who scarcely risked an original thought of his own beyond a wish that they had seen his friend Smith's place.

After some minutes spent in this way,
Miss Bertram,
observing the iron gate,
expressed a wish of passing through it into the park,
that their views and their plans might be more comprehensive.

It was the very thing of all others
to be wished,
it was the best,
it was the only way of proceeding
with any advantage,
in Henry Crawford's opinion;
and he directly saw a knoll not half a mile off,
which would give them exactly the requisite command of the house.

Go therefore they must
to that knoll,
and through that gate;
but the gate was locked.

Mr. Rushworth wished he had brought the key;
he had been very near thinking whether he should not bring the key;
he was determined he would never come without the key again;
but still this did not remove the present evil.

They could not get through;
and as Miss Bertram's inclination
for so doing did by no means lessen,
it ended in Mr. Rushworth's declaring outright that he would go and fetch the key.

He set off accordingly.

"It is undoubtedly the best thing we can do now,
as we are so far from the house already,"
said Mr. Crawford,
when he was gone.

"Yes,
there is nothing else
to be done.

But now,
sincerely,
do not you find the place altogether worse than you expected?"

"No,
indeed,
far otherwise.

I find it better,
grander,
more complete in its style,
though that style may not be the best.

And
to tell you the truth,"
speaking rather lower,
"I do not think that _I_ shall ever see Sotherton again
with so much pleasure as I do now.

Another summer will hardly improve it
to me."



After a moment's embarrassment the lady replied,
"You are too much a man of the world not
to see
with the eyes of the world.

If other people think Sotherton improved,
I have no doubt that you will."



"I am afraid I am not quite so much the man of the world as might be good
for me in some points.

My feelings are not quite so evanescent,
nor my memory of the past under such easy dominion as one finds
to be the case
with men of the world."



This was followed by a short silence.

Miss Bertram began again.

"You seemed
to enjoy your drive here very much this morning.

I was glad
to see you so well entertained.

You and Julia were laughing the whole way."



"Were we?

Yes,
I believe we were;
but I have not the least recollection at what.

Oh! I believe I was relating
to her some ridiculous stories of an old Irish groom of my uncle's.

Your sister loves
to laugh."



"You think her more light-hearted than I am?"

"More easily amused,"
he replied;
"consequently,
you know,"
smiling,
"better company.

I could not have hoped
to entertain you
with Irish anecdotes during a ten miles'
drive."



"Naturally,
I believe,
I am as lively as Julia,
but I have more
to think of now."



"You have,
undoubtedly;
and there are situations in which very high spirits would denote insensibility.

Your prospects,
however,
are too fair
to justify want of spirits.

You have a very smiling scene before you."



"Do you mean literally or figuratively?

Literally,
I conclude.

Yes,
certainly,
the sun shines,
and the park looks very cheerful.

But unluckily that iron gate,
that ha-ha,
give me a feeling of restraint and hardship.

'I cannot get out,'
as the starling said."



As she spoke,
and it was
with expression,
she walked
to the gate:

he followed her.

"Mr. Rushworth is so long fetching this key!"

"And
for the world you would not get out without the key and without Mr. Rushworth's authority and protection,
or I think you might
with little difficulty pass round the edge of the gate,
here,
with my assistance;
I think it might be done,
if you really wished
to be more at large,
and could allow yourself
to think it not prohibited."



"Prohibited! nonsense! I certainly can get out that way,
and I will.

Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment,
you know;
we shall not be out of sight."



"Or if we are,
Miss Price will be so good as
to tell him that he will find us near that knoll:

the grove of oak on the knoll."



Fanny,
feeling all this
to be wrong,
could not help making an effort
to prevent it.

"You will hurt yourself,
Miss Bertram,"
she cried;
"you will certainly hurt yourself against those spikes;
you will tear your gown;
you will be in danger of slipping into the ha-ha.

You had better not go."



Her cousin was safe on the other side while these words were spoken,
and,
smiling
with all the good-humour of success,
she said,
"Thank you,
my dear Fanny,
but I and my gown are alive and well,
and so good-bye."



Fanny was again left
to her solitude,
and
with no increase of pleasant feelings,
for she was sorry
for almost all that she had seen and heard,
astonished at Miss Bertram,
and angry
with Mr. Crawford.

By taking a circuitous route,
and,
as it appeared
to her,
very unreasonable direction
to the knoll,
they were soon beyond her eye;
and
for some minutes longer she remained without sight or sound of any companion.

She seemed
to have the little wood all
to herself.

She could almost have thought that Edmund and Miss Crawford had left it,
but that it was impossible
for Edmund
to forget her so entirely.

She was again roused from disagreeable musings by sudden footsteps:

somebody was coming at a quick pace down the principal walk.

She expected Mr. Rushworth,
but it was Julia,
who,
hot and out of breath,
and
with a look of disappointment,
cried out on seeing her,
"Heyday! Where are the others?

I thought Maria and Mr. Crawford were
with you."



Fanny explained.

"A pretty trick,
upon my word! I cannot see them anywhere,"
looking eagerly into the park.

"But they cannot be very far off,
and I think I am equal
to as much as Maria,
even without help."



"But,
Julia,
Mr. Rushworth will be here in a moment
with the key.

Do wait
for Mr. Rushworth."



"Not I,
indeed.

I have had enough of the family
for one morning.

Why,
child,
I have but this moment escaped from his horrible mother.

Such a penance as I have been enduring,
while you were sitting here so composed and so happy! It might have been as well,
perhaps,
if you had been in my place,
but you always contrive
to keep out of these scrapes."



This was a most unjust reflection,
but Fanny could allow
for it,
and let it pass:

Julia was vexed,
and her temper was hasty;
but she felt that it would not last,
and therefore,
taking no notice,
only asked her if she had not seen Mr. Rushworth.

"Yes,
yes,
we saw him.

He was posting away as if upon life and death,
and could but just spare time
to tell us his errand,
and where you all were."



"It is a pity he should have so much trouble
for nothing."



"_That_ is Miss Maria's concern.

I am not obliged
to punish myself
for _her_ sins.

The mother I could not avoid,
as long as my tiresome aunt was dancing about
with the housekeeper,
but the son I _can_ get away from."



And she immediately scrambled across the fence,
and walked away,
not attending
to Fanny's last question of whether she had seen anything of Miss Crawford and Edmund.

The sort of dread in which Fanny now sat of seeing Mr. Rushworth prevented her thinking so much of their continued absence,
however,
as she might have done.

She felt that he had been very ill-used,
and was quite unhappy in having
to communicate what had passed.

He joined her within five minutes after Julia's exit;
and though she made the best of the story,
he was evidently mortified and displeased in no common degree.

At first he scarcely said anything;
his looks only expressed his extreme surprise and vexation,
and he walked
to the gate and stood there,
without seeming
to know what
to do.

"They desired me
to stay--my cousin Maria charged me
to say that you would find them at that knoll,
or thereabouts."



"I do not believe I shall go any farther,"
said he sullenly;
"I see nothing of them.

By the time I get
to the knoll they may be gone somewhere else.

I have had walking enough."



And he sat down
with a most gloomy countenance by Fanny.

"I am very sorry,"
said she;
"it is very unlucky."



And she longed
to be able
to say something more
to the purpose.

After an interval of silence,
"I think they might as well have staid
for me,"
said he.

"Miss Bertram thought you would follow her."



"I should not have had
to follow her if she had staid."



This could not be denied,
and Fanny was silenced.

After another pause,
he went on--"Pray,
Miss Price,
are you such a great admirer of this Mr. Crawford as some people are?

For my part,
I can see nothing in him."



"I do not think him at all handsome."



"Handsome! Nobody can call such an undersized man handsome.

He is not five foot nine.

I should not wonder if he is not more than five foot eight.

I think he is an ill-looking fellow.

In my opinion,
these Crawfords are no addition at all.

We did very well without them."



A small sigh escaped Fanny here,
and she did not know how
to contradict him.

"If I had made any difficulty about fetching the key,
there might have been some excuse,
but I went the very moment she said she wanted it."



"Nothing could be more obliging than your manner,
I am sure,
and I dare say you walked as fast as you could;
but still it is some distance,
you know,
from this spot
to the house,
quite into the house;
and when people are waiting,
they are bad judges of time,
and every half minute seems like five."



He got up and walked
to the gate again,
and
"wished he had had the key about him at the time."



Fanny thought she discerned in his standing there an indication of relenting,
which encouraged her
to another attempt,
and she said,
therefore,
"It is a pity you should not join them.

They expected
to have a better view of the house from that part of the park,
and will be thinking how it may be improved;
and nothing of that sort,
you know,
can be settled without you."



She found herself more successful in sending away than in retaining a companion.

Mr. Rushworth was worked on.

"Well,"
said he,
"if you really think I had better go:

it would be foolish
to bring the key
for nothing."



And letting himself out,
he walked off without farther ceremony.

Fanny's thoughts were now all engrossed by the two who had left her so long ago,
and getting quite impatient,
she resolved
to go in search of them.

She followed their steps along the bottom walk,
and had just turned up into another,
when the voice and the laugh of Miss Crawford once more caught her ear;
the sound approached,
and a few more windings brought them before her.

They were just returned into the wilderness from the park,
to which a sidegate,
not fastened,
had tempted them very soon after their leaving her,
and they had been across a portion of the park into the very avenue which Fanny had been hoping the whole morning
to reach at last,
and had been sitting down under one of the trees.

This was their history.

It was evident that they had been spending their time pleasantly,
and were not aware of the length of their absence.

Fanny's best consolation was in being assured that Edmund had wished
for her very much,
and that he should certainly have come back
for her,
had she not been tired already;
but this was not quite sufficient
to do away
with the pain of having been left a whole hour,
when he had talked of only a few minutes,
nor
to banish the sort of curiosity she felt
to know what they had been conversing about all that time;
and the result of the whole was
to her disappointment and depression,
as they prepared by general agreement
to return
to the house.

On reaching the bottom of the steps
to the terrace,
Mrs. Rushworth and Mrs. Norris presented themselves at the top,
just ready
for the wilderness,
at the end of an hour and a half from their leaving the house.

Mrs. Norris had been too well employed
to move faster.

Whatever cross-accidents had occurred
to intercept the pleasures of her nieces,
she had found a morning of complete enjoyment;
for the housekeeper,
after a great many courtesies on the subject of pheasants,
had taken her
to the dairy,
told her all about their cows,
and given her the receipt
for a famous cream cheese;
and since Julia's leaving them they had been met by the gardener,
with whom she had made a most satisfactory acquaintance,
for she had set him right as
to his grandson's illness,
convinced him that it was an ague,
and promised him a charm
for it;
and he,
in return,
had shewn her all his choicest nursery of plants,
and actually presented her
with a very curious specimen of heath.

On this _rencontre_ they all returned
to the house together,
there
to lounge away the time as they could
with sofas,
and chit-chat,
and Quarterly Reviews,
till the return of the others,
and the arrival of dinner.

It was late before the Miss Bertrams and the two gentlemen came in,
and their ramble did not appear
to have been more than partially agreeable,
or at all productive of anything useful
with regard
to the object of the day.

By their own accounts they had been all walking after each other,
and the junction which had taken place at last seemed,
to Fanny's observation,
to have been as much too late
for re-establishing harmony,
as it confessedly had been
for determining on any alteration.

She felt,
as she looked at Julia and Mr. Rushworth,
that hers was not the only dissatisfied bosom amongst them:

there was gloom on the face of each.

Mr. Crawford and Miss Bertram were much more gay,
and she thought that he was taking particular pains,
during dinner,
to do away any little resentment of the other two,
and restore general good-humour.

Dinner was soon followed by tea and coffee,
a ten miles'
drive home allowed no waste of hours;
and from the time of their sitting down
to table,
it was a quick succession of busy nothings till the carriage came
to the door,
and Mrs. Norris,
having fidgeted about,
and obtained a few pheasants'
eggs and a cream cheese from the housekeeper,
and made abundance of civil speeches
to Mrs. Rushworth,
was ready
to lead the way.

At the same moment Mr. Crawford,
approaching Julia,
said,
"I hope I am not
to lose my companion,
unless she is afraid of the evening air in so exposed a seat."



The request had not been foreseen,
but was very graciously received,
and Julia's day was likely
to end almost as well as it began.

Miss Bertram had made up her mind
to something different,
and was a little disappointed;
but her conviction of being really the one preferred comforted her under it,
and enabled her
to receive Mr. Rushworth's parting attentions as she ought.

He was certainly better pleased
to hand her into the barouche than
to assist her in ascending the box,
and his complacency seemed confirmed by the arrangement.

"Well,
Fanny,
this has been a fine day
for you,
upon my word,"
said Mrs. Norris,
as they drove through the park.

"Nothing but pleasure from beginning
to end! I am sure you ought
to be very much obliged
to your aunt Bertram and me
for contriving
to let you go.

A pretty good day's amusement you have had!"

Maria was just discontented enough
to say directly,
"I think _you_ have done pretty well yourself,
ma'am.

Your lap seems full of good things,
and here is a basket of something between us which has been knocking my elbow unmercifully."



"My dear,
it is only a beautiful little heath,
which that nice old gardener would make me take;
but if it is in your way,
I will have it in my lap directly.

There,
Fanny,
you shall carry that parcel
for me;
take great care of it:

do not let it fall;
it is a cream cheese,
just like the excellent one we had at dinner.

Nothing would satisfy that good old Mrs. Whitaker,
but my taking one of the cheeses.

I stood out as long as I could,
till the tears almost came into her eyes,
and I knew it was just the sort that my sister would be delighted with.

That Mrs. Whitaker is a treasure! She was quite shocked when I asked her whether wine was allowed at the second table,
and she has turned away two housemaids
for wearing white gowns.

Take care of the cheese,
Fanny.

Now I can manage the other parcel and the basket very well."



"What else have you been spunging?"

said Maria,
half-pleased that Sotherton should be so complimented.

"Spunging,
my dear! It is nothing but four of those beautiful pheasants'
eggs,
which Mrs. Whitaker would quite force upon me:

she would not take a denial.

She said it must be such an amusement
to me,
as she understood I lived quite alone,
to have a few living creatures of that sort;
and so
to be sure it will.

I shall get the dairymaid
to set them under the first spare hen,
and if they come
to good I can have them moved
to my own house and borrow a coop;
and it will be a great delight
to me in my lonely hours
to attend
to them.

And if I have good luck,
your mother shall have some."



It was a beautiful evening,
mild and still,
and the drive was as pleasant as the serenity of Nature could make it;
but when Mrs. Norris ceased speaking,
it was altogether a silent drive
to those within.

Their spirits were in general exhausted;
and
to determine whether the day had afforded most pleasure or pain,
might occupy the meditations of almost all.

CHAPTER XI The day at Sotherton,
with all its imperfections,
afforded the Miss Bertrams much more agreeable feelings than were derived from the letters from Antigua,
which soon afterwards reached Mansfield.

It was much pleasanter
to think of Henry Crawford than of their father;
and
to think of their father in England again within a certain period,
which these letters obliged them
to do,
was a most unwelcome exercise.

November was the black month fixed
for his return.

Sir Thomas wrote of it
with as much decision as experience and anxiety could authorise.

His business was so nearly concluded as
to justify him in proposing
to take his passage in the September packet,
and he consequently looked forward
with the hope of being
with his beloved family again early in November.

Maria was more
to be pitied than Julia;
for
to her the father brought a husband,
and the return of the friend most solicitous
for her happiness would unite her
to the lover,
on whom she had chosen that happiness should depend.

It was a gloomy prospect,
and all she could do was
to throw a mist over it,
and hope when the mist cleared away she should see something else.

It would hardly be _early_ in November,
there were generally delays,
a bad passage or _something_;
that favouring _something_ which everybody who shuts their eyes while they look,
or their understandings while they reason,
feels the comfort of.

It would probably be the middle of November at least;
the middle of November was three months off.

Three months comprised thirteen weeks.

Much might happen in thirteen weeks.

Sir Thomas would have been deeply mortified by a suspicion of half that his daughters felt on the subject of his return,
and would hardly have found consolation in a knowledge of the interest it excited in the breast of another young lady.

Miss Crawford,
on walking up
with her brother
to spend the evening at Mansfield Park,
heard the good news;
and though seeming
to have no concern in the affair beyond politeness,
and
to have vented all her feelings in a quiet congratulation,
heard it
with an attention not so easily satisfied.

Mrs. Norris gave the particulars of the letters,
and the subject was dropt;
but after tea,
as Miss Crawford was standing at an open window
with Edmund and Fanny looking out on a twilight scene,
while the Miss Bertrams,
Mr. Rushworth,
and Henry Crawford were all busy
with candles at the pianoforte,
she suddenly revived it by turning round towards the group,
and saying,
"How happy Mr. Rushworth looks! He is thinking of November."



Edmund looked round at Mr. Rushworth too,
but had nothing
to say.

"Your father's return will be a very interesting event."



"It will,
indeed,
after such an absence;
an absence not only long,
but including so many dangers."



"It will be the forerunner also of other interesting events:

your sister's marriage,
and your taking orders."



"Yes."



"Don't be affronted,"
said she,
laughing,
"but it does put me in mind of some of the old heathen heroes,
who,
after performing great exploits in a foreign land,
offered sacrifices
to the gods on their safe return."



"There is no sacrifice in the case,"
replied Edmund,
with a serious smile,
and glancing at the pianoforte again;
"it is entirely her own doing."



"Oh yes I know it is.

I was merely joking.

She has done no more than what every young woman would do;
and I have no doubt of her being extremely happy.

My other sacrifice,
of course,
you do not understand."



"My taking orders,
I assure you,
is quite as voluntary as Maria's marrying."



"It is fortunate that your inclination and your father's convenience should accord so well.

There is a very good living kept
for you,
I understand,
hereabouts."



"Which you suppose has biassed me?"

"But _that_ I am sure it has not,"
cried Fanny.

"Thank you
for your good word,
Fanny,
but it is more than I would affirm myself.

On the contrary,
the knowing that there was such a provision
for me probably did bias me.

Nor can I think it wrong that it should.

There was no natural disinclination
to be overcome,
and I see no reason why a man should make a worse clergyman
for knowing that he will have a competence early in life.

I was in safe hands.

I hope I should not have been influenced myself in a wrong way,
and I am sure my father was too conscientious
to have allowed it.

I have no doubt that I was biased,
but I think it was blamelessly."



"It is the same sort of thing,"
said Fanny,
after a short pause,
"as
for the son of an admiral
to go into the navy,
or the son of a general
to be in the army,
and nobody sees anything wrong in that.

Nobody wonders that they should prefer the line where their friends can serve them best,
or suspects them
to be less in earnest in it than they appear."



"No,
my dear Miss Price,
and
for reasons good.

The profession,
either navy or army,
is its own justification.

It has everything in its favour:

heroism,
danger,
bustle,
fashion.

Soldiers and sailors are always acceptable in society.

Nobody can wonder that men are soldiers and sailors."



"But the motives of a man who takes orders
with the certainty of preferment may be fairly suspected,
you think?"

said Edmund.

"To be justified in your eyes,
he must do it in the most complete uncertainty of any provision."



"What! take orders without a living! No;
that is madness indeed;
absolute madness."



"Shall I ask you how the church is
to be filled,
if a man is neither
to take orders
with a living nor without?

No;
for you certainly would not know what
to say.

But I must beg some advantage
to the clergyman from your own argument.

As he cannot be influenced by those feelings which you rank highly as temptation and reward
to the soldier and sailor in their choice of a profession,
as heroism,
and noise,
and fashion,
are all against him,
he ought
to be less liable
to the suspicion of wanting sincerity or good intentions in the choice of his."



"Oh! no doubt he is very sincere in preferring an income ready made,
to the trouble of working
for one;
and has the best intentions of doing nothing all the rest of his days but eat,
drink,
and grow fat.

It is indolence,
Mr. Bertram,
indeed.

Indolence and love of ease;
a want of all laudable ambition,
of taste
for good company,
or of inclination
to take the trouble of being agreeable,
which make men clergymen.

A clergyman has nothing
to do but be slovenly and selfish--read the newspaper,
watch the weather,
and quarrel
with his wife.

His curate does all the work,
and the business of his own life is
to dine."



"There are such clergymen,
no doubt,
but I think they are not so common as
to justify Miss Crawford in esteeming it their general character.

I suspect that in this comprehensive and
(may I say)
commonplace censure,
you are not judging from yourself,
but from prejudiced persons,
whose opinions you have been in the habit of hearing.

It is impossible that your own observation can have given you much knowledge of the clergy.

You can have been personally acquainted
with very few of a set of men you condemn so conclusively.

You are speaking what you have been told at your uncle's table."



"I speak what appears
to me the general opinion;
and where an opinion is general,
it is usually correct.

Though _I_ have not seen much of the domestic lives of clergymen,
it is seen by too many
to leave any deficiency of information."



"Where any one body of educated men,
of whatever denomination,
are condemned indiscriminately,
there must be a deficiency of information,
or
(smiling)
of something else.

Your uncle,
and his brother admirals,
perhaps knew little of clergymen beyond the chaplains whom,
good or bad,
they were always wishing away."



"Poor William! He has met
with great kindness from the chaplain of the Antwerp,"
was a tender apostrophe of Fanny's,
very much
to the purpose of her own feelings if not of the conversation.

"I have been so little addicted
to take my opinions from my uncle,"
said Miss Crawford,
"that I can hardly suppose-- and since you push me so hard,
I must observe,
that I am not entirely without the means of seeing what clergymen are,
being at this present time the guest of my own brother,
Dr. Grant.

And though Dr. Grant is most kind and obliging
to me,
and though he is really a gentleman,
and,
I dare say,
a good scholar and clever,
and often preaches good sermons,
and is very respectable,
_I_ see him
to be an indolent,
selfish _bon_ _vivant_,
who must have his palate consulted in everything;
who will not stir a finger
for the convenience of any one;
and who,
moreover,
if the cook makes a blunder,
is out of humour
with his excellent wife.

To own the truth,
Henry and I were partly driven out this very evening by a disappointment about a green goose,
which he could not get the better of.

My poor sister was forced
to stay and bear it."



"I do not wonder at your disapprobation,
upon my word.

It is a great defect of temper,
made worse by a very faulty habit of self-indulgence;
and
to see your sister suffering from it must be exceedingly painful
to such feelings as yours.

Fanny,
it goes against us.

We cannot attempt
to defend Dr. Grant."



"No,"
replied Fanny,
"but we need not give up his profession
for all that;
because,
whatever profession Dr. Grant had chosen,
he would have taken a--not a good temper into it;
and as he must,
either in the navy or army,
have had a great many more people under his command than he has now,
I think more would have been made unhappy by him as a sailor or soldier than as a clergyman.

Besides,
I cannot but suppose that whatever there may be
to wish otherwise in Dr. Grant would have been in a greater danger of becoming worse in a more active and worldly profession,
where he would have had less time and obligation-- where he might have escaped that knowledge of himself,
the _frequency_,
at least,
of that knowledge which it is impossible he should escape as he is now.

A man-- a sensible man like Dr. Grant,
cannot be in the habit of teaching others their duty every week,
cannot go
to church twice every Sunday,
and preach such very good sermons in so good a manner as he does,
without being the better
for it himself.

It must make him think;
and I have no doubt that he oftener endeavours
to restrain himself than he would if he had been anything but a clergyman."



"We cannot prove
to the contrary,
to be sure;
but I wish you a better fate,
Miss Price,
than
to be the wife of a man whose amiableness depends upon his own sermons;
for though he may preach himself into a good-humour every Sunday,
it will be bad enough
to have him quarrelling about green geese from Monday morning till Saturday night."



"I think the man who could often quarrel
with Fanny,"
said Edmund affectionately,
"must be beyond the reach of any sermons."



Fanny turned farther into the window;
and Miss Crawford had only time
to say,
in a pleasant manner,
"I fancy Miss Price has been more used
to deserve praise than
to hear it";
when,
being earnestly invited by the Miss Bertrams
to join in a glee,
she tripped off
to the instrument,
leaving Edmund looking after her in an ecstasy of admiration of all her many virtues,
from her obliging manners down
to her light and graceful tread.

"There goes good-humour,
I am sure,"
said he presently.

"There goes a temper which would never give pain! How well she walks! and how readily she falls in
with the inclination of others! joining them the moment she is asked.

What a pity,"
he added,
after an instant's reflection,
"that she should have been in such hands!"

Fanny agreed
to it,
and had the pleasure of seeing him continue at the window
with her,
in spite of the expected glee;
and of having his eyes soon turned,
like hers,
towards the scene without,
where all that was solemn,
and soothing,
and lovely,
appeared in the brilliancy of an unclouded night,
and the contrast of the deep shade of the woods.

Fanny spoke her feelings.

"Here's harmony!"

said she;
"here's repose! Here's what may leave all painting and all music behind,
and what poetry only can attempt
to describe! Here's what may tranquillise every care,
and lift the heart
to rapture! When I look out on such a night as this,
I feel as if there could be neither wickedness nor sorrow in the world;
and there certainly would be less of both if the sublimity of Nature were more attended to,
and people were carried more out of themselves by contemplating such a scene."



"I like
to hear your enthusiasm,
Fanny.

It is a lovely night,
and they are much
to be pitied who have not been taught
to feel,
in some degree,
as you do;
who have not,
at least,
been given a taste
for Nature in early life.

They lose a great deal."



"_You_ taught me
to think and feel on the subject,
cousin."



"I had a very apt scholar.

There's Arcturus looking very bright."



"Yes,
and the Bear.

I wish I could see Cassiopeia."



"We must go out on the lawn
for that.

Should you be afraid?"

"Not in the least.

It is a great while since we have had any star-gazing."



"Yes;
I do not know how it has happened."



The glee began.

"We will stay till this is finished,
Fanny,"
said he,
turning his back on the window;
and as it advanced,
she had the mortification of seeing him advance too,
moving forward by gentle degrees towards the instrument,
and when it ceased,
he was close by the singers,
among the most urgent in requesting
to hear the glee again.

Fanny sighed alone at the window till scolded away by Mrs. Norris's threats of catching cold.

CHAPTER XII Sir Thomas was
to return in November,
and his eldest son had duties
to call him earlier home.

The approach of September brought tidings of Mr. Bertram,
first in a letter
to the gamekeeper and then in a letter
to Edmund;
and by the end of August he arrived himself,
to be gay,
agreeable,
and gallant again as occasion served,
or Miss Crawford demanded;
to tell of races and Weymouth,
and parties and friends,
to which she might have listened six weeks before
with some interest,
and altogether
to give her the fullest conviction,
by the power of actual comparison,
of her preferring his younger brother.

It was very vexatious,
and she was heartily sorry
for it;
but so it was;
and so far from now meaning
to marry the elder,
she did not even want
to attract him beyond what the simplest claims of conscious beauty required:

his lengthened absence from Mansfield,
without anything but pleasure in view,
and his own will
to consult,
made it perfectly clear that he did not care about her;
and his indifference was so much more than equalled by her own,
that were he now
to step forth the owner of Mansfield Park,
the Sir Thomas complete,
which he was
to be in time,
she did not believe she could accept him.

The season and duties which brought Mr. Bertram back
to Mansfield took Mr. Crawford into Norfolk.

Everingham could not do without him in the beginning of September.

He went
for a fortnight--a fortnight of such dullness
to the Miss Bertrams as ought
to have put them both on their guard,
and made even Julia admit,
in her jealousy of her sister,
the absolute necessity of distrusting his attentions,
and wishing him not
to return;
and a fortnight of sufficient leisure,
in the intervals of shooting and sleeping,
to have convinced the gentleman that he ought
to keep longer away,
had he been more in the habit of examining his own motives,
and of reflecting
to what the indulgence of his idle vanity was tending;
but,
thoughtless and selfish from prosperity and bad example,
he would not look beyond the present moment.

The sisters,
handsome,
clever,
and encouraging,
were an amusement
to his sated mind;
and finding nothing in Norfolk
to equal the social pleasures of Mansfield,
he gladly returned
to it at the time appointed,
and was welcomed thither quite as gladly by those whom he came
to trifle
with further.

Maria,
with only Mr. Rushworth
to attend
to her,
and doomed
to the repeated details of his day's sport,
good or bad,
his boast of his dogs,
his jealousy of his neighbours,
his doubts of their qualifications,
and his zeal after poachers,
subjects which will not find their way
to female feelings without some talent on one side or some attachment on the other,
had missed Mr. Crawford grievously;
and Julia,
unengaged and unemployed,
felt all the right of missing him much more.

Each sister believed herself the favourite.

Julia might be justified in so doing by the hints of Mrs. Grant,
inclined
to credit what she wished,
and Maria by the hints of Mr. Crawford himself.

Everything returned into the same channel as before his absence;
his manners being
to each so animated and agreeable as
to lose no ground
with either,
and just stopping short of the consistence,
the steadiness,
the solicitude,
and the warmth which might excite general notice.

Fanny was the only one of the party who found anything
to dislike;
but since the day at Sotherton,
she could never see Mr. Crawford
with either sister without observation,
and seldom without wonder or censure;
and had her confidence in her own judgment been equal
to her exercise of it in every other respect,
had she been sure that she was seeing clearly,
and judging candidly,
she would probably have made some important communications
to her usual confidant.

As it was,
however,
she only hazarded a hint,
and the hint was lost.

"I am rather surprised,"
said she,
"that Mr. Crawford should come back again so soon,
after being here so long before,
full seven weeks;
for I had understood he was so very fond of change and moving about,
that I thought something would certainly occur,
when he was once gone,
to take him elsewhere.

He is used
to much gayer places than Mansfield."



"It is
to his credit,"
was Edmund's answer;
"and I dare say it gives his sister pleasure.

She does not like his unsettled habits."



"What a favourite he is
with my cousins!"

"Yes,
his manners
to women are such as must please.

Mrs. Grant,
I believe,
suspects him of a preference
for Julia;
I have never seen much symptom of it,
but I wish it may be so.

He has no faults but what a serious attachment would remove."



"If Miss Bertram were not engaged,"
said Fanny cautiously,
"I could sometimes almost think that he admired her more than Julia."



"Which is,
perhaps,
more in favour of his liking Julia best,
than you,
Fanny,
may be aware;
for I believe it often happens that a man,
before he has quite made up his own mind,
will distinguish the sister or intimate friend of the woman he is really thinking of more than the woman herself Crawford has too much sense
to stay here if he found himself in any danger from Maria;
and I am not at all afraid
for her,
after such a proof as she has given that her feelings are not strong."



Fanny supposed she must have been mistaken,
and meant
to think differently in future;
but
with all that submission
to Edmund could do,
and all the help of the coinciding looks and hints which she occasionally noticed in some of the others,
and which seemed
to say that Julia was Mr. Crawford's choice,
she knew not always what
to think.

She was privy,
one evening,
to the hopes of her aunt Norris on the subject,
as well as
to her feelings,
and the feelings of Mrs. Rushworth,
on a point of some similarity,
and could not help wondering as she listened;
and glad would she have been not
to be obliged
to listen,
for it was while all the other young people were dancing,
and she sitting,
most unwillingly,
among the chaperons at the fire,
longing
for the re-entrance of her elder cousin,
on whom all her own hopes of a partner then depended.

It was Fanny's first ball,
though without the preparation or splendour of many a young lady's first ball,
being the thought only of the afternoon,
built on the late acquisition of a violin player in the servants'
hall,
and the possibility of raising five couple
with the help of Mrs. Grant and a new intimate friend of Mr. Bertram's just arrived on a visit.

It had,
however,
been a very happy one
to Fanny through four dances,
and she was quite grieved
to be losing even a quarter of an hour.

While waiting and wishing,
looking now at the dancers and now at the door,
this dialogue between the two above-mentioned ladies was forced on her--
"I think,
ma'am,"
said Mrs. Norris,
her eyes directed towards Mr. Rushworth and Maria,
who were partners
for the second time,
"we shall see some happy faces again now."



"Yes,
ma'am,
indeed,"
replied the other,
with a stately simper,
"there will be some satisfaction in looking on _now_,
and I think it was rather a pity they should have been obliged
to part.

Young folks in their situation should be excused complying
with the common forMs. I wonder my son did not propose it."



"I dare say he did,
ma'am.

Mr. Rushworth is never remiss.

But dear Maria has such a strict sense of propriety,
so much of that true delicacy which one seldom meets
with nowadays,
Mrs. Rushworth--that wish of avoiding particularity! Dear ma'am,
only look at her face at this moment;
how different from what it was the two last dances!"

Miss Bertram did indeed look happy,
her eyes were sparkling
with pleasure,
and she was speaking
with great animation,
for Julia and her partner,
Mr. Crawford,
were close
to her;
they were all in a cluster together.

How she had looked before,
Fanny could not recollect,
for she had been dancing
with Edmund herself,
and had not thought about her.

Mrs. Norris continued,
"It is quite delightful,
ma'am,
to see young people so properly happy,
so well suited,
and so much the thing! I cannot but think of dear Sir Thomas's delight.

And what do you say,
ma'am,
to the chance of another match?

Mr. Rushworth has set a good example,
and such things are very catching."



Mrs. Rushworth,
who saw nothing but her son,
was quite at a loss.

"The couple above,
ma'am.

Do you see no symptoms there?"

"Oh dear! Miss Julia and Mr. Crawford.

Yes,
indeed,
a very pretty match.

What is his property?"

"Four thousand a year."



"Very well.

Those who have not more must be satisfied
with what they have.

Four thousand a year is a pretty estate,
and he seems a very genteel,
steady young man,
so I hope Miss Julia will be very happy."



"It is not a settled thing,
ma'am,
yet.

We only speak of it among friends.

But I have very little doubt it _will_ be.

He is growing extremely particular in his attentions."



Fanny could listen no farther.

Listening and wondering were all suspended
for a time,
for Mr. Bertram was in the room again;
and though feeling it would be a great honour
to be asked by him,
she thought it must happen.

He came towards their little circle;
but instead of asking her
to dance,
drew a chair near her,
and gave her an account of the present state of a sick horse,
and the opinion of the groom,
from whom he had just parted.

Fanny found that it was not
to be,
and in the modesty of her nature immediately felt that she had been unreasonable in expecting it.

When he had told of his horse,
he took a newspaper from the table,
and looking over it,
said in a languid way,
"If you want
to dance,
Fanny,
I will stand up
with you."



With more than equal civility the offer was declined;
she did not wish
to dance.

"I am glad of it,"
said he,
in a much brisker tone,
and throwing down the newspaper again,
"for I am tired
to death.

I only wonder how the good people can keep it up so long.

They had need be _all_ in love,
to find any amusement in such folly;
and so they are,
I fancy.

If you look at them you may see they are so many couple of lovers--all but Yates and Mrs. Grant--and,
between ourselves,
she,
poor woman,
must want a lover as much as any one of them.

A desperate dull life hers must be
with the doctor,"
making a sly face as he spoke towards the chair of the latter,
who proving,
however,
to be close at his elbow,
made so instantaneous a change of expression and subject necessary,
as Fanny,
in spite of everything,
could hardly help laughing at.

"A strange business this in America,
Dr. Grant! What is your opinion?

I always come
to you
to know what I am
to think of public matters."



"My dear Tom,"
cried his aunt soon afterwards,
"as you are not dancing,
I dare say you will have no objection
to join us in a rubber;
shall you?"

Then leaving her seat,
and coming
to him
to enforce the proposal,
added in a whisper,
"We want
to make a table
for Mrs. Rushworth,
you know.

Your mother is quite anxious about it,
but cannot very well spare time
to sit down herself,
because of her fringe.

Now,
you and I and Dr. Grant will just do;
and though _we_ play but half-crowns,
you know,
you may bet half-guineas
with _him_."



"I should be most happy,"
replied he aloud,
and jumping up
with alacrity,
"it would give me the greatest pleasure;
but that I am this moment going
to dance."



Come,
Fanny,
taking her hand,
"do not be dawdling any longer,
or the dance will be over."



Fanny was led off very willingly,
though it was impossible
for her
to feel much gratitude towards her cousin,
or distinguish,
as he certainly did,
between the selfishness of another person and his own.

"A pretty modest request upon my word,"
he indignantly exclaimed as they walked away.

"To want
to nail me
to a card-table
for the next two hours
with herself and Dr. Grant,
who are always quarrelling,
and that poking old woman,
who knows no more of whist than of algebra.

I wish my good aunt would be a little less busy! And
to ask me in such a way too! without ceremony,
before them all,
so as
to leave me no possibility of refusing.

_That_ is what I dislike most particularly.

It raises my spleen more than anything,
to have the pretence of being asked,
of being given a choice,
and at the same time addressed in such a way as
to oblige one
to do the very thing,
whatever it be! If I had not luckily thought of standing up
with you I could not have got out of it.

It is a great deal too bad.

But when my aunt has got a fancy in her head,
nothing can stop her."



CHAPTER XIII The Honourable John Yates,
this new friend,
had not much
to recommend him beyond habits of fashion and expense,
and being the younger son of a lord
with a tolerable independence;
and Sir Thomas would probably have thought his introduction at Mansfield by no means desirable.

Mr. Bertram's acquaintance
with him had begun at Weymouth,
where they had spent ten days together in the same society,
and the friendship,
if friendship it might be called,
had been proved and perfected by Mr. Yates's being invited
to take Mansfield in his way,
whenever he could,
and by his promising
to come;
and he did come rather earlier than had been expected,
in consequence of the sudden breaking-up of a large party assembled
for gaiety at the house of another friend,
which he had left Weymouth
to join.

He came on the wings of disappointment,
and
with his head full of acting,
for it had been a theatrical party;
and the play in which he had borne a part was within two days of representation,
when the sudden death of one of the nearest connexions of the family had destroyed the scheme and dispersed the performers.

To be so near happiness,
so near fame,
so near the long paragraph in praise of the private theatricals at Ecclesford,
the seat of the Right Hon.

Lord Ravenshaw,
in Cornwall,
which would of course have immortalised the whole party
for at least a twelvemonth! and being so near,
to lose it all,
was an injury
to be keenly felt,
and Mr. Yates could talk of nothing else.

Ecclesford and its theatre,
with its arrangements and dresses,
rehearsals and jokes,
was his never-failing subject,
and
to boast of the past his only consolation.

Happily
for him,
a love of the theatre is so general,
an itch
for acting so strong among young people,
that he could hardly out-talk the interest of his hearers.

From the first casting of the parts
to the epilogue it was all bewitching,
and there were few who did not wish
to have been a party concerned,
or would have hesitated
to try their skill.

The play had been Lovers'
Vows,
and Mr. Yates was
to have been Count Cassel.

"A trifling part,"
said he,
"and not at all
to my taste,
and such a one as I certainly would not accept again;
but I was determined
to make no difficulties.

Lord Ravenshaw and the duke had appropriated the only two characters worth playing before I reached Ecclesford;
and though Lord Ravenshaw offered
to resign his
to me,
it was impossible
to take it,
you know.

I was sorry
for _him_ that he should have so mistaken his powers,
for he was no more equal
to the Baron--a little man
with a weak voice,
always hoarse after the first ten minutes.

It must have injured the piece materially;
but _I_ was resolved
to make no difficulties.

Sir Henry thought the duke not equal
to Frederick,
but that was because Sir Henry wanted the part himself;
whereas it was certainly in the best hands of the two.

I was surprised
to see Sir Henry such a stick.

Luckily the strength of the piece did not depend upon him.

Our Agatha was inimitable,
and the duke was thought very great by many.

And upon the whole,
it would certainly have gone off wonderfully."



"It was a hard case,
upon my word";
and,
"I do think you were very much
to be pitied,"
were the kind responses of listening sympathy.

"It is not worth complaining about;
but
to be sure the poor old dowager could not have died at a worse time;
and it is impossible
to help wishing that the news could have been suppressed
for just the three days we wanted.

It was but three days;
and being only a grandmother,
and all happening two hundred miles off,
I think there would have been no great harm,
and it was suggested,
I know;
but Lord Ravenshaw,
who I suppose is one of the most correct men in England,
would not hear of it."



"An afterpiece instead of a comedy,"
said Mr. Bertram.

"Lovers'
Vows were at an end,
and Lord and Lady Ravenshaw left
to act My Grandmother by themselves.

Well,
the jointure may comfort _him_;
and perhaps,
between friends,
he began
to tremble
for his credit and his lungs in the Baron,
and was not sorry
to withdraw;
and
to make _you_ amends,
Yates,
I think we must raise a little theatre at Mansfield,
and ask you
to be our manager."



This,
though the thought of the moment,
did not end
with the moment;
for the inclination
to act was awakened,
and in no one more strongly than in him who was now master of the house;
and who,
having so much leisure as
to make almost any novelty a certain good,
had likewise such a degree of lively talents and comic taste,
as were exactly adapted
to the novelty of acting.

The thought returned again and again.

"Oh
for the Ecclesford theatre and scenery
to try something with."



Each sister could echo the wish;
and Henry Crawford,
to whom,
in all the riot of his gratifications it was yet an untasted pleasure,
was quite alive at the idea.

"I really believe,"
said he,
"I could be fool enough at this moment
to undertake any character that ever was written,
from Shylock or Richard III down
to the singing hero of a farce in his scarlet coat and cocked hat.

I feel as if I could be anything or everything;
as if I could rant and storm,
or sigh or cut capers,
in any tragedy or comedy in the English language.

Let us be doing something.

Be it only half a play,
an act,
a scene;
what should prevent us?

Not these countenances,
I am sure,"
looking towards the Miss Bertrams;
"and
for a theatre,
what signifies a theatre?

We shall be only amusing ourselves.

Any room in this house might suffice."



"We must have a curtain,"
said Tom Bertram;
"a few yards of green baize
for a curtain,
and perhaps that may be enough."



"Oh,
quite enough,"
cried Mr. Yates,
"with only just a side wing or two run up,
doors in flat,
and three or four scenes
to be let down;
nothing more would be necessary on such a plan as this.

For mere amusement among ourselves we should want nothing more."



"I believe we must be satisfied
with _less_,"
said Maria.

"There would not be time,
and other difficulties would arise.

We must rather adopt Mr. Crawford's views,
and make the _performance_,
not the _theatre_,
our object.

Many parts of our best plays are independent of scenery."



"Nay,"
said Edmund,
who began
to listen
with alarm.

"Let us do nothing by halves.

If we are
to act,
let it be in a theatre completely fitted up
with pit,
boxes,
and gallery,
and let us have a play entire from beginning
to end;
so as it be a German play,
no matter what,
with a good tricking,
shifting afterpiece,
and a figure-dance,
and a hornpipe,
and a song between the acts.

If we do not outdo Ecclesford,
we do nothing."



"Now,
Edmund,
do not be disagreeable,"
said Julia.

"Nobody loves a play better than you do,
or can have gone much farther
to see one."



"True,
to see real acting,
good hardened real acting;
but I would hardly walk from this room
to the next
to look at the raw efforts of those who have not been bred
to the trade:

a set of gentlemen and ladies,
who have all the disadvantages of education and decorum
to struggle through."



After a short pause,
however,
the subject still continued,
and was discussed
with unabated eagerness,
every one's inclination increasing by the discussion,
and a knowledge of the inclination of the rest;
and though nothing was settled but that Tom Bertram would prefer a comedy,
and his sisters and Henry Crawford a tragedy,
and that nothing in the world could be easier than
to find a piece which would please them all,
the resolution
to act something or other seemed so decided as
to make Edmund quite uncomfortable.

He was determined
to prevent it,
if possible,
though his mother,
who equally heard the conversation which passed at table,
did not evince the least disapprobation.

The same evening afforded him an opportunity of trying his strength.

Maria,
Julia,
Henry Crawford,
and Mr. Yates were in the billiard-room.

Tom,
returning from them into the drawing-room,
where Edmund was standing thoughtfully by the fire,
while Lady Bertram was on the sofa at a little distance,
and Fanny close beside her arranging her work,
thus began as he entered--"Such a horribly vile billiard-table as ours is not
to be met with,
I believe,
above ground.

I can stand it no longer,
and I think,
I may say,
that nothing shall ever tempt me
to it again;
but one good thing I have just ascertained:

it is the very room
for a theatre,
precisely the shape and length
for it;
and the doors at the farther end,
communicating
with each other,
as they may be made
to do in five minutes,
by merely moving the bookcase in my father's room,
is the very thing we could have desired,
if we had sat down
to wish
for it;
and my father's room will be an excellent greenroom.

It seems
to join the billiard-room on purpose."



"You are not serious,
Tom,
in meaning
to act?"

said Edmund,
in a low voice,
as his brother approached the fire.

"Not serious! never more so,
I assure you.

What is there
to surprise you in it?"

"I think it would be very wrong.

In a _general_ light,
private theatricals are open
to some objections,
but as _we_ are circumstanced,
I must think it would be highly injudicious,
and more than injudicious
to attempt anything of the kind.

It would shew great want of feeling on my father's account,
absent as he is,
and in some degree of constant danger;
and it would be imprudent,
I think,
with regard
to Maria,
whose situation is a very delicate one,
considering everything,
extremely delicate."



"You take up a thing so seriously! as if we were going
to act three times a week till my father's return,
and invite all the country.

But it is not
to be a display of that sort.

We mean nothing but a little amusement among ourselves,
just
to vary the scene,
and exercise our powers in something new.

We want no audience,
no publicity.

We may be trusted,
I think,
in chusing some play most perfectly unexceptionable;
and I can conceive no greater harm or danger
to any of us in conversing in the elegant written language of some respectable author than in chattering in words of our own.

I have no fears and no scruples.

And as
to my father's being absent,
it is so far from an objection,
that I consider it rather as a motive;
for the expectation of his return must be a very anxious period
to my mother;
and if we can be the means of amusing that anxiety,
and keeping up her spirits
for the next few weeks,
I shall think our time very well spent,
and so,
I am sure,
will he.

It is a _very_ anxious period
for her."



As he said this,
each looked towards their mother.

Lady Bertram,
sunk back in one corner of the sofa,
the picture of health,
wealth,
ease,
and tranquillity,
was just falling into a gentle doze,
while Fanny was getting through the few difficulties of her work
for her.

Edmund smiled and shook his head.

"By Jove! this won't do,"
cried Tom,
throwing himself into a chair
with a hearty laugh.

"To be sure,
my dear mother,
your anxiety--I was unlucky there."



"What is the matter?"

asked her ladyship,
in the heavy tone of one half-roused;
"I was not asleep."



"Oh dear,
no,
ma'am,
nobody suspected you! Well,
Edmund,"
he continued,
returning
to the former subject,
posture,
and voice,
as soon as Lady Bertram began
to nod again,
"but _this_ I _will_ maintain,
that we shall be doing no harm."



"I cannot agree
with you;
I am convinced that my father would totally disapprove it."



"And I am convinced
to the contrary.

Nobody is fonder of the exercise of talent in young people,
or promotes it more,
than my father,
and
for anything of the acting,
spouting,
reciting kind,
I think he has always a decided taste.

I am sure he encouraged it in us as boys.

How many a time have we mourned over the dead body of Julius Caesar,
and
to _be'd_ and not _to_ _be'd_,
in this very room,
for his amusement?

And I am sure,
_my_ _name_ _was_ _Norval_,
every evening of my life through one Christmas holidays."



"It was a very different thing.

You must see the difference yourself.

My father wished us,
as schoolboys,
to speak well,
but he would never wish his grown-up daughters
to be acting plays.

His sense of decorum is strict."



"I know all that,"
said Tom,
displeased.

"I know my father as well as you do;
and I'll take care that his daughters do nothing
to distress him.

Manage your own concerns,
Edmund,
and I'll take care of the rest of the family."



"If you are resolved on acting,"
replied the persevering Edmund,
"I must hope it will be in a very small and quiet way;
and I think a theatre ought not
to be attempted.

It would be taking liberties
with my father's house in his absence which could not be justified."



"For everything of that nature I will be answerable,"
said Tom,
in a decided tone.

"His house shall not be hurt.

I have quite as great an interest in being careful of his house as you can have;
and as
to such alterations as I was suggesting just now,
such as moving a bookcase,
or unlocking a door,
or even as using the billiard-room
for the space of a week without playing at billiards in it,
you might just as well suppose he would object
to our sitting more in this room,
and less in the breakfast-room,
than we did before he went away,
or
to my sister's pianoforte being moved from one side of the room
to the other.

Absolute nonsense!"

"The innovation,
if not wrong as an innovation,
will be wrong as an expense."



"Yes,
the expense of such an undertaking would be prodigious! Perhaps it might cost a whole twenty pounds.

Something of a theatre we must have undoubtedly,
but it will be on the simplest plan:

a green curtain and a little carpenter's work,
and that's all;
and as the carpenter's work may be all done at home by Christopher Jackson himself,
it will be too absurd
to talk of expense;
and as long as Jackson is employed,
everything will be right
with Sir Thomas.

Don't imagine that nobody in this house can see or judge but yourself.

Don't act yourself,
if you do not like it,
but don't expect
to govern everybody else."



"No,
as
to acting myself,"
said Edmund,
"_that_ I absolutely protest against."



Tom walked out of the room as he said it,
and Edmund was left
to sit down and stir the fire in thoughtful vexation.

Fanny,
who had heard it all,
and borne Edmund company in every feeling throughout the whole,
now ventured
to say,
in her anxiety
to suggest some comfort,
"Perhaps they may not be able
to find any play
to suit them.

Your brother's taste and your sisters'
seem very different."



"I have no hope there,
Fanny.

If they persist in the scheme,
they will find something.

I shall speak
to my sisters and try
to dissuade _them_,
and that is all I can do."



"I should think my aunt Norris would be on your side."



"I dare say she would,
but she has no influence
with either Tom or my sisters that could be of any use;
and if I cannot convince them myself,
I shall let things take their course,
without attempting it through her.

Family squabbling is the greatest evil of all,
and we had better do anything than be altogether by the ears."



His sisters,
to whom he had an opportunity of speaking the next morning,
were quite as impatient of his advice,
quite as unyielding
to his representation,
quite as determined in the cause of pleasure,
as Tom.

Their mother had no objection
to the plan,
and they were not in the least afraid of their father's disapprobation.

There could be no harm in what had been done in so many respectable families,
and by so many women of the first consideration;
and it must be scrupulousness run mad that could see anything
to censure in a plan like theirs,
comprehending only brothers and sisters and intimate friends,
and which would never be heard of beyond themselves.

Julia _did_ seem inclined
to admit that Maria's situation might require particular caution and delicacy--but that could not extend
to _her_-- she was at liberty;
and Maria evidently considered her engagement as only raising her so much more above restraint,
and leaving her less occasion than Julia
to consult either father or mother.

Edmund had little
to hope,
but he was still urging the subject when Henry Crawford entered the room,
fresh from the Parsonage,
calling out,
"No want of hands in our theatre,
Miss Bertram.

No want of understrappers:

my sister desires her love,
and hopes
to be admitted into the company,
and will be happy
to take the part of any old duenna or tame confidante,
that you may not like
to do yourselves."



Maria gave Edmund a glance,
which meant,
"What say you now?

Can we be wrong if Mary Crawford feels the same?"

And Edmund,
silenced,
was obliged
to acknowledge that the charm of acting might well carry fascination
to the mind of genius;
and
with the ingenuity of love,
to dwell more on the obliging,
accommodating purport of the message than on anything else.

The scheme advanced.

Opposition was vain;
and as
to Mrs. Norris,
he was mistaken in supposing she would wish
to make any.

She started no difficulties that were not talked down in five minutes by her eldest nephew and niece,
who were all-powerful
with her;
and as the whole arrangement was
to bring very little expense
to anybody,
and none at all
to herself,
as she foresaw in it all the comforts of hurry,
bustle,
and importance,
and derived the immediate advantage of fancying herself obliged
to leave her own house,
where she had been living a month at her own cost,
and take up her abode in theirs,
that every hour might be spent in their service,
she was,
in fact,
exceedingly delighted
with the project.

CHAPTER XIV Fanny seemed nearer being right than Edmund had supposed.

The business of finding a play that would suit everybody proved
to be no trifle;
and the carpenter had received his orders and taken his measurements,
had suggested and removed at least two sets of difficulties,
and having made the necessity of an enlargement of plan and expense fully evident,
was already at work,
while a play was still
to seek.

Other preparations were also in hand.

An enormous roll of green baize had arrived from Northampton,
and been cut out by Mrs. Norris
(with a saving by her good management of full three-quarters of a yard),
and was actually forming into a curtain by the housemaids,
and still the play was wanting;
and as two or three days passed away in this manner,
Edmund began almost
to hope that none might ever be found.

There were,
in fact,
so many things
to be attended to,
so many people
to be pleased,
so many best characters required,
and,
above all,
such a need that the play should be at once both tragedy and comedy,
that there did seem as little chance of a decision as anything pursued by youth and zeal could hold out.

On the tragic side were the Miss Bertrams,
Henry Crawford,
and Mr. Yates;
on the comic,
Tom Bertram,
not _quite_ alone,
because it was evident that Mary Crawford's wishes,
though politely kept back,
inclined the same way:

but his determinateness and his power seemed
to make allies unnecessary;
and,
independent of this great irreconcilable difference,
they wanted a piece containing very few characters in the whole,
but every character first-rate,
and three principal women.

All the best plays were run over in vain.

Neither Hamlet,
nor Macbeth,
nor Othello,
nor Douglas,
nor The Gamester,
presented anything that could satisfy even the tragedians;
and The Rivals,
The School
for Scandal,
Wheel of Fortune,
Heir at Law,
and a long et cetera,
were successively dismissed
with yet warmer objections.

No piece could be proposed that did not supply somebody
with a difficulty,
and on one side or the other it was a continual repetition of,
"Oh no,
_that_ will never do! Let us have no ranting tragedies.

Too many characters.

Not a tolerable woman's part in the play.

Anything but _that_,
my dear Tom.

It would be impossible
to fill it up.

One could not expect anybody
to take such a part.

Nothing but buffoonery from beginning
to end.

_That_ might do,
perhaps,
but
for the low parts.

If I _must_ give my opinion,
I have always thought it the most insipid play in the English language.

_I_ do not wish
to make objections;
I shall be happy
to be of any use,
but I think we could not chuse worse."



Fanny looked on and listened,
not unamused
to observe the selfishness which,
more or less disguised,
seemed
to govern them all,
and wondering how it would end.

For her own gratification she could have wished that something might be acted,
for she had never seen even half a play,
but everything of higher consequence was against it.

"This will never do,"
said Tom Bertram at last.

"We are wasting time most abominably.

Something must be fixed on.

No matter what,
so that something is chosen.

We must not be so nice.

A few characters too many must not frighten us.

We must _double_ them.

We must descend a little.

If a part is insignificant,
the greater our credit in making anything of it.

From this moment I make no difficulties.

I take any part you chuse
to give me,
so as it be comic.

Let it but be comic,
I condition
for nothing more."



For about the fifth time he then proposed the Heir at Law,
doubting only whether
to prefer Lord Duberley or Dr. Pangloss
for himself;
and very earnestly,
but very unsuccessfully,
trying
to persuade the others that there were some fine tragic parts in the rest of the dramatis personae.

The pause which followed this fruitless effort was ended by the same speaker,
who,
taking up one of the many volumes of plays that lay on the table,
and turning it over,
suddenly exclaimed--"Lovers'
Vows! And why should not Lovers'
Vows do
for _us_ as well as
for the Ravenshaws?

How came it never
to be thought of before?

It strikes me as if it would do exactly.

What say you all?

Here are two capital tragic parts
for Yates and Crawford,
and here is the rhyming Butler
for me,
if nobody else wants it;
a trifling part,
but the sort of thing I should not dislike,
and,
as I said before,
I am determined
to take anything and do my best.

And as
for the rest,
they may be filled up by anybody.

It is only Count Cassel and Anhalt."



The suggestion was generally welcome.

Everybody was growing weary of indecision,
and the first idea
with everybody was,
that nothing had been proposed before so likely
to suit them all.

Mr. Yates was particularly pleased:

he had been sighing and longing
to do the Baron at Ecclesford,
had grudged every rant of Lord Ravenshaw's,
and been forced
to re-rant it all in his own room.

The storm through Baron Wildenheim was the height of his theatrical ambition;
and
with the advantage of knowing half the scenes by heart already,
he did now,
with the greatest alacrity,
offer his services
for the part.

To do him justice,
however,
he did not resolve
to appropriate it;
for remembering that there was some very good ranting-ground in Frederick,
he professed an equal willingness
for that.

Henry Crawford was ready
to take either.

Whichever Mr. Yates did not chuse would perfectly satisfy him,
and a short parley of compliment ensued.

Miss Bertram,
feeling all the interest of an Agatha in the question,
took on her
to decide it,
by observing
to Mr. Yates that this was a point in which height and figure ought
to be considered,
and that _his_ being the tallest,
seemed
to fit him peculiarly
for the Baron.

She was acknowledged
to be quite right,
and the two parts being accepted accordingly,
she was certain of the proper Frederick.

Three of the characters were now cast,
besides Mr. Rushworth,
who was always answered
for by Maria as willing
to do anything;
when Julia,
meaning,
like her sister,
to be Agatha,
began
to be scrupulous on Miss Crawford's account.

"This is not behaving well by the absent,"
said she.

"Here are not women enough.

Amelia and Agatha may do
for Maria and me,
but here is nothing
for your sister,
Mr. Crawford."



Mr. Crawford desired _that_ might not be thought of:

he was very sure his sister had no wish of acting but as she might be useful,
and that she would not allow herself
to be considered in the present case.

But this was immediately opposed by Tom Bertram,
who asserted the part of Amelia
to be in every respect the property of Miss Crawford,
if she would accept it.

"It falls as naturally,
as necessarily
to her,"
said he,
"as Agatha does
to one or other of my sisters.

It can be no sacrifice on their side,
for it is highly comic."



A short silence followed.

Each sister looked anxious;
for each felt the best claim
to Agatha,
and was hoping
to have it pressed on her by the rest.

Henry Crawford,
who meanwhile had taken up the play,
and
with seeming carelessness was turning over the first act,
soon settled the business.

"I must entreat Miss _Julia_ Bertram,"
said he,
"not
to engage in the part of Agatha,
or it will be the ruin of all my solemnity.

You must not,
indeed you must not"
(turning
to her).

"I could not stand your countenance dressed up in woe and paleness.

The many laughs we have had together would infallibly come across me,
and Frederick and his knapsack would be obliged
to run away."



Pleasantly,
courteously,
it was spoken;
but the manner was lost in the matter
to Julia's feelings.

She saw a glance at Maria which confirmed the injury
to herself:

it was a scheme,
a trick;
she was slighted,
Maria was preferred;
the smile of triumph which Maria was trying
to suppress shewed how well it was understood;
and before Julia could command herself enough
to speak,
her brother gave his weight against her too,
by saying,
"Oh yes! Maria must be Agatha.

Maria will be the best Agatha.

Though Julia fancies she prefers tragedy,
I would not trust her in it.

There is nothing of tragedy about her.

She has not the look of it.

Her features are not tragic features,
and she walks too quick,
and speaks too quick,
and would not keep her countenance.

She had better do the old countrywoman:

the Cottager's wife;
you had,
indeed,
Julia.

Cottager's wife is a very pretty part,
I assure you.

The old lady relieves the high-flown benevolence of her husband
with a good deal of spirit.

You shall be Cottager's wife."



"Cottager's wife!"

cried Mr. Yates.

"What are you talking of?

The most trivial,
paltry,
insignificant part;
the merest commonplace;
not a tolerable speech in the whole.

Your sister do that! It is an insult
to propose it.

At Ecclesford the governess was
to have done it.

We all agreed that it could not be offered
to anybody else.

A little more justice,
Mr. Manager,
if you please.

You do not deserve the office,
if you cannot appreciate the talents of your company a little better."



"Why,
as
to _that_,
my good friend,
till I and my company have really acted there must be some guesswork;
but I mean no disparagement
to Julia.

We cannot have two Agathas,
and we must have one Cottager's wife;
and I am sure I set her the example of moderation myself in being satisfied
with the old Butler.

If the part is trifling she will have more credit in making something of it;
and if she is so desperately bent against everything humorous,
let her take Cottager's speeches instead of Cottager's wife's,
and so change the parts all through;
_he_ is solemn and pathetic enough,
I am sure.

It could make no difference in the play,
and as
for Cottager himself,
when he has got his wife's speeches,
_I_ would undertake him
with all my heart."



"With all your partiality
for Cottager's wife,"
said Henry Crawford,
"it will be impossible
to make anything of it fit
for your sister,
and we must not suffer her good-nature
to be imposed on.

We must not _allow_ her
to accept the part.

She must not be left
to her own complaisance.

Her talents will be wanted in Amelia.

Amelia is a character more difficult
to be well represented than even Agatha.

I consider Amelia is the most difficult character in the whole piece.

It requires great powers,
great nicety,
to give her playfulness and simplicity without extravagance.

I have seen good actresses fail in the part.

Simplicity,
indeed,
is beyond the reach of almost every actress by profession.

It requires a delicacy of feeling which they have not.

It requires a gentlewoman--a Julia Bertram.

You _will_ undertake it,
I hope?"

turning
to her
with a look of anxious entreaty,
which softened her a little;
but while she hesitated what
to say,
her brother again interposed
with Miss Crawford's better claim.

"No,
no,
Julia must not be Amelia.

It is not at all the part
for her.

She would not like it.

She would not do well.

She is too tall and robust.

Amelia should be a small,
light,
girlish,
skipping figure.

It is fit
for Miss Crawford,
and Miss Crawford only.

She looks the part,
and I am persuaded will do it admirably."



Without attending
to this,
Henry Crawford continued his supplication.

"You must oblige us,"
said he,
"indeed you must.

When you have studied the character,
I am sure you will feel it suit you.

Tragedy may be your choice,
but it will certainly appear that comedy chuses _you_.

You will be
to visit me in prison
with a basket of provisions;
you will not refuse
to visit me in prison?

I think I see you coming in
with your basket"
The influence of his voice was felt.

Julia wavered;
but was he only trying
to soothe and pacify her,
and make her overlook the previous affront?

She distrusted him.

The slight had been most determined.

He was,
perhaps,
but at treacherous play
with her.

She looked suspiciously at her sister;
Maria's countenance was
to decide it:

if she were vexed and alarmed--but Maria looked all serenity and satisfaction,
and Julia well knew that on this ground Maria could not be happy but at her expense.

With hasty indignation,
therefore,
and a tremulous voice,
she said
to him,
"You do not seem afraid of not keeping your countenance when I come in
with a basket of provisions--though one might have supposed--but it is only as Agatha that I was
to be so overpowering!"

She stopped--Henry Crawford looked rather foolish,
and as if he did not know what
to say.

Tom Bertram began again--
"Miss Crawford must be Amelia.

She will be an excellent Amelia."



"Do not be afraid of _my_ wanting the character,"
cried Julia,
with angry quickness:

"I am _not_
to be Agatha,
and I am sure I will do nothing else;
and as
to Amelia,
it is of all parts in the world the most disgusting
to me.

I quite detest her.

An odious,
little,
pert,
unnatural,
impudent girl.

I have always protested against comedy,
and this is comedy in its worst form."



And so saying,
she walked hastily out of the room,
leaving awkward feelings
to more than one,
but exciting small compassion in any except Fanny,
who had been a quiet auditor of the whole,
and who could not think of her as under the agitations of _jealousy_ without great pity.

A short silence succeeded her leaving them;
but her brother soon returned
to business and Lovers'
Vows,
and was eagerly looking over the play,
with Mr. Yates's help,
to ascertain what scenery would be necessary--while Maria and Henry Crawford conversed together in an under-voice,
and the declaration
with which she began of,
"I am sure I would give up the part
to Julia most willingly,
but that though I shall probably do it very ill,
I feel persuaded _she_ would do it worse,"
was doubtless receiving all the compliments it called for.

When this had lasted some time,
the division of the party was completed by Tom Bertram and Mr. Yates walking off together
to consult farther in the room now beginning
to be called _the_ _Theatre_,
and Miss Bertram's resolving
to go down
to the Parsonage herself
with the offer of Amelia
to Miss Crawford;
and Fanny remained alone.

The first use she made of her solitude was
to take up the volume which had been left on the table,
and begin
to acquaint herself
with the play of which she had heard so much.

Her curiosity was all awake,
and she ran through it
with an eagerness which was suspended only by intervals of astonishment,
that it could be chosen in the present instance,
that it could be proposed and accepted in a private theatre! Agatha and Amelia appeared
to her in their different ways so totally improper
for home representation--the situation of one,
and the language of the other,
so unfit
to be expressed by any woman of modesty,
that she could hardly suppose her cousins could be aware of what they were engaging in;
and longed
to have them roused as soon as possible by the remonstrance which Edmund would certainly make.

CHAPTER XV Miss Crawford accepted the part very readily;
and soon after Miss Bertram's return from the Parsonage,
Mr. Rushworth arrived,
and another character was consequently cast.

He had the offer of Count Cassel and Anhalt,
and at first did not know which
to chuse,
and wanted Miss Bertram
to direct him;
but upon being made
to understand the different style of the characters,
and which was which,
and recollecting that he had once seen the play in London,
and had thought Anhalt a very stupid fellow,
he soon decided
for the Count.

Miss Bertram approved the decision,
for the less he had
to learn the better;
and though she could not sympathise in his wish that the Count and Agatha might be
to act together,
nor wait very patiently while he was slowly turning over the leaves
with the hope of still discovering such a scene,
she very kindly took his part in hand,
and curtailed every speech that admitted being shortened;
besides pointing out the necessity of his being very much dressed,
and chusing his colours.

Mr. Rushworth liked the idea of his finery very well,
though affecting
to despise it;
and was too much engaged
with what his own appearance would be
to think of the others,
or draw any of those conclusions,
or feel any of that displeasure which Maria had been half prepared for.

Thus much was settled before Edmund,
who had been out all the morning,
knew anything of the matter;
but when he entered the drawing-room before dinner,
the buzz of discussion was high between Tom,
Maria,
and Mr. Yates;
and Mr. Rushworth stepped forward
with great alacrity
to tell him the agreeable news.

"We have got a play,"
said he.

"It is
to be Lovers'
Vows;
and I am
to be Count Cassel,
and am
to come in first
with a blue dress and a pink satin cloak,
and afterwards am
to have another fine fancy suit,
by way of a shooting-dress.

I do not know how I shall like it."



Fanny's eyes followed Edmund,
and her heart beat
for him as she heard this speech,
and saw his look,
and felt what his sensations must be.

"Lovers'
Vows!"

in a tone of the greatest amazement,
was his only reply
to Mr. Rushworth,
and he turned towards his brother and sisters as if hardly doubting a contradiction.

"Yes,"
cried Mr. Yates.

"After all our debatings and difficulties,
we find there is nothing that will suit us altogether so well,
nothing so unexceptionable,
as Lovers'
Vows.

The wonder is that it should not have been thought of before.

My stupidity was abominable,
for here we have all the advantage of what I saw at Ecclesford;
and it is so useful
to have anything of a model! We have cast almost every part."



"But what do you do
for women?"

said Edmund gravely,
and looking at Maria.

Maria blushed in spite of herself as she answered,
"I take the part which Lady Ravenshaw was
to have done,
and"
(with a bolder eye)
"Miss Crawford is
to be Amelia."



"I should not have thought it the sort of play
to be so easily filled up,
with _us_,"
replied Edmund,
turning away
to the fire,
where sat his mother,
aunt,
and Fanny,
and seating himself
with a look of great vexation.

Mr. Rushworth followed him
to say,
"I come in three times,
and have two-and-forty speeches.

That's something,
is not it?

But I do not much like the idea of being so fine.

I shall hardly know myself in a blue dress and a pink satin cloak."



Edmund could not answer him.

In a few minutes Mr. Bertram was called out of the room
to satisfy some doubts of the carpenter;
and being accompanied by Mr. Yates,
and followed soon afterwards by Mr. Rushworth,
Edmund almost immediately took the opportunity of saying,
"I cannot,
before Mr. Yates,
speak what I feel as
to this play,
without reflecting on his friends at Ecclesford;
but I must now,
my dear Maria,
tell _you_,
that I think it exceedingly unfit
for private representation,
and that I hope you will give it up.

I cannot but suppose you _will_ when you have read it carefully over.

Read only the first act aloud
to either your mother or aunt,
and see how you can approve it.

It will not be necessary
to send you
to your _father's_ judgment,
I am convinced."



"We see things very differently,"
cried Maria.

"I am perfectly acquainted
with the play,
I assure you;
and
with a very few omissions,
and so forth,
which will be made,
of course,
I can see nothing objectionable in it;
and _I_ am not the _only_ young woman you find who thinks it very fit
for private representation."



"I am sorry
for it,"
was his answer;
"but in this matter it is _you_ who are
to lead.

_You_ must set the example.

If others have blundered,
it is your place
to put them right,
and shew them what true delicacy is.

In all points of decorum _your_ conduct must be law
to the rest of the party."



This picture of her consequence had some effect,
for no one loved better
to lead than Maria;
and
with far more good-humour she answered,
"I am much obliged
to you,
Edmund;
you mean very well,
I am sure:

but I still think you see things too strongly;
and I really cannot undertake
to harangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind.

_There_ would be the greatest indecorum,
I think."



"Do you imagine that I could have such an idea in my head?

No;
let your conduct be the only harangue.

Say that,
on examining the part,
you feel yourself unequal
to it;
that you find it requiring more exertion and confidence than you can be supposed
to have.

Say this
with firmness,
and it will be quite enough.

All who can distinguish will understand your motive.

The play will be given up,
and your delicacy honoured as it ought."



"Do not act anything improper,
my dear,"
said Lady Bertram.

"Sir Thomas would not like it.--Fanny,
ring the bell;
I must have my dinner.--To be sure,
Julia is dressed by this time."



"I am convinced,
madam,"
said Edmund,
preventing Fanny,
"that Sir Thomas would not like it."



"There,
my dear,
do you hear what Edmund says?"

"If I were
to decline the part,"
said Maria,
with renewed zeal,
"Julia would certainly take it."



"What!"

cried Edmund,
"if she knew your reasons!"

"Oh! she might think the difference between us-- the difference in our situations--that _she_ need not be so scrupulous as _I_ might feel necessary.

I am sure she would argue so.

No;
you must excuse me;
I cannot retract my consent;
it is too far settled,
everybody would be so disappointed,
Tom would be quite angry;
and if we are so very nice,
we shall never act anything."



"I was just going
to say the very same thing,"
said Mrs. Norris.

"If every play is
to be objected to,
you will act nothing,
and the preparations will be all so much money thrown away,
and I am sure _that_ would be a discredit
to us all.

I do not know the play;
but,
as Maria says,
if there is anything a little too warm
(and it is so
with most of them)
it can be easily left out.

We must not be over-precise,
Edmund.

As Mr. Rushworth is
to act too,
there can be no harm.

I only wish Tom had known his own mind when the carpenters began,
for there was the loss of half a day's work about those side-doors.

The curtain will be a good job,
however.

The maids do their work very well,
and I think we shall be able
to send back some dozens of the rings.

There is no occasion
to put them so very close together.

I _am_ of some use,
I hope,
in preventing waste and making the most of things.

There should always be one steady head
to superintend so many young ones.

I forgot
to tell Tom of something that happened
to me this very day.

I had been looking about me in the poultry-yard,
and was just coming out,
when who should I see but Dick Jackson making up
to the servants'
hall-door
with two bits of deal board in his hand,
bringing them
to father,
you may be sure;
mother had chanced
to send him of a message
to father,
and then father had bid him bring up them two bits of board,
for he could not no how do without them.

I knew what all this meant,
for the servants'
dinner-bell was ringing at the very moment over our heads;
and as I hate such encroaching people
(the Jacksons are very encroaching,
I have always said so:

just the sort of people
to get all they can),
I said
to the boy directly
(a great lubberly fellow of ten years old,
you know,
who ought
to be ashamed of himself),
'_I'll_ take the boards
to your father,
Dick,
so get you home again as fast as you can.'



The boy looked very silly,
and turned away without offering a word,
for I believe I might speak pretty sharp;
and I dare say it will cure him of coming marauding about the house
for one while.

I hate such greediness-- so good as your father is
to the family,
employing the man all the year round!"

Nobody was at the trouble of an answer;
the others soon returned;
and Edmund found that
to have endeavoured
to set them right must be his only satisfaction.

Dinner passed heavily.

Mrs. Norris related again her triumph over Dick Jackson,
but neither play nor preparation were otherwise much talked of,
for Edmund's disapprobation was felt even by his brother,
though he would not have owned it.

Maria,
wanting Henry Crawford's animating support,
thought the subject better avoided.

Mr. Yates,
who was trying
to make himself agreeable
to Julia,
found her gloom less impenetrable on any topic than that of his regret at her secession from their company;
and Mr. Rushworth,
having only his own part and his own dress in his head,
had soon talked away all that could be said of either.

But the concerns of the theatre were suspended only
for an hour or two:

there was still a great deal
to be settled;
and the spirits of evening giving fresh courage,
Tom,
Maria,
and Mr. Yates,
soon after their being reassembled in the drawing-room,
seated themselves in committee at a separate table,
with the play open before them,
and were just getting deep in the subject when a most welcome interruption was given by the entrance of Mr. and Miss Crawford,
who,
late and dark and dirty as it was,
could not help coming,
and were received
with the most grateful joy.

"Well,
how do you go on?"

and
"What have you settled?"

and
"Oh! we can do nothing without you,"
followed the first salutations;
and Henry Crawford was soon seated
with the other three at the table,
while his sister made her way
to Lady Bertram,
and
with pleasant attention was complimenting _her_.

"I must really congratulate your ladyship,"
said she,
"on the play being chosen;
for though you have borne it
with exemplary patience,
I am sure you must be sick of all our noise and difficulties.

The actors may be glad,
but the bystanders must be infinitely more thankful
for a decision;
and I do sincerely give you joy,
madam,
as well as Mrs. Norris,
and everybody else who is in the same predicament,"
glancing half fearfully,
half slyly,
beyond Fanny
to Edmund.

She was very civilly answered by Lady Bertram,
but Edmund said nothing.

His being only a bystander was not disclaimed.

After continuing in chat
with the party round the fire a few minutes,
Miss Crawford returned
to the party round the table;
and standing by them,
seemed
to interest herself in their arrangements till,
as if struck by a sudden recollection,
she exclaimed,
"My good friends,
you are most composedly at work upon these cottages and alehouses,
inside and out;
but pray let me know my fate in the meanwhile.

Who is
to be Anhalt?

What gentleman among you am I
to have the pleasure of making love to?"

For a moment no one spoke;
and then many spoke together
to tell the same melancholy truth,
that they had not yet got any Anhalt.

"Mr. Rushworth was
to be Count Cassel,
but no one had yet undertaken Anhalt."



"I had my choice of the parts,"
said Mr. Rushworth;
"but I thought I should like the Count best,
though I do not much relish the finery I am
to have."



"You chose very wisely,
I am sure,"
replied Miss Crawford,
with a brightened look;
"Anhalt is a heavy part."



"_The_ _Count_ has two-and-forty speeches,"
returned Mr. Rushworth,
"which is no trifle."



"I am not at all surprised,"
said Miss Crawford,
after a short pause,
"at this want of an Anhalt.

Amelia deserves no better.

Such a forward young lady may well frighten the men."



"I should be but too happy in taking the part,
if it were possible,"
cried Tom;
"but,
unluckily,
the Butler and Anhalt are in together.

I will not entirely give it up,
however;
I will try what can be done--I will look it over again."



"Your _brother_ should take the part,"
said Mr. Yates,
in a low voice.

"Do not you think he would?"

"_I_ shall not ask him,"
replied Tom,
in a cold,
determined manner.

Miss Crawford talked of something else,
and soon afterwards rejoined the party at the fire.

"They do not want me at all,"
said she,
seating herself.

"I only puzzle them,
and oblige them
to make civil speeches.

Mr. Edmund Bertram,
as you do not act yourself,
you will be a disinterested adviser;
and,
therefore,
I apply
to _you_.

What shall we do
for an Anhalt?

Is it practicable
for any of the others
to double it?

What is your advice?"

"My advice,"
said he calmly,
"is that you change the play."



"_I_ should have no objection,"
she replied;
"for though I should not particularly dislike the part of Amelia if well supported,
that is,
if everything went well,
I shall be sorry
to be an inconvenience;
but as they do not chuse
to hear your advice at _that_ _table_"
(looking round),
"it certainly will not be taken."



Edmund said no more.

"If _any_ part could tempt _you_
to act,
I suppose it would be Anhalt,"
observed the lady archly,
after a short pause;
"for he is a clergyman,
you know."



"_That_ circumstance would by no means tempt me,"
he replied,
"for I should be sorry
to make the character ridiculous by bad acting.

It must be very difficult
to keep Anhalt from appearing a formal,
solemn lecturer;
and the man who chuses the profession itself is,
perhaps,
one of the last who would wish
to represent it on the stage."



Miss Crawford was silenced,
and
with some feelings of resentment and mortification,
moved her chair considerably nearer the tea-table,
and gave all her attention
to Mrs. Norris,
who was presiding there.

"Fanny,"
cried Tom Bertram,
from the other table,
where the conference was eagerly carrying on,
and the conversation incessant,
"we want your services"
Fanny was up in a moment,
expecting some errand;
for the habit of employing her in that way was not yet overcome,
in spite of all that Edmund could do.

"Oh! we do not want
to disturb you from your seat.

We do not want your _present_ services.

We shall only want you in our play.

You must be Cottager's wife."



"Me!"

cried Fanny,
sitting down again
with a most frightened look.

"Indeed you must excuse me.

I could not act anything if you were
to give me the world.

No,
indeed,
I cannot act."



"Indeed,
but you must,
for we cannot excuse you.

It need not frighten you:

it is a nothing of a part,
a mere nothing,
not above half a dozen speeches altogether,
and it will not much signify if nobody hears a word you say;
so you may be as creep-mouse as you like,
but we must have you
to look at."



"If you are afraid of half a dozen speeches,"
cried Mr. Rushworth,
"what would you do
with such a part as mine?

I have forty-two
to learn."



"It is not that I am afraid of learning by heart,"
said Fanny,
shocked
to find herself at that moment the only speaker in the room,
and
to feel that almost every eye was upon her;
"but I really cannot act."



"Yes,
yes,
you can act well enough
for _us_.

Learn your part,
and we will teach you all the rest.

You have only two scenes,
and as I shall be Cottager,
I'll put you in and push you about,
and you will do it very well,
I'll answer
for it."



"No,
indeed,
Mr. Bertram,
you must excuse me.

You cannot have an idea.

It would be absolutely impossible
for me.

If I were
to undertake it,
I should only disappoint you."



"Phoo! Phoo! Do not be so shamefaced.

You'll do it very well.

Every allowance will be made
for you.

We do not expect perfection.

You must get a brown gown,
and a white apron,
and a mob cap,
and we must make you a few wrinkles,
and a little of the crowsfoot at the corner of your eyes,
and you will be a very proper,
little old woman."



"You must excuse me,
indeed you must excuse me,"
cried Fanny,
growing more and more red from excessive agitation,
and looking distressfully at Edmund,
who was kindly observing her;
but unwilling
to exasperate his brother by interference,
gave her only an encouraging smile.

Her entreaty had no effect on Tom:

he only said again what he had said before;
and it was not merely Tom,
for the requisition was now backed by Maria,
and Mr. Crawford,
and Mr. Yates,
with an urgency which differed from his but in being more gentle or more ceremonious,
and which altogether was quite overpowering
to Fanny;
and before she could breathe after it,
Mrs. Norris completed the whole by thus addressing her in a whisper at once angry and audible--"What a piece of work here is about nothing:

I am quite ashamed of you,
Fanny,
to make such a difficulty of obliging your cousins in a trifle of this sort--so kind as they are
to you! Take the part
with a good grace,
and let us hear no more of the matter,
I entreat."



"Do not urge her,
madam,"
said Edmund.

"It is not fair
to urge her in this manner.

You see she does not like
to act.

Let her chuse
for herself,
as well as the rest of us.

Her judgment may be quite as safely trusted.

Do not urge her any more."



"I am not going
to urge her,"
replied Mrs. Norris sharply;
"but I shall think her a very obstinate,
ungrateful girl,
if she does not do what her aunt and cousins wish her-- very ungrateful,
indeed,
considering who and what she is."



Edmund was too angry
to speak;
but Miss Crawford,
looking
for a moment
with astonished eyes at Mrs. Norris,
and then at Fanny,
whose tears were beginning
to shew themselves,
immediately said,
with some keenness,
"I do not like my situation:

this _place_ is too hot
for me,"
and moved away her chair
to the opposite side of the table,
close
to Fanny,
saying
to her,
in a kind,
low whisper,
as she placed herself,
"Never mind,
my dear Miss Price,
this is a cross evening:

everybody is cross and teasing,
but do not let us mind them";
and
with pointed attention continued
to talk
to her and endeavour
to raise her spirits,
in spite of being out of spirits herself.

By a look at her brother she prevented any farther entreaty from the theatrical board,
and the really good feelings by which she was almost purely governed were rapidly restoring her
to all the little she had lost in Edmund's favour.

Fanny did not love Miss Crawford;
but she felt very much obliged
to her
for her present kindness;
and when,
from taking notice of her work,
and wishing _she_ could work as well,
and begging
for the pattern,
and supposing Fanny was now preparing
for her _appearance_,
as of course she would come out when her cousin was married,
Miss Crawford proceeded
to inquire if she had heard lately from her brother at sea,
and said that she had quite a curiosity
to see him,
and imagined him a very fine young man,
and advised Fanny
to get his picture drawn before he went
to sea again--she could not help admitting it
to be very agreeable flattery,
or help listening,
and answering
with more animation than she had intended.

The consultation upon the play still went on,
and Miss Crawford's attention was first called from Fanny by Tom Bertram's telling her,
with infinite regret,
that he found it absolutely impossible
for him
to undertake the part of Anhalt in addition
to the Butler:

he had been most anxiously trying
to make it out
to be feasible,
but it would not do;
he must give it up.

"But there will not be the smallest difficulty in filling it,"
he added.

"We have but
to speak the word;
we may pick and chuse.

I could name,
at this moment,
at least six young men within six miles of us,
who are wild
to be admitted into our company,
and there are one or two that would not disgrace us:

I should not be afraid
to trust either of the Olivers or Charles Maddox.

Tom Oliver is a very clever fellow,
and Charles Maddox is as gentlemanlike a man as you will see anywhere,
so I will take my horse early to-morrow morning and ride over
to Stoke,
and settle
with one of them."



While he spoke,
Maria was looking apprehensively round at Edmund in full expectation that he must oppose such an enlargement of the plan as this:

so contrary
to all their first protestations;
but Edmund said nothing.

After a moment's thought,
Miss Crawford calmly replied,
"As far as I am concerned,
I can have no objection
to anything that you all think eligible.

Have I ever seen either of the gentlemen?

Yes,
Mr. Charles Maddox dined at my sister's one day,
did not he,
Henry?

A quiet-looking young man.

I remember him.

Let _him_ be applied to,
if you please,
for it will be less unpleasant
to me than
to have a perfect stranger."



Charles Maddox was
to be the man.

Tom repeated his resolution of going
to him early on the morrow;
and though Julia,
who had scarcely opened her lips before,
observed,
in a sarcastic manner,
and
with a glance first at Maria and then at Edmund,
that
"the Mansfield theatricals would enliven the whole neighbourhood exceedingly,"
Edmund still held his peace,
and shewed his feelings only by a determined gravity.

"I am not very sanguine as
to our play,"
said Miss Crawford,
in an undervoice
to Fanny,
after some consideration;
"and I can tell Mr. Maddox that I shall shorten some of _his_ speeches,
and a great many of _my_ _own_,
before we rehearse together.

It will be very disagreeable,
and by no means what I expected."



CHAPTER XVI It was not in Miss Crawford's power
to talk Fanny into any real forgetfulness of what had passed.

When the evening was over,
she went
to bed full of it,
her nerves still agitated by the shock of such an attack from her cousin Tom,
so public and so persevered in,
and her spirits sinking under her aunt's unkind reflection and reproach.

To be called into notice in such a manner,
to hear that it was but the prelude
to something so infinitely worse,
to be told that she must do what was so impossible as
to act;
and then
to have the charge of obstinacy and ingratitude follow it,
enforced
with such a hint at the dependence of her situation,
had been too distressing at the time
to make the remembrance when she was alone much less so,
especially
with the superadded dread of what the morrow might produce in continuation of the subject.

Miss Crawford had protected her only
for the time;
and if she were applied
to again among themselves
with all the authoritative urgency that Tom and Maria were capable of,
and Edmund perhaps away,
what should she do?

She fell asleep before she could answer the question,
and found it quite as puzzling when she awoke the next morning.

The little white attic,
which had continued her sleeping-room ever since her first entering the family,
proving incompetent
to suggest any reply,
she had recourse,
as soon as she was dressed,
to another apartment more spacious and more meet
for walking about in and thinking,
and of which she had now
for some time been almost equally mistress.

It had been their school-room;
so called till the Miss Bertrams would not allow it
to be called so any longer,
and inhabited as such
to a later period.

There Miss Lee had lived,
and there they had read and written,
and talked and laughed,
till within the last three years,
when she had quitted them.

The room had then become useless,
and
for some time was quite deserted,
except by Fanny,
when she visited her plants,
or wanted one of the books,
which she was still glad
to keep there,
from the deficiency of space and accommodation in her little chamber above:

but gradually,
as her value
for the comforts of it increased,
she had added
to her possessions,
and spent more of her time there;
and having nothing
to oppose her,
had so naturally and so artlessly worked herself into it,
that it was now generally admitted
to be hers.

The East room,
as it had been called ever since Maria Bertram was sixteen,
was now considered Fanny's,
almost as decidedly as the white attic:

the smallness of the one making the use of the other so evidently reasonable that the Miss Bertrams,
with every superiority in their own apartments which their own sense of superiority could demand,
were entirely approving it;
and Mrs. Norris,
having stipulated
for there never being a fire in it on Fanny's account,
was tolerably resigned
to her having the use of what nobody else wanted,
though the terms in which she sometimes spoke of the indulgence seemed
to imply that it was the best room in the house.

The aspect was so favourable that even without a fire it was habitable in many an early spring and late autumn morning
to such a willing mind as Fanny's;
and while there was a gleam of sunshine she hoped not
to be driven from it entirely,
even when winter came.

The comfort of it in her hours of leisure was extreme.

She could go there after anything unpleasant below,
and find immediate consolation in some pursuit,
or some train of thought at hand.

Her plants,
her books-- of which she had been a collector from the first hour of her commanding a shilling--her writing-desk,
and her works of charity and ingenuity,
were all within her reach;
or if indisposed
for employment,
if nothing but musing would do,
she could scarcely see an object in that room which had not an interesting remembrance connected
with it.

Everything was a friend,
or bore her thoughts
to a friend;
and though there had been sometimes much of suffering
to her;
though her motives had often been misunderstood,
her feelings disregarded,
and her comprehension undervalued;
though she had known the pains of tyranny,
of ridicule,
and neglect,
yet almost every recurrence of either had led
to something consolatory:

her aunt Bertram had spoken
for her,
or Miss Lee had been encouraging,
or,
what was yet more frequent or more dear,
Edmund had been her champion and her friend:

he had supported her cause or explained her meaning,
he had told her not
to cry,
or had given her some proof of affection which made her tears delightful;
and the whole was now so blended together,
so harmonised by distance,
that every former affliction had its charm.

The room was most dear
to her,
and she would not have changed its furniture
for the handsomest in the house,
though what had been originally plain had suffered all the ill-usage of children;
and its greatest elegancies and ornaments were a faded footstool of Julia's work,
too ill done
for the drawing-room,
three transparencies,
made in a rage
for transparencies,
for the three lower panes of one window,
where Tintern Abbey held its station between a cave in Italy and a moonlight lake in Cumberland,
a collection of family profiles,
thought unworthy of being anywhere else,
over the mantelpiece,
and by their side,
and pinned against the wall,
a small sketch of a ship sent four years ago from the Mediterranean by William,
with H.M.S.

Antwerp at the bottom,
in letters as tall as the mainmast.

To this nest of comforts Fanny now walked down
to try its influence on an agitated,
doubting spirit,
to see if by looking at Edmund's profile she could catch any of his counsel,
or by giving air
to her geraniums she might inhale a breeze of mental strength herself.

But she had more than fears of her own perseverance
to remove:

she had begun
to feel undecided as
to what she _ought_ _to_ _do_;
and as she walked round the room her doubts were increasing.

Was she _right_ in refusing what was so warmly asked,
so strongly wished for--what might be so essential
to a scheme on which some of those
to whom she owed the greatest complaisance had set their hearts?

Was it not ill-nature,
selfishness,
and a fear of exposing herself?

And would Edmund's judgment,
would his persuasion of Sir Thomas's disapprobation of the whole,
be enough
to justify her in a determined denial in spite of all the rest?

It would be so horrible
to her
to act that she was inclined
to suspect the truth and purity of her own scruples;
and as she looked around her,
the claims of her cousins
to being obliged were strengthened by the sight of present upon present that she had received from them.

The table between the windows was covered
with work-boxes and netting-boxes which had been given her at different times,
principally by Tom;
and she grew bewildered as
to the amount of the debt which all these kind remembrances produced.

A tap at the door roused her in the midst of this attempt
to find her way
to her duty,
and her gentle
"Come in"
was answered by the appearance of one,
before whom all her doubts were wont
to be laid.

Her eyes brightened at the sight of Edmund.

"Can I speak
with you,
Fanny,
for a few minutes?"

said he.

"Yes,
certainly."



"I want
to consult.

I want your opinion."



"My opinion!"

she cried,
shrinking from such a compliment,
highly as it gratified her.

"Yes,
your advice and opinion.

I do not know what
to do.

This acting scheme gets worse and worse,
you see.

They have chosen almost as bad a play as they could,
and now,
to complete the business,
are going
to ask the help of a young man very slightly known
to any of us.

This is the end of all the privacy and propriety which was talked about at first.

I know no harm of Charles Maddox;
but the excessive intimacy which must spring from his being admitted among us in this manner is highly objectionable,
the _more_ than intimacy--the familiarity.

I cannot think of it
with any patience;
and it does appear
to me an evil of such magnitude as must,
_if_ _possible_,
be prevented.

Do not you see it in the same light?"

"Yes;
but what can be done?

Your brother is so determined."



"There is but _one_ thing
to be done,
Fanny.

I must take Anhalt myself.

I am well aware that nothing else will quiet Tom."



Fanny could not answer him.

"It is not at all what I like,"
he continued.

"No man can like being driven into the _appearance_ of such inconsistency.

After being known
to oppose the scheme from the beginning,
there is absurdity in the face of my joining them _now_,
when they are exceeding their first plan in every respect;
but I can think of no other alternative.

Can you,
Fanny?"

"No,"
said Fanny slowly,
"not immediately,
but--"
"But what?

I see your judgment is not
with me.

Think it a little over.

Perhaps you are not so much aware as I am of the mischief that _may_,
of the unpleasantness that _must_ arise from a young man's being received in this manner:

domesticated among us;
authorised
to come at all hours,
and placed suddenly on a footing which must do away all restraints.

To think only of the licence which every rehearsal must tend
to create.

It is all very bad! Put yourself in Miss Crawford's place,
Fanny.

Consider what it would be
to act Amelia
with a stranger.

She has a right
to be felt for,
because she evidently feels
for herself.

I heard enough of what she said
to you last night
to understand her unwillingness
to be acting
with a stranger;
and as she probably engaged in the part
with different expectations--perhaps without considering the subject enough
to know what was likely
to be-- it would be ungenerous,
it would be really wrong
to expose her
to it.

Her feelings ought
to be respected.

Does it not strike you so,
Fanny?

You hesitate."



"I am sorry
for Miss Crawford;
but I am more sorry
to see you drawn in
to do what you had resolved against,
and what you are known
to think will be disagreeable
to my uncle.

It will be such a triumph
to the others!"

"They will not have much cause of triumph when they see how infamously I act.

But,
however,
triumph there certainly will be,
and I must brave it.

But if I can be the means of restraining the publicity of the business,
of limiting the exhibition,
of concentrating our folly,
I shall be well repaid.

As I am now,
I have no influence,
I can do nothing:

I have offended them,
and they will not hear me;
but when I have put them in good-humour by this concession,
I am not without hopes of persuading them
to confine the representation within a much smaller circle than they are now in the high road for.

This will be a material gain.

My object is
to confine it
to Mrs. Rushworth and the Grants.

Will not this be worth gaining?"

"Yes,
it will be a great point."



"But still it has not your approbation.

Can you mention any other measure by which I have a chance of doing equal good?"

"No,
I cannot think of anything else."



"Give me your approbation,
then,
Fanny.

I am not comfortable without it."



"Oh,
cousin!"

"If you are against me,
I ought
to distrust myself,
and yet--But it is absolutely impossible
to let Tom go on in this way,
riding about the country in quest of anybody who can be persuaded
to act--no matter whom:

the look of a gentleman is
to be enough.

I thought _you_ would have entered more into Miss Crawford's feelings."



"No doubt she will be very glad.

It must be a great relief
to her,"
said Fanny,
trying
for greater warmth of manner.

"She never appeared more amiable than in her behaviour
to you last night.

It gave her a very strong claim on my goodwill."



"She _was_ very kind,
indeed,
and I am glad
to have her spared"...

She could not finish the generous effusion.

Her conscience stopt her in the middle,
but Edmund was satisfied.

"I shall walk down immediately after breakfast,"
said he,
"and am sure of giving pleasure there.

And now,
dear Fanny,
I will not interrupt you any longer.

You want
to be reading.

But I could not be easy till I had spoken
to you,
and come
to a decision.

Sleeping or waking,
my head has been full of this matter all night.

It is an evil,
but I am certainly making it less than it might be.

If Tom is up,
I shall go
to him directly and get it over,
and when we meet at breakfast we shall be all in high good-humour at the prospect of acting the fool together
with such unanimity.

_You_,
in the meanwhile,
will be taking a trip into China,
I suppose.

How does Lord Macartney go on?"

--opening a volume on the table and then taking up some others.

"And here are Crabbe's Tales,
and the Idler,
at hand
to relieve you,
if you tire of your great book.

I admire your little establishment exceedingly;
and as soon as I am gone,
you will empty your head of all this nonsense of acting,
and sit comfortably down
to your table.

But do not stay here
to be cold."



He went;
but there was no reading,
no China,
no composure
for Fanny.

He had told her the most extraordinary,
the most inconceivable,
the most unwelcome news;
and she could think of nothing else.

To be acting! After all his objections--objections so just and so public! After all that she had heard him say,
and seen him look,
and known him
to be feeling.

Could it be possible?

Edmund so inconsistent! Was he not deceiving himself?

Was he not wrong?

Alas! it was all Miss Crawford's doing.

She had seen her influence in every speech,
and was miserable.

The doubts and alarms as
to her own conduct,
which had previously distressed her,
and which had all slept while she listened
to him,
were become of little consequence now.

This deeper anxiety swallowed them up.

Things should take their course;
she cared not how it ended.

Her cousins might attack,
but could hardly tease her.

She was beyond their reach;
and if at last obliged
to yield--no matter--it was all misery now.

CHAPTER XVII It was,
indeed,
a triumphant day
to Mr. Bertram and Maria.

Such a victory over Edmund's discretion had been beyond their hopes,
and was most delightful.

There was no longer anything
to disturb them in their darling project,
and they congratulated each other in private on the jealous weakness
to which they attributed the change,
with all the glee of feelings gratified in every way.

Edmund might still look grave,
and say he did not like the scheme in general,
and must disapprove the play in particular;
their point was gained:

he was
to act,
and he was driven
to it by the force of selfish inclinations only.

Edmund had descended from that moral elevation which he had maintained before,
and they were both as much the better as the happier
for the descent.

They behaved very well,
however,
to _him_ on the occasion,
betraying no exultation beyond the lines about the corners of the mouth,
and seemed
to think it as great an escape
to be quit of the intrusion of Charles Maddox,
as if they had been forced into admitting him against their inclination.

"To have it quite in their own family circle was what they had particularly wished.

A stranger among them would have been the destruction of all their comfort";
and when Edmund,
pursuing that idea,
gave a hint of his hope as
to the limitation of the audience,
they were ready,
in the complaisance of the moment,
to promise anything.

It was all good-humour and encouragement.

Mrs. Norris offered
to contrive his dress,
Mr. Yates assured him that Anhalt's last scene
with the Baron admitted a good deal of action and emphasis,
and Mr. Rushworth undertook
to count his speeches.

"Perhaps,"
said Tom,
"Fanny may be more disposed
to oblige us now.

Perhaps you may persuade _her_."



"No,
she is quite determined.

She certainly will not act."



"Oh! very well."



And not another word was said;
but Fanny felt herself again in danger,
and her indifference
to the danger was beginning
to fail her already.

There were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage than at the Park on this change in Edmund;
Miss Crawford looked very lovely in hers,
and entered
with such an instantaneous renewal of cheerfulness into the whole affair as could have but one effect on him.

"He was certainly right in respecting such feelings;
he was glad he had determined on it."



And the morning wore away in satisfactions very sweet,
if not very sound.

One advantage resulted from it
to Fanny:

at the earnest request of Miss Crawford,
Mrs. Grant had,
with her usual good-humour,
agreed
to undertake the part
for which Fanny had been wanted;
and this was all that occurred
to gladden _her_ heart during the day;
and even this,
when imparted by Edmund,
brought a pang
with it,
for it was Miss Crawford
to whom she was obliged--it was Miss Crawford whose kind exertions were
to excite her gratitude,
and whose merit in making them was spoken of
with a glow of admiration.

She was safe;
but peace and safety were unconnected here.

Her mind had been never farther from peace.

She could not feel that she had done wrong herself,
but she was disquieted in every other way.

Her heart and her judgment were equally against Edmund's decision:

she could not acquit his unsteadiness,
and his happiness under it made her wretched.

She was full of jealousy and agitation.

Miss Crawford came
with looks of gaiety which seemed an insult,
with friendly expressions towards herself which she could hardly answer calmly.

Everybody around her was gay and busy,
prosperous and important;
each had their object of interest,
their part,
their dress,
their favourite scene,
their friends and confederates:

all were finding employment in consultations and comparisons,
or diversion in the playful conceits they suggested.

She alone was sad and insignificant:

she had no share in anything;
she might go or stay;
she might be in the midst of their noise,
or retreat from it
to the solitude of the East room,
without being seen or missed.

She could almost think anything would have been preferable
to this.

Mrs. Grant was of consequence:

_her_ good-nature had honourable mention;
her taste and her time were considered;
her presence was wanted;
she was sought for,
and attended,
and praised;
and Fanny was at first in some danger of envying her the character she had accepted.

But reflection brought better feelings,
and shewed her that Mrs. Grant was entitled
to respect,
which could never have belonged
to _her_;
and that,
had she received even the greatest,
she could never have been easy in joining a scheme which,
considering only her uncle,
she must condemn altogether.

Fanny's heart was not absolutely the only saddened one amongst them,
as she soon began
to acknowledge
to herself.

Julia was a sufferer too,
though not quite so blamelessly.

Henry Crawford had trifled
with her feelings;
but she had very long allowed and even sought his attentions,
with a jealousy of her sister so reasonable as ought
to have been their cure;
and now that the conviction of his preference
for Maria had been forced on her,
she submitted
to it without any alarm
for Maria's situation,
or any endeavour at rational tranquillity
for herself.

She either sat in gloomy silence,
wrapt in such gravity as nothing could subdue,
no curiosity touch,
no wit amuse;
or allowing the attentions of Mr. Yates,
was talking
with forced gaiety
to him alone,
and ridiculing the acting of the others.

For a day or two after the affront was given,
Henry Crawford had endeavoured
to do it away by the usual attack of gallantry and compliment,
but he had not cared enough about it
to persevere against a few repulses;
and becoming soon too busy
with his play
to have time
for more than one flirtation,
he grew indifferent
to the quarrel,
or rather thought it a lucky occurrence,
as quietly putting an end
to what might ere long have raised expectations in more than Mrs. Grant.

She was not pleased
to see Julia excluded from the play,
and sitting by disregarded;
but as it was not a matter which really involved her happiness,
as Henry must be the best judge of his own,
and as he did assure her,
with a most persuasive smile,
that neither he nor Julia had ever had a serious thought of each other,
she could only renew her former caution as
to the elder sister,
entreat him not
to risk his tranquillity by too much admiration there,
and then gladly take her share in anything that brought cheerfulness
to the young people in general,
and that did so particularly promote the pleasure of the two so dear
to her.

"I rather wonder Julia is not in love
with Henry,"
was her observation
to Mary.

"I dare say she is,"
replied Mary coldly.

"I imagine both sisters are."



"Both! no,
no,
that must not be.

Do not give him a hint of it.

Think of Mr. Rushworth!"

"You had better tell Miss Bertram
to think of Mr. Rushworth.

It may do _her_ some good.

I often think of Mr. Rushworth's property and independence,
and wish them in other hands;
but I never think of him.

A man might represent the county
with such an estate;
a man might escape a profession and represent the county."



"I dare say he _will_ be in parliament soon.

When Sir Thomas comes,
I dare say he will be in
for some borough,
but there has been nobody
to put him in the way of doing anything yet."



"Sir Thomas is
to achieve many mighty things when he comes home,"
said Mary,
after a pause.

"Do you remember Hawkins Browne's
'Address
to Tobacco,'
in imitation of Pope?-- Blest leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense
to Templars modesty,
to Parsons sense.

I will parody them-- Blest Knight! whose dictatorial looks dispense
to Children affluence,
to Rushworth sense.

Will not that do,
Mrs. Grant?

Everything seems
to depend upon Sir Thomas's return."



"You will find his consequence very just and reasonable when you see him in his family,
I assure you.

I do not think we do so well without him.

He has a fine dignified manner,
which suits the head of such a house,
and keeps everybody in their place.

Lady Bertram seems more of a cipher now than when he is at home;
and nobody else can keep Mrs. Norris in order.

But,
Mary,
do not fancy that Maria Bertram cares
for Henry.

I am sure _Julia_ does not,
or she would not have flirted as she did last night
with Mr. Yates;
and though he and Maria are very good friends,
I think she likes Sotherton too well
to be inconstant."



"I would not give much
for Mr. Rushworth's chance if Henry stept in before the articles were signed."



"If you have such a suspicion,
something must be done;
and as soon as the play is all over,
we will talk
to him seriously and make him know his own mind;
and if he means nothing,
we will send him off,
though he is Henry,
for a time."



Julia _did_ suffer,
however,
though Mrs. Grant discerned it not,
and though it escaped the notice of many of her own family likewise.

She had loved,
she did love still,
and she had all the suffering which a warm temper and a high spirit were likely
to endure under the disappointment of a dear,
though irrational hope,
with a strong sense of ill-usage.

Her heart was sore and angry,
and she was capable only of angry consolations.

The sister
with whom she was used
to be on easy terms was now become her greatest enemy:

they were alienated from each other;
and Julia was not superior
to the hope of some distressing end
to the attentions which were still carrying on there,
some punishment
to Maria
for conduct so shameful towards herself as well as towards Mr. Rushworth.

With no material fault of temper,
or difference of opinion,
to prevent their being very good friends while their interests were the same,
the sisters,
under such a trial as this,
had not affection or principle enough
to make them merciful or just,
to give them honour or compassion.

Maria felt her triumph,
and pursued her purpose,
careless of Julia;
and Julia could never see Maria distinguished by Henry Crawford without trusting that it would create jealousy,
and bring a public disturbance at last.

Fanny saw and pitied much of this in Julia;
but there was no outward fellowship between them.

Julia made no communication,
and Fanny took no liberties.

They were two solitary sufferers,
or connected only by Fanny's consciousness.

The inattention of the two brothers and the aunt
to Julia's discomposure,
and their blindness
to its true cause,
must be imputed
to the fullness of their own minds.

They were totally preoccupied.

Tom was engrossed by the concerns of his theatre,
and saw nothing that did not immediately relate
to it.

Edmund,
between his theatrical and his real part,
between Miss Crawford's claims and his own conduct,
between love and consistency,
was equally unobservant;
and Mrs. Norris was too busy in contriving and directing the general little matters of the company,
superintending their various dresses
with economical expedient,
for which nobody thanked her,
and saving,
with delighted integrity,
half a crown here and there
to the absent Sir Thomas,
to have leisure
for watching the behaviour,
or guarding the happiness of his daughters.

CHAPTER XVIII Everything was now in a regular train:

theatre,
actors,
actresses,
and dresses,
were all getting forward;
but though no other great impediments arose,
Fanny found,
before many days were past,
that it was not all uninterrupted enjoyment
to the party themselves,
and that she had not
to witness the continuance of such unanimity and delight as had been almost too much
for her at first.

Everybody began
to have their vexation.

Edmund had many.

Entirely against _his_ judgment,
a scene-painter arrived from town,
and was at work,
much
to the increase of the expenses,
and,
what was worse,
of the eclat of their proceedings;
and his brother,
instead of being really guided by him as
to the privacy of the representation,
was giving an invitation
to every family who came in his way.

Tom himself began
to fret over the scene-painter's slow progress,
and
to feel the miseries of waiting.

He had learned his part--all his parts,
for he took every trifling one that could be united
with the Butler,
and began
to be impatient
to be acting;
and every day thus unemployed was tending
to increase his sense of the insignificance of all his parts together,
and make him more ready
to regret that some other play had not been chosen.

Fanny,
being always a very courteous listener,
and often the only listener at hand,
came in
for the complaints and the distresses of most of them.

_She_ knew that Mr. Yates was in general thought
to rant dreadfully;
that Mr. Yates was disappointed in Henry Crawford;
that Tom Bertram spoke so quick he would be unintelligible;
that Mrs. Grant spoiled everything by laughing;
that Edmund was behindhand
with his part,
and that it was misery
to have anything
to do
with Mr. Rushworth,
who was wanting a prompter through every speech.

She knew,
also,
that poor Mr. Rushworth could seldom get anybody
to rehearse
with him:

_his_ complaint came before her as well as the rest;
and so decided
to her eye was her cousin Maria's avoidance of him,
and so needlessly often the rehearsal of the first scene between her and Mr. Crawford,
that she had soon all the terror of other complaints from _him_.

So far from being all satisfied and all enjoying,
she found everybody requiring something they had not,
and giving occasion of discontent
to the others.

Everybody had a part either too long or too short;
nobody would attend as they ought;
nobody would remember on which side they were
to come in;
nobody but the complainer would observe any directions.

Fanny believed herself
to derive as much innocent enjoyment from the play as any of them;
Henry Crawford acted well,
and it was a pleasure
to _her_
to creep into the theatre,
and attend the rehearsal of the first act,
in spite of the feelings it excited in some speeches
for Maria.

Maria,
she also thought,
acted well,
too well;
and after the first rehearsal or two,
Fanny began
to be their only audience;
and sometimes as prompter,
sometimes as spectator,
was often very useful.

As far as she could judge,
Mr. Crawford was considerably the best actor of all:

he had more confidence than Edmund,
more judgment than Tom,
more talent and taste than Mr. Yates.

She did not like him as a man,
but she must admit him
to be the best actor,
and on this point there were not many who differed from her.

Mr. Yates,
indeed,
exclaimed against his tameness and insipidity;
and the day came at last,
when Mr. Rushworth turned
to her
with a black look,
and said,
"Do you think there is anything so very fine in all this?

For the life and soul of me,
I cannot admire him;
and,
between ourselves,
to see such an undersized,
little,
mean-looking man,
set up
for a fine actor,
is very ridiculous in my opinion."



From this moment there was a return of his former jealousy,
which Maria,
from increasing hopes of Crawford,
was at little pains
to remove;
and the chances of Mr. Rushworth's ever attaining
to the knowledge of his two-and-forty speeches became much less.

As
to his ever making anything _tolerable_ of them,
nobody had the smallest idea of that except his mother;
_she_,
indeed,
regretted that his part was not more considerable,
and deferred coming over
to Mansfield till they were forward enough in their rehearsal
to comprehend all his scenes;
but the others aspired at nothing beyond his remembering the catchword,
and the first line of his speech,
and being able
to follow the prompter through the rest.

Fanny,
in her pity and kindheartedness,
was at great pains
to teach him how
to learn,
giving him all the helps and directions in her power,
trying
to make an artificial memory
for him,
and learning every word of his part herself,
but without his being much the forwarder.

Many uncomfortable,
anxious,
apprehensive feelings she certainly had;
but
with all these,
and other claims on her time and attention,
she was as far from finding herself without employment or utility amongst them,
as without a companion in uneasiness;
quite as far from having no demand on her leisure as on her compassion.

The gloom of her first anticipations was proved
to have been unfounded.

She was occasionally useful
to all;
she was perhaps as much at peace as any.

There was a great deal of needlework
to be done,
moreover,
in which her help was wanted;
and that Mrs. Norris thought her quite as well off as the rest,
was evident by the manner in which she claimed it--"Come,
Fanny,"
she cried,
"these are fine times
for you,
but you must not be always walking from one room
to the other,
and doing the lookings-on at your ease,
in this way;
I want you here.

I have been slaving myself till I can hardly stand,
to contrive Mr. Rushworth's cloak without sending
for any more satin;
and now I think you may give me your help in putting it together.

There are but three seams;
you may do them in a trice.

It would be lucky
for me if I had nothing but the executive part
to do.

_You_ are best off,
I can tell you:

but if nobody did more than _you_,
we should not get on very fast"
Fanny took the work very quietly,
without attempting any defence;
but her kinder aunt Bertram observed on her behalf--
"One cannot wonder,
sister,
that Fanny _should_ be delighted:

it is all new
to her,
you know;
you and I used
to be very fond of a play ourselves,
and so am I still;
and as soon as I am a little more at leisure,
_I_ mean
to look in at their rehearsals too.

What is the play about,
Fanny?

you have never told me."



"Oh! sister,
pray do not ask her now;
for Fanny is not one of those who can talk and work at the same time.

It is about Lovers'
Vows."



"I believe,"
said Fanny
to her aunt Bertram,
"there will be three acts rehearsed to-morrow evening,
and that will give you an opportunity of seeing all the actors at once."



"You had better stay till the curtain is hung,"
interposed Mrs. Norris;
"the curtain will be hung in a day or two-- there is very little sense in a play without a curtain-- and I am much mistaken if you do not find it draw up into very handsome festoons."



Lady Bertram seemed quite resigned
to waiting.

Fanny did not share her aunt's composure:

she thought of the morrow a great deal,
for if the three acts were rehearsed,
Edmund and Miss Crawford would then be acting together
for the first time;
the third act would bring a scene between them which interested her most particularly,
and which she was longing and dreading
to see how they would perform.

The whole subject of it was love-- a marriage of love was
to be described by the gentleman,
and very little short of a declaration of love be made by the lady.

She had read and read the scene again
with many painful,
many wondering emotions,
and looked forward
to their representation of it as a circumstance almost too interesting.

She did not _believe_ they had yet rehearsed it,
even in private.

The morrow came,
the plan
for the evening continued,
and Fanny's consideration of it did not become less agitated.

She worked very diligently under her aunt's directions,
but her diligence and her silence concealed a very absent,
anxious mind;
and about noon she made her escape
with her work
to the East room,
that she might have no concern in another,
and,
as she deemed it,
most unnecessary rehearsal of the first act,
which Henry Crawford was just proposing,
desirous at once of having her time
to herself,
and of avoiding the sight of Mr. Rushworth.

A glimpse,
as she passed through the hall,
of the two ladies walking up from the Parsonage made no change in her wish of retreat,
and she worked and meditated in the East room,
undisturbed,
for a quarter of an hour,
when a gentle tap at the door was followed by the entrance of Miss Crawford.

"Am I right?

Yes;
this is the East room.

My dear Miss Price,
I beg your pardon,
but I have made my way
to you on purpose
to entreat your help."



Fanny,
quite surprised,
endeavoured
to shew herself mistress of the room by her civilities,
and looked at the bright bars of her empty grate
with concern.

"Thank you;
I am quite warm,
very warm.

Allow me
to stay here a little while,
and do have the goodness
to hear me my third act.

I have brought my book,
and if you would but rehearse it
with me,
I should be _so_ obliged! I came here to-day intending
to rehearse it
with Edmund-- by ourselves--against the evening,
but he is not in the way;
and if he _were_,
I do not think I could go through it
with _him_,
till I have hardened myself a little;
for really there is a speech or two.

You will be so good,
won't you?"

Fanny was most civil in her assurances,
though she could not give them in a very steady voice.

"Have you ever happened
to look at the part I mean?"

continued Miss Crawford,
opening her book.

"Here it is.

I did not think much of it at first--but,
upon my word.

There,
look at _that_ speech,
and _that_,
and _that_.

How am I ever
to look him in the face and say such things?

Could you do it?

But then he is your cousin,
which makes all the difference.

You must rehearse it
with me,
that I may fancy _you_ him,
and get on by degrees.

You _have_ a look of _his_ sometimes."



"Have I?

I will do my best
with the greatest readiness;
but I must _read_ the part,
for I can say very little of it."



"_None_ of it,
I suppose.

You are
to have the book,
of course.

Now
for it.

We must have two chairs at hand
for you
to bring forward
to the front of the stage.

There--very good school-room chairs,
not made
for a theatre,
I dare say;
much more fitted
for little girls
to sit and kick their feet against when they are learning a lesson.

What would your governess and your uncle say
to see them used
for such a purpose?

Could Sir Thomas look in upon us just now,
he would bless himself,
for we are rehearsing all over the house.

Yates is storming away in the dining-room.

I heard him as I came upstairs,
and the theatre is engaged of course by those indefatigable rehearsers,
Agatha and Frederick.

If _they_ are not perfect,
I _shall_ be surprised.

By the bye,
I looked in upon them five minutes ago,
and it happened
to be exactly at one of the times when they were trying _not_
to embrace,
and Mr. Rushworth was
with me.

I thought he began
to look a little queer,
so I turned it off as well as I could,
by whispering
to him,
'We shall have an excellent Agatha;
there is something so _maternal_ in her manner,
so completely _maternal_ in her voice and countenance.'



Was not that well done of me?

He brightened up directly.

Now
for my soliloquy."



She began,
and Fanny joined in
with all the modest feeling which the idea of representing Edmund was so strongly calculated
to inspire;
but
with looks and voice so truly feminine as
to be no very good picture of a man.

With such an Anhalt,
however,
Miss Crawford had courage enough;
and they had got through half the scene,
when a tap at the door brought a pause,
and the entrance of Edmund,
the next moment,
suspended it all.

Surprise,
consciousness,
and pleasure appeared in each of the three on this unexpected meeting;
and as Edmund was come on the very same business that had brought Miss Crawford,
consciousness and pleasure were likely
to be more than momentary in _them_.

He too had his book,
and was seeking Fanny,
to ask her
to rehearse
with him,
and help him
to prepare
for the evening,
without knowing Miss Crawford
to be in the house;
and great was the joy and animation of being thus thrown together,
of comparing schemes,
and sympathising in praise of Fanny's kind offices.

_She_ could not equal them in their warmth.

_Her_ spirits sank under the glow of theirs,
and she felt herself becoming too nearly nothing
to both
to have any comfort in having been sought by either.

They must now rehearse together.

Edmund proposed,
urged,
entreated it,
till the lady,
not very unwilling at first,
could refuse no longer,
and Fanny was wanted only
to prompt and observe them.

She was invested,
indeed,
with the office of judge and critic,
and earnestly desired
to exercise it and tell them all their faults;
but from doing so every feeling within her shrank--she could not,
would not,
dared not attempt it:

had she been otherwise qualified
for criticism,
her conscience must have restrained her from venturing at disapprobation.

She believed herself
to feel too much of it in the aggregate
for honesty or safety in particulars.

To prompt them must be enough
for her;
and it was sometimes _more_ than enough;
for she could not always pay attention
to the book.

In watching them she forgot herself;
and,
agitated by the increasing spirit of Edmund's manner,
had once closed the page and turned away exactly as he wanted help.

It was imputed
to very reasonable weariness,
and she was thanked and pitied;
but she deserved their pity more than she hoped they would ever surmise.

At last the scene was over,
and Fanny forced herself
to add her praise
to the compliments each was giving the other;
and when again alone and able
to recall the whole,
she was inclined
to believe their performance would,
indeed,
have such nature and feeling in it as must ensure their credit,
and make it a very suffering exhibition
to herself.

Whatever might be its effect,
however,
she must stand the brunt of it again that very day.

The first regular rehearsal of the three first acts was certainly
to take place in the evening:

Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords were engaged
to return
for that purpose as soon as they could after dinner;
and every one concerned was looking forward
with eagerness.

There seemed a general diffusion of cheerfulness on the occasion.

Tom was enjoying such an advance towards the end;
Edmund was in spirits from the morning's rehearsal,
and little vexations seemed everywhere smoothed away.

All were alert and impatient;
the ladies moved soon,
the gentlemen soon followed them,
and
with the exception of Lady Bertram,
Mrs. Norris,
and Julia,
everybody was in the theatre at an early hour;
and having lighted it up as well as its unfinished state admitted,
were waiting only the arrival of Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords
to begin.

They did not wait long
for the Crawfords,
but there was no Mrs. Grant.

She could not come.

Dr. Grant,
professing an indisposition,
for which he had little credit
with his fair sister-in-law,
could not spare his wife.

"Dr. Grant is ill,"
said she,
with mock solemnity.

"He has been ill ever since he did not eat any of the pheasant today.

He fancied it tough,
sent away his plate,
and has been suffering ever since".

Here was disappointment! Mrs. Grant's non-attendance was sad indeed.

Her pleasant manners and cheerful conformity made her always valuable amongst them;
but _now_ she was absolutely necessary.

They could not act,
they could not rehearse
with any satisfaction without her.

The comfort of the whole evening was destroyed.

What was
to be done?

Tom,
as Cottager,
was in despair.

After a pause of perplexity,
some eyes began
to be turned towards Fanny,
and a voice or two
to say,
"If Miss Price would be so good as
to _read_ the part."



She was immediately surrounded by supplications;
everybody asked it;
even Edmund said,
"Do,
Fanny,
if it is not _very_ disagreeable
to you."



But Fanny still hung back.

She could not endure the idea of it.

Why was not Miss Crawford
to be applied
to as well?

Or why had not she rather gone
to her own room,
as she had felt
to be safest,
instead of attending the rehearsal at all?

She had known it would irritate and distress her;
she had known it her duty
to keep away.

She was properly punished.

"You have only
to _read_ the part,"
said Henry Crawford,
with renewed entreaty.

"And I do believe she can say every word of it,"
added Maria,
"for she could put Mrs. Grant right the other day in twenty places.

Fanny,
I am sure you know the part."



Fanny could not say she did _not_;
and as they all persevered,
as Edmund repeated his wish,
and
with a look of even fond dependence on her good-nature,
she must yield.

She would do her best.

Everybody was satisfied;
and she was left
to the tremors of a most palpitating heart,
while the others prepared
to begin.

They _did_ begin;
and being too much engaged in their own noise
to be struck by an unusual noise in the other part of the house,
had proceeded some way when the door of the room was thrown open,
and Julia,
appearing at it,
with a face all aghast,
exclaimed,
"My father is come! He is in the hall at this moment."



CHAPTER XIX How is the consternation of the party
to be described?

To the greater number it was a moment of absolute horror.

Sir Thomas in the house! All felt the instantaneous conviction.

Not a hope of imposition or mistake was harboured anywhere.

Julia's looks were an evidence of the fact that made it indisputable;
and after the first starts and exclamations,
not a word was spoken
for half a minute:

each
with an altered countenance was looking at some other,
and almost each was feeling it a stroke the most unwelcome,
most ill-timed,
most appalling! Mr. Yates might consider it only as a vexatious interruption
for the evening,
and Mr. Rushworth might imagine it a blessing;
but every other heart was sinking under some degree of self-condemnation or undefined alarm,
every other heart was suggesting,
"What will become of us?

what is
to be done now?"

It was a terrible pause;
and terrible
to every ear were the corroborating sounds of opening doors and passing footsteps.

Julia was the first
to move and speak again.

Jealousy and bitterness had been suspended:

selfishness was lost in the common cause;
but at the moment of her appearance,
Frederick was listening
with looks of devotion
to Agatha's narrative,
and pressing her hand
to his heart;
and as soon as she could notice this,
and see that,
in spite of the shock of her words,
he still kept his station and retained her sister's hand,
her wounded heart swelled again
with injury,
and looking as red as she had been white before,
she turned out of the room,
saying,
"_I_ need not be afraid of appearing before him."



Her going roused the rest;
and at the same moment the two brothers stepped forward,
feeling the necessity of doing something.

A very few words between them were sufficient.

The case admitted no difference of opinion:

they must go
to the drawing-room directly.

Maria joined them
with the same intent,
just then the stoutest of the three;
for the very circumstance which had driven Julia away was
to her the sweetest support.

Henry Crawford's retaining her hand at such a moment,
a moment of such peculiar proof and importance,
was worth ages of doubt and anxiety.

She hailed it as an earnest of the most serious determination,
and was equal even
to encounter her father.

They walked off,
utterly heedless of Mr. Rushworth's repeated question of,
"Shall I go too?

Had not I better go too?

Will not it be right
for me
to go too?"

but they were no sooner through the door than Henry Crawford undertook
to answer the anxious inquiry,
and,
encouraging him by all means
to pay his respects
to Sir Thomas without delay,
sent him after the others
with delighted haste.

Fanny was left
with only the Crawfords and Mr. Yates.

She had been quite overlooked by her cousins;
and as her own opinion of her claims on Sir Thomas's affection was much too humble
to give her any idea of classing herself
with his children,
she was glad
to remain behind and gain a little breathing-time.

Her agitation and alarm exceeded all that was endured by the rest,
by the right of a disposition which not even innocence could keep from suffering.

She was nearly fainting:

all her former habitual dread of her uncle was returning,
and
with it compassion
for him and
for almost every one of the party on the development before him,
with solicitude on Edmund's account indescribable.

She had found a seat,
where in excessive trembling she was enduring all these fearful thoughts,
while the other three,
no longer under any restraint,
were giving vent
to their feelings of vexation,
lamenting over such an unlooked-for premature arrival as a most untoward event,
and without mercy wishing poor Sir Thomas had been twice as long on his passage,
or were still in Antigua.

The Crawfords were more warm on the subject than Mr. Yates,
from better understanding the family,
and judging more clearly of the mischief that must ensue.

The ruin of the play was
to them a certainty:

they felt the total destruction of the scheme
to be inevitably at hand;
while Mr. Yates considered it only as a temporary interruption,
a disaster
for the evening,
and could even suggest the possibility of the rehearsal being renewed after tea,
when the bustle of receiving Sir Thomas were over,
and he might be at leisure
to be amused by it.

The Crawfords laughed at the idea;
and having soon agreed on the propriety of their walking quietly home and leaving the family
to themselves,
proposed Mr. Yates's accompanying them and spending the evening at the Parsonage.

But Mr. Yates,
having never been
with those who thought much of parental claims,
or family confidence,
could not perceive that anything of the kind was necessary;
and therefore,
thanking them,
said,
"he preferred remaining where he was,
that he might pay his respects
to the old gentleman handsomely since he _was_ come;
and besides,
he did not think it would be fair by the others
to have everybody run away."



Fanny was just beginning
to collect herself,
and
to feel that if she staid longer behind it might seem disrespectful,
when this point was settled,
and being commissioned
with the brother and sister's apology,
saw them preparing
to go as she quitted the room herself
to perform the dreadful duty of appearing before her uncle.

Too soon did she find herself at the drawing-room door;
and after pausing a moment
for what she knew would not come,
for a courage which the outside of no door had ever supplied
to her,
she turned the lock in desperation,
and the lights of the drawing-room,
and all the collected family,
were before her.

As she entered,
her own name caught her ear.

Sir Thomas was at that moment looking round him,
and saying,
"But where is Fanny?

Why do not I see my little Fanny?"

--and on perceiving her,
came forward
with a kindness which astonished and penetrated her,
calling her his dear Fanny,
kissing her affectionately,
and observing
with decided pleasure how much she was grown! Fanny knew not how
to feel,
nor where
to look.

She was quite oppressed.

He had never been so kind,
so _very_ kind
to her in his life.

His manner seemed changed,
his voice was quick from the agitation of joy;
and all that had been awful in his dignity seemed lost in tenderness.

He led her nearer the light and looked at her again-- inquired particularly after her health,
and then,
correcting himself,
observed that he need not inquire,
for her appearance spoke sufficiently on that point.

A fine blush having succeeded the previous paleness of her face,
he was justified in his belief of her equal improvement in health and beauty.

He inquired next after her family,
especially William:

and his kindness altogether was such as made her reproach herself
for loving him so little,
and thinking his return a misfortune;
and when,
on having courage
to lift her eyes
to his face,
she saw that he was grown thinner,
and had the burnt,
fagged,
worn look of fatigue and a hot climate,
every tender feeling was increased,
and she was miserable in considering how much unsuspected vexation was probably ready
to burst on him.

Sir Thomas was indeed the life of the party,
who at his suggestion now seated themselves round the fire.

He had the best right
to be the talker;
and the delight of his sensations in being again in his own house,
in the centre of his family,
after such a separation,
made him communicative and chatty in a very unusual degree;
and he was ready
to give every information as
to his voyage,
and answer every question of his two sons almost before it was put.

His business in Antigua had latterly been prosperously rapid,
and he came directly from Liverpool,
having had an opportunity of making his passage thither in a private vessel,
instead of waiting
for the packet;
and all the little particulars of his proceedings and events,
his arrivals and departures,
were most promptly delivered,
as he sat by Lady Bertram and looked
with heartfelt satisfaction on the faces around him--interrupting himself more than once,
however,
to remark on his good fortune in finding them all at home--coming unexpectedly as he did-- all collected together exactly as he could have wished,
but dared not depend on.

Mr. Rushworth was not forgotten:

a most friendly reception and warmth of hand-shaking had already met him,
and
with pointed attention he was now included in the objects most intimately connected
with Mansfield.

There was nothing disagreeable in Mr. Rushworth's appearance,
and Sir Thomas was liking him already.

By not one of the circle was he listened
to
with such unbroken,
unalloyed enjoyment as by his wife,
who was really extremely happy
to see him,
and whose feelings were so warmed by his sudden arrival as
to place her nearer agitation than she had been
for the last twenty years.

She had been _almost_ fluttered
for a few minutes,
and still remained so sensibly animated as
to put away her work,
move Pug from her side,
and give all her attention and all the rest of her sofa
to her husband.

She had no anxieties
for anybody
to cloud _her_ pleasure:

her own time had been irreproachably spent during his absence:

she had done a great deal of carpet-work,
and made many yards of fringe;
and she would have answered as freely
for the good conduct and useful pursuits of all the young people as
for her own.

It was so agreeable
to her
to see him again,
and hear him talk,
to have her ear amused and her whole comprehension filled by his narratives,
that she began particularly
to feel how dreadfully she must have missed him,
and how impossible it would have been
for her
to bear a lengthened absence.

Mrs. Norris was by no means
to be compared in happiness
to her sister.

Not that _she_ was incommoded by many fears of Sir Thomas's disapprobation when the present state of his house should be known,
for her judgment had been so blinded that,
except by the instinctive caution
with which she had whisked away Mr. Rushworth's pink satin cloak as her brother-in-law entered,
she could hardly be said
to shew any sign of alarm;
but she was vexed by the _manner_ of his return.

It had left her nothing
to do.

Instead of being sent
for out of the room,
and seeing him first,
and having
to spread the happy news through the house,
Sir Thomas,
with a very reasonable dependence,
perhaps,
on the nerves of his wife and children,
had sought no confidant but the butler,
and had been following him almost instantaneously into the drawing-room.

Mrs. Norris felt herself defrauded of an office on which she had always depended,
whether his arrival or his death were
to be the thing unfolded;
and was now trying
to be in a bustle without having anything
to bustle about,
and labouring
to be important where nothing was wanted but tranquillity and silence.

Would Sir Thomas have consented
to eat,
she might have gone
to the housekeeper
with troublesome directions,
and insulted the footmen
with injunctions of despatch;
but Sir Thomas resolutely declined all dinner:

he would take nothing,
nothing till tea came--he would rather wait
for tea.

Still Mrs. Norris was at intervals urging something different;
and in the most interesting moment of his passage
to England,
when the alarm of a French privateer was at the height,
she burst through his recital
with the proposal of soup.

"Sure,
my dear Sir Thomas,
a basin of soup would be a much better thing
for you than tea.

Do have a basin of soup."



Sir Thomas could not be provoked.

"Still the same anxiety
for everybody's comfort,
my dear Mrs. Norris,"
was his answer.

"But indeed I would rather have nothing but tea."



"Well,
then,
Lady Bertram,
suppose you speak
for tea directly;
suppose you hurry Baddeley a little;
he seems behindhand to-night."



She carried this point,
and Sir Thomas's narrative proceeded.

At length there was a pause.

His immediate communications were exhausted,
and it seemed enough
to be looking joyfully around him,
now at one,
now at another of the beloved circle;
but the pause was not long:

in the elation of her spirits Lady Bertram became talkative,
and what were the sensations of her children upon hearing her say,
"How do you think the young people have been amusing themselves lately,
Sir Thomas?

They have been acting.

We have been all alive
with acting."



"Indeed! and what have you been acting?"

"Oh! they'll tell you all about it."



"The _all_ will soon be told,"
cried Tom hastily,
and
with affected unconcern;
"but it is not worth while
to bore my father
with it now.

You will hear enough of it to-morrow,
sir.

We have just been trying,
by way of doing something,
and amusing my mother,
just within the last week,
to get up a few scenes,
a mere trifle.

We have had such incessant rains almost since October began,
that we have been nearly confined
to the house
for days together.

I have hardly taken out a gun since the 3rd.

Tolerable sport the first three days,
but there has been no attempting anything since.

The first day I went over Mansfield Wood,
and Edmund took the copses beyond Easton,
and we brought home six brace between us,
and might each have killed six times as many,
but we respect your pheasants,
sir,
I assure you,
as much as you could desire.

I do not think you will find your woods by any means worse stocked than they were.

_I_ never saw Mansfield Wood so full of pheasants in my life as this year.

I hope you will take a day's sport there yourself,
sir,
soon."



For the present the danger was over,
and Fanny's sick feelings subsided;
but when tea was soon afterwards brought in,
and Sir Thomas,
getting up,
said that he found that he could not be any longer in the house without just looking into his own dear room,
every agitation was returning.

He was gone before anything had been said
to prepare him
for the change he must find there;
and a pause of alarm followed his disappearance.

Edmund was the first
to speak--
"Something must be done,"
said he.

"It is time
to think of our visitors,"
said Maria,
still feeling her hand pressed
to Henry Crawford's heart,
and caring little
for anything else.

"Where did you leave Miss Crawford,
Fanny?"

Fanny told of their departure,
and delivered their message.

"Then poor Yates is all alone,"
cried Tom.

"I will go and fetch him.

He will be no bad assistant when it all comes out."



To the theatre he went,
and reached it just in time
to witness the first meeting of his father and his friend.

Sir Thomas had been a good deal surprised
to find candles burning in his room;
and on casting his eye round it,
to see other symptoms of recent habitation and a general air of confusion in the furniture.

The removal of the bookcase from before the billiard-room door struck him especially,
but he had scarcely more than time
to feel astonished at all this,
before there were sounds from the billiard-room
to astonish him still farther.

Some one was talking there in a very loud accent;
he did not know the voice--more than talking--almost hallooing.

He stepped
to the door,
rejoicing at that moment in having the means of immediate communication,
and,
opening it,
found himself on the stage of a theatre,
and opposed
to a ranting young man,
who appeared likely
to knock him down backwards.

At the very moment of Yates perceiving Sir Thomas,
and giving perhaps the very best start he had ever given in the whole course of his rehearsals,
Tom Bertram entered at the other end of the room;
and never had he found greater difficulty in keeping his countenance.

His father's looks of solemnity and amazement on this his first appearance on any stage,
and the gradual metamorphosis of the impassioned Baron Wildenheim into the well-bred and easy Mr. Yates,
making his bow and apology
to Sir Thomas Bertram,
was such an exhibition,
such a piece of true acting,
as he would not have lost upon any account.

It would be the last-- in all probability--the last scene on that stage;
but he was sure there could not be a finer.

The house would close
with the greatest eclat.

There was little time,
however,
for the indulgence of any images of merriment.

It was necessary
for him
to step forward,
too,
and assist the introduction,
and
with many awkward sensations he did his best.

Sir Thomas received Mr. Yates
with all the appearance of cordiality which was due
to his own character,
but was really as far from pleased
with the necessity of the acquaintance as
with the manner of its commencement.

Mr. Yates's family and connexions were sufficiently known
to him
to render his introduction as the
"particular friend,"
another of the hundred particular friends of his son,
exceedingly unwelcome;
and it needed all the felicity of being again at home,
and all the forbearance it could supply,
to save Sir Thomas from anger on finding himself thus bewildered in his own house,
making part of a ridiculous exhibition in the midst of theatrical nonsense,
and forced in so untoward a moment
to admit the acquaintance of a young man whom he felt sure of disapproving,
and whose easy indifference and volubility in the course of the first five minutes seemed
to mark him the most at home of the two.

Tom understood his father's thoughts,
and heartily wishing he might be always as well disposed
to give them but partial expression,
began
to see,
more clearly than he had ever done before,
that there might be some ground of offence,
that there might be some reason
for the glance his father gave towards the ceiling and stucco of the room;
and that when he inquired
with mild gravity after the fate of the billiard-table,
he was not proceeding beyond a very allowable curiosity.

A few minutes were enough
for such unsatisfactory sensations on each side;
and Sir Thomas having exerted himself so far as
to speak a few words of calm approbation in reply
to an eager appeal of Mr. Yates,
as
to the happiness of the arrangement,
the three gentlemen returned
to the drawing-room together,
Sir Thomas
with an increase of gravity which was not lost on all.

"I come from your theatre,"
said he composedly,
as he sat down;
"I found myself in it rather unexpectedly.

Its vicinity
to my own room--but in every respect,
indeed,
it took me by surprise,
as I had not the smallest suspicion of your acting having assumed so serious a character.

It appears a neat job,
however,
as far as I could judge by candlelight,
and does my friend Christopher Jackson credit."



And then he would have changed the subject,
and sipped his coffee in peace over domestic matters of a calmer hue;
but Mr. Yates,
without discernment
to catch Sir Thomas's meaning,
or diffidence,
or delicacy,
or discretion enough
to allow him
to lead the discourse while he mingled among the others
with the least obtrusiveness himself,
would keep him on the topic of the theatre,
would torment him
with questions and remarks relative
to it,
and finally would make him hear the whole history of his disappointment at Ecclesford.

Sir Thomas listened most politely,
but found much
to offend his ideas of decorum,
and confirm his ill-opinion of Mr. Yates's habits of thinking,
from the beginning
to the end of the story;
and when it was over,
could give him no other assurance of sympathy than what a slight bow conveyed.

"This was,
in fact,
the origin of _our_ acting,"
said Tom,
after a moment's thought.

"My friend Yates brought the infection from Ecclesford,
and it spread--as those things always spread,
you know,
sir--the faster,
probably,
from _your_ having so often encouraged the sort of thing in us formerly.

It was like treading old ground again."



Mr. Yates took the subject from his friend as soon as possible,
and immediately gave Sir Thomas an account of what they had done and were doing:

told him of the gradual increase of their views,
the happy conclusion of their first difficulties,
and present promising state of affairs;
relating everything
with so blind an interest as made him not only totally unconscious of the uneasy movements of many of his friends as they sat,
the change of countenance,
the fidget,
the hem! of unquietness,
but prevented him even from seeing the expression of the face on which his own eyes were fixed--from seeing Sir Thomas's dark brow contract as he looked
with inquiring earnestness at his daughters and Edmund,
dwelling particularly on the latter,
and speaking a language,
a remonstrance,
a reproof,
which _he_ felt at his heart.

Not less acutely was it felt by Fanny,
who had edged back her chair behind her aunt's end of the sofa,
and,
screened from notice herself,
saw all that was passing before her.

Such a look of reproach at Edmund from his father she could never have expected
to witness;
and
to feel that it was in any degree deserved was an aggravation indeed.

Sir Thomas's look implied,
"On your judgment,
Edmund,
I depended;
what have you been about?"

She knelt in spirit
to her uncle,
and her bosom swelled
to utter,
"Oh,
not
to _him_! Look so
to all the others,
but not
to _him_!"

Mr. Yates was still talking.

"To own the truth,
Sir Thomas,
we were in the middle of a rehearsal when you arrived this evening.

We were going through the three first acts,
and not unsuccessfully upon the whole.

Our company is now so dispersed,
from the Crawfords being gone home,
that nothing more can be done to-night;
but if you will give us the honour of your company to-morrow evening,
I should not be afraid of the result.

We bespeak your indulgence,
you understand,
as young performers;
we bespeak your indulgence."



"My indulgence shall be given,
sir,"
replied Sir Thomas gravely,
"but without any other rehearsal."



And
with a relenting smile,
he added,
"I come home
to be happy and indulgent."



Then turning away towards any or all of the rest,
he tranquilly said,
"Mr. and Miss Crawford were mentioned in my last letters from Mansfield.

Do you find them agreeable acquaintance?"

Tom was the only one at all ready
with an answer,
but he being entirely without particular regard
for either,
without jealousy either in love or acting,
could speak very handsomely of both.

"Mr. Crawford was a most pleasant,
gentleman-like man;
his sister a sweet,
pretty,
elegant,
lively girl."



Mr. Rushworth could be silent no longer.

"I do not say he is not gentleman-like,
considering;
but you should tell your father he is not above five feet eight,
or he will be expecting a well-looking man."



Sir Thomas did not quite understand this,
and looked
with some surprise at the speaker.

"If I must say what I think,"
continued Mr. Rushworth,
"in my opinion it is very disagreeable
to be always rehearsing.

It is having too much of a good thing.

I am not so fond of acting as I was at first.

I think we are a great deal better employed,
sitting comfortably here among ourselves,
and doing nothing."



Sir Thomas looked again,
and then replied
with an approving smile,
"I am happy
to find our sentiments on this subject so much the same.

It gives me sincere satisfaction.

That I should be cautious and quick-sighted,
and feel many scruples which my children do _not_ feel,
is perfectly natural;
and equally so that my value
for domestic tranquillity,
for a home which shuts out noisy pleasures,
should much exceed theirs.

But at your time of life
to feel all this,
is a most favourable circumstance
for yourself,
and
for everybody connected
with you;
and I am sensible of the importance of having an ally of such weight."



Sir Thomas meant
to be giving Mr. Rushworth's opinion in better words than he could find himself.

He was aware that he must not expect a genius in Mr. Rushworth;
but as a well-judging,
steady young man,
with better notions than his elocution would do justice to,
he intended
to value him very highly.

It was impossible
for many of the others not
to smile.

Mr. Rushworth hardly knew what
to do
with so much meaning;
but by looking,
as he really felt,
most exceedingly pleased
with Sir Thomas's good opinion,
and saying scarcely anything,
he did his best towards preserving that good opinion a little longer.

CHAPTER XX Edmund's first object the next morning was
to see his father alone,
and give him a fair statement of the whole acting scheme,
defending his own share in it as far only as he could then,
in a soberer moment,
feel his motives
to deserve,
and acknowledging,
with perfect ingenuousness,
that his concession had been attended
with such partial good as
to make his judgment in it very doubtful.

He was anxious,
while vindicating himself,
to say nothing unkind of the others:

but there was only one amongst them whose conduct he could mention without some necessity of defence or palliation.

"We have all been more or less
to blame,"
said he,
"every one of us,
excepting Fanny.

Fanny is the only one who has judged rightly throughout;
who has been consistent.

_Her_ feelings have been steadily against it from first
to last.

She never ceased
to think of what was due
to you.

You will find Fanny everything you could wish."



Sir Thomas saw all the impropriety of such a scheme among such a party,
and at such a time,
as strongly as his son had ever supposed he must;
he felt it too much,
indeed,
for many words;
and having shaken hands
with Edmund,
meant
to try
to lose the disagreeable impression,
and forget how much he had been forgotten himself as soon as he could,
after the house had been cleared of every object enforcing the remembrance,
and restored
to its proper state.

He did not enter into any remonstrance
with his other children:

he was more willing
to believe they felt their error than
to run the risk of investigation.

The reproof of an immediate conclusion of everything,
the sweep of every preparation,
would be sufficient.

There was one person,
however,
in the house,
whom he could not leave
to learn his sentiments merely through his conduct.

He could not help giving Mrs. Norris a hint of his having hoped that her advice might have been interposed
to prevent what her judgment must certainly have disapproved.

The young people had been very inconsiderate in forming the plan;
they ought
to have been capable of a better decision themselves;
but they were young;
and,
excepting Edmund,
he believed,
of unsteady characters;
and
with greater surprise,
therefore,
he must regard her acquiescence in their wrong measures,
her countenance of their unsafe amusements,
than that such measures and such amusements should have been suggested.

Mrs. Norris was a little confounded and as nearly being silenced as ever she had been in her life;
for she was ashamed
to confess having never seen any of the impropriety which was so glaring
to Sir Thomas,
and would not have admitted that her influence was insufficient-- that she might have talked in vain.

Her only resource was
to get out of the subject as fast as possible,
and turn the current of Sir Thomas's ideas into a happier channel.

She had a great deal
to insinuate in her own praise as
to _general_ attention
to the interest and comfort of his family,
much exertion and many sacrifices
to glance at in the form of hurried walks and sudden removals from her own fireside,
and many excellent hints of distrust and economy
to Lady Bertram and Edmund
to detail,
whereby a most considerable saving had always arisen,
and more than one bad servant been detected.

But her chief strength lay in Sotherton.

Her greatest support and glory was in having formed the connexion
with the Rushworths.

_There_ she was impregnable.

She took
to herself all the credit of bringing Mr. Rushworth's admiration of Maria
to any effect.

"If I had not been active,"
said she,
"and made a point of being introduced
to his mother,
and then prevailed on my sister
to pay the first visit,
I am as certain as I sit here that nothing would have come of it;
for Mr. Rushworth is the sort of amiable modest young man who wants a great deal of encouragement,
and there were girls enough on the catch
for him if we had been idle.

But I left no stone unturned.

I was ready
to move heaven and earth
to persuade my sister,
and at last I did persuade her.

You know the distance
to Sotherton;
it was in the middle of winter,
and the roads almost impassable,
but I did persuade her."



"I know how great,
how justly great,
your influence is
with Lady Bertram and her children,
and am the more concerned that it should not have been."



"My dear Sir Thomas,
if you had seen the state of the roads _that_ day! I thought we should never have got through them,
though we had the four horses of course;
and poor old coachman would attend us,
out of his great love and kindness,
though he was hardly able
to sit the box on account of the rheumatism which I had been doctoring him
for ever since Michaelmas.

I cured him at last;
but he was very bad all the winter--and this was such a day,
I could not help going
to him up in his room before we set off
to advise him not
to venture:

he was putting on his wig;
so I said,
'Coachman,
you had much better not go;
your Lady and I shall be very safe;
you know how steady Stephen is,
and Charles has been upon the leaders so often now,
that I am sure there is no fear.'



But,
however,
I soon found it would not do;
he was bent upon going,
and as I hate
to be worrying and officious,
I said no more;
but my heart quite ached
for him at every jolt,
and when we got into the rough lanes about Stoke,
where,
what
with frost and snow upon beds of stones,
it was worse than anything you can imagine,
I was quite in an agony about him.

And then the poor horses too!
to see them straining away! You know how I always feel
for the horses.

And when we got
to the bottom of Sandcroft Hill,
what do you think I did?

You will laugh at me;
but I got out and walked up.

I did indeed.

It might not be saving them much,
but it was something,
and I could not bear
to sit at my ease and be dragged up at the expense of those noble animals.

I caught a dreadful cold,
but _that_ I did not regard.

My object was accomplished in the visit."



"I hope we shall always think the acquaintance worth any trouble that might be taken
to establish it.

There is nothing very striking in Mr. Rushworth's manners,
but I was pleased last night
with what appeared
to be his opinion on one subject:

his decided preference of a quiet family party
to the bustle and confusion of acting.

He seemed
to feel exactly as one could wish."



"Yes,
indeed,
and the more you know of him the better you will like him.

He is not a shining character,
but he has a thousand good qualities;
and is so disposed
to look up
to you,
that I am quite laughed at about it,
for everybody considers it as my doing.

'Upon my word,
Mrs. Norris,'
said Mrs. Grant the other day,
'if Mr. Rushworth were a son of your own,
he could not hold Sir Thomas in greater respect.'


"
Sir Thomas gave up the point,
foiled by her evasions,
disarmed by her flattery;
and was obliged
to rest satisfied
with the conviction that where the present pleasure of those she loved was at stake,
her kindness did sometimes overpower her judgment.

It was a busy morning
with him.

Conversation
with any of them occupied but a small part of it.

He had
to reinstate himself in all the wonted concerns of his Mansfield life:

to see his steward and his bailiff;
to examine and compute,
and,
in the intervals of business,
to walk into his stables and his gardens,
and nearest plantations;
but active and methodical,
he had not only done all this before he resumed his seat as master of the house at dinner,
he had also set the carpenter
to work in pulling down what had been so lately put up in the billiard-room,
and given the scene-painter his dismissal long enough
to justify the pleasing belief of his being then at least as far off as Northampton.

The scene-painter was gone,
having spoilt only the floor of one room,
ruined all the coachman's sponges,
and made five of the under-servants idle and dissatisfied;
and Sir Thomas was in hopes that another day or two would suffice
to wipe away every outward memento of what had been,
even
to the destruction of every unbound copy of Lovers'
Vows in the house,
for he was burning all that met his eye.

Mr. Yates was beginning now
to understand Sir Thomas's intentions,
though as far as ever from understanding their source.

He and his friend had been out
with their guns the chief of the morning,
and Tom had taken the opportunity of explaining,
with proper apologies
for his father's particularity,
what was
to be expected.

Mr. Yates felt it as acutely as might be supposed.

To be a second time disappointed in the same way was an instance of very severe ill-luck;
and his indignation was such,
that had it not been
for delicacy towards his friend,
and his friend's youngest sister,
he believed he should certainly attack the baronet on the absurdity of his proceedings,
and argue him into a little more rationality.

He believed this very stoutly while he was in Mansfield Wood,
and all the way home;
but there was a something in Sir Thomas,
when they sat round the same table,
which made Mr. Yates think it wiser
to let him pursue his own way,
and feel the folly of it without opposition.

He had known many disagreeable fathers before,
and often been struck
with the inconveniences they occasioned,
but never,
in the whole course of his life,
had he seen one of that class so unintelligibly moral,
so infamously tyrannical as Sir Thomas.

He was not a man
to be endured but
for his children's sake,
and he might be thankful
to his fair daughter Julia that Mr. Yates did yet mean
to stay a few days longer under his roof.

The evening passed
with external smoothness,
though almost every mind was ruffled;
and the music which Sir Thomas called
for from his daughters helped
to conceal the want of real harmony.

Maria was in a good deal of agitation.

It was of the utmost consequence
to her that Crawford should now lose no time in declaring himself,
and she was disturbed that even a day should be gone by without seeming
to advance that point.

She had been expecting
to see him the whole morning,
and all the evening,
too,
was still expecting him.

Mr. Rushworth had set off early
with the great news
for Sotherton;
and she had fondly hoped
for such an immediate _eclaircissement_ as might save him the trouble of ever coming back again.

But they had seen no one from the Parsonage,
not a creature,
and had heard no tidings beyond a friendly note of congratulation and inquiry from Mrs. Grant
to Lady Bertram.

It was the first day
for many,
many weeks,
in which the families had been wholly divided.

Four-and-twenty hours had never passed before,
since August began,
without bringing them together in some way or other.

It was a sad,
anxious day;
and the morrow,
though differing in the sort of evil,
did by no means bring less.

A few moments of feverish enjoyment were followed by hours of acute suffering.

Henry Crawford was again in the house:

he walked up
with Dr. Grant,
who was anxious
to pay his respects
to Sir Thomas,
and at rather an early hour they were ushered into the breakfast-room,
where were most of the family.

Sir Thomas soon appeared,
and Maria saw
with delight and agitation the introduction of the man she loved
to her father.

Her sensations were indefinable,
and so were they a few minutes afterwards upon hearing Henry Crawford,
who had a chair between herself and Tom,
ask the latter in an undervoice whether there were any plans
for resuming the play after the present happy interruption
(with a courteous glance at Sir Thomas),
because,
in that case,
he should make a point of returning
to Mansfield at any time required by the party:

he was going away immediately,
being
to meet his uncle at Bath without delay;
but if there were any prospect of a renewal of Lovers'
Vows,
he should hold himself positively engaged,
he should break through every other claim,
he should absolutely condition
with his uncle
for attending them whenever he might be wanted.

The play should not be lost by _his_ absence.

"From Bath,
Norfolk,
London,
York,
wherever I may be,"
said he;
"I will attend you from any place in England,
at an hour's notice."



It was well at that moment that Tom had
to speak,
and not his sister.

He could immediately say
with easy fluency,
"I am sorry you are going;
but as
to our play,
_that_ is all over--entirely at an end"
(looking significantly at his father).

"The painter was sent off yesterday,
and very little will remain of the theatre to-morrow.

I knew how _that_ would be from the first.

It is early
for Bath.

You will find nobody there."



"It is about my uncle's usual time."



"When do you think of going?"

"I may,
perhaps,
get as far as Banbury to-day."



"Whose stables do you use at Bath?"

was the next question;
and while this branch of the subject was under discussion,
Maria,
who wanted neither pride nor resolution,
was preparing
to encounter her share of it
with tolerable calmness.

To her he soon turned,
repeating much of what he had already said,
with only a softened air and stronger expressions of regret.

But what availed his expressions or his air?

He was going,
and,
if not voluntarily going,
voluntarily intending
to stay away;
for,
excepting what might be due
to his uncle,
his engagements were all self-imposed.

He might talk of necessity,
but she knew his independence.

The hand which had so pressed hers
to his heart! the hand and the heart were alike motionless and passive now! Her spirit supported her,
but the agony of her mind was severe.

She had not long
to endure what arose from listening
to language which his actions contradicted,
or
to bury the tumult of her feelings under the restraint of society;
for general civilities soon called his notice from her,
and the farewell visit,
as it then became openly acknowledged,
was a very short one.

He was gone--he had touched her hand
for the last time,
he had made his parting bow,
and she might seek directly all that solitude could do
for her.

Henry Crawford was gone,
gone from the house,
and within two hours afterwards from the parish;
and so ended all the hopes his selfish vanity had raised in Maria and Julia Bertram.

Julia could rejoice that he was gone.

His presence was beginning
to be odious
to her;
and if Maria gained him not,
she was now cool enough
to dispense
with any other revenge.

She did not want exposure
to be added
to desertion.

Henry Crawford gone,
she could even pity her sister.

With a purer spirit did Fanny rejoice in the intelligence.

She heard it at dinner,
and felt it a blessing.

By all the others it was mentioned
with regret;
and his merits honoured
with due gradation of feeling-- from the sincerity of Edmund's too partial regard,
to the unconcern of his mother speaking entirely by rote.

Mrs. Norris began
to look about her,
and wonder that his falling in love
with Julia had come
to nothing;
and could almost fear that she had been remiss herself in forwarding it;
but
with so many
to care for,
how was it possible
for even _her_ activity
to keep pace
with her wishes?

Another day or two,
and Mr. Yates was gone likewise.

In _his_ departure Sir Thomas felt the chief interest:

wanting
to be alone
with his family,
the presence of a stranger superior
to Mr. Yates must have been irksome;
but of him,
trifling and confident,
idle and expensive,
it was every way vexatious.

In himself he was wearisome,
but as the friend of Tom and the admirer of Julia he became offensive.

Sir Thomas had been quite indifferent
to Mr. Crawford's going or staying:

but his good wishes
for Mr. Yates's having a pleasant journey,
as he walked
with him
to the hall-door,
were given
with genuine satisfaction.

Mr. Yates had staid
to see the destruction of every theatrical preparation at Mansfield,
the removal of everything appertaining
to the play:

he left the house in all the soberness of its general character;
and Sir Thomas hoped,
in seeing him out of it,
to be rid of the worst object connected
with the scheme,
and the last that must be inevitably reminding him of its existence.

Mrs. Norris contrived
to remove one article from his sight that might have distressed him.

The curtain,
over which she had presided
with such talent and such success,
went off
with her
to her cottage,
where she happened
to be particularly in want of green baize.

CHAPTER XXI Sir Thomas's return made a striking change in the ways of the family,
independent of Lovers'
Vows.

Under his government,
Mansfield was an altered place.

Some members of their society sent away,
and the spirits of many others saddened-- it was all sameness and gloom compared
with the past-- a sombre family party rarely enlivened.

There was little intercourse
with the Parsonage.

Sir Thomas,
drawing back from intimacies in general,
was particularly disinclined,
at this time,
for any engagements but in one quarter.

The Rushworths were the only addition
to his own domestic circle which he could solicit.

Edmund did not wonder that such should be his father's feelings,
nor could he regret anything but the exclusion of the Grants.

"But they,"
he observed
to Fanny,
"have a claim.

They seem
to belong
to us;
they seem
to be part of ourselves.

I could wish my father were more sensible of their very great attention
to my mother and sisters while he was away.

I am afraid they may feel themselves neglected.

But the truth is,
that my father hardly knows them.

They had not been here a twelvemonth when he left England.

If he knew them better,
he would value their society as it deserves;
for they are in fact exactly the sort of people he would like.

We are sometimes a little in want of animation among ourselves:

my sisters seem out of spirits,
and Tom is certainly not at his ease.

Dr. and Mrs. Grant would enliven us,
and make our evenings pass away
with more enjoyment even
to my father."



"Do you think so?"

said Fanny:

"in my opinion,
my uncle would not like _any_ addition.

I think he values the very quietness you speak of,
and that the repose of his own family circle is all he wants.

And it does not appear
to me that we are more serious than we used
to be--I mean before my uncle went abroad.

As well as I can recollect,
it was always much the same.

There was never much laughing in his presence;
or,
if there is any difference,
it is not more,
I think,
than such an absence has a tendency
to produce at first.

There must be a sort of shyness;
but I cannot recollect that our evenings formerly were ever merry,
except when my uncle was in town.

No young people's are,
I suppose,
when those they look up
to are at home".

"I believe you are right,
Fanny,"
was his reply,
after a short consideration.

"I believe our evenings are rather returned
to what they were,
than assuming a new character.

The novelty was in their being lively.

Yet,
how strong the impression that only a few weeks will give! I have been feeling as if we had never lived so before."



"I suppose I am graver than other people,"
said Fanny.

"The evenings do not appear long
to me.

I love
to hear my uncle talk of the West Indies.

I could listen
to him
for an hour together.

It entertains _me_ more than many other things have done;
but then I am unlike other people,
I dare say."



"Why should you dare say _that_?"

(smiling).

"Do you want
to be told that you are only unlike other people in being more wise and discreet?

But when did you,
or anybody,
ever get a compliment from me,
Fanny?

Go
to my father if you want
to be complimented.

He will satisfy you.

Ask your uncle what he thinks,
and you will hear compliments enough:

and though they may be chiefly on your person,
you must put up
with it,
and trust
to his seeing as much beauty of mind in time."



Such language was so new
to Fanny that it quite embarrassed her.

"Your uncle thinks you very pretty,
dear Fanny-- and that is the long and the short of the matter.

Anybody but myself would have made something more of it,
and anybody but you would resent that you had not been thought very pretty before;
but the truth is,
that your uncle never did admire you till now--and now he does.

Your complexion is so improved!--and you have gained so much countenance!--and your figure--nay,
Fanny,
do not turn away about it--it is but an uncle.

If you cannot bear an uncle's admiration,
what is
to become of you?

You must really begin
to harden yourself
to the idea of being worth looking at.

You must try not
to mind growing up into a pretty woman."



"Oh! don't talk so,
don't talk so,"
cried Fanny,
distressed by more feelings than he was aware of;
but seeing that she was distressed,
he had done
with the subject,
and only added more seriously--
"Your uncle is disposed
to be pleased
with you in every respect;
and I only wish you would talk
to him more.

You are one of those who are too silent in the evening circle."



"But I do talk
to him more than I used.

I am sure I do.

Did not you hear me ask him about the slave-trade last night?"

"I did--and was in hopes the question would be followed up by others.

It would have pleased your uncle
to be inquired of farther."



"And I longed
to do it--but there was such a dead silence! And while my cousins were sitting by without speaking a word,
or seeming at all interested in the subject,
I did not like-- I thought it would appear as if I wanted
to set myself off at their expense,
by shewing a curiosity and pleasure in his information which he must wish his own daughters
to feel."



"Miss Crawford was very right in what she said of you the other day:

that you seemed almost as fearful of notice and praise as other women were of neglect.

We were talking of you at the Parsonage,
and those were her words.

She has great discernment.

I know nobody who distinguishes characters better.

For so young a woman it is remarkable! She certainly understands _you_ better than you are understood by the greater part of those who have known you so long;
and
with regard
to some others,
I can perceive,
from occasional lively hints,
the unguarded expressions of the moment,
that she could define _many_ as accurately,
did not delicacy forbid it.

I wonder what she thinks of my father! She must admire him as a fine-looking man,
with most gentlemanlike,
dignified,
consistent manners;
but perhaps,
having seen him so seldom,
his reserve may be a little repulsive.

Could they be much together,
I feel sure of their liking each other.

He would enjoy her liveliness and she has talents
to value his powers.

I wish they met more frequently! I hope she does not suppose there is any dislike on his side."



"She must know herself too secure of the regard of all the rest of you,"
said Fanny,
with half a sigh,
"to have any such apprehension.

And Sir Thomas's wishing just at first
to be only
with his family,
is so very natural,
that she can argue nothing from that.

After a little while,
I dare say,
we shall be meeting again in the same sort of way,
allowing
for the difference of the time of year."



"This is the first October that she has passed in the country since her infancy.

I do not call Tunbridge or Cheltenham the country;
and November is a still more serious month,
and I can see that Mrs. Grant is very anxious
for her not finding Mansfield dull as winter comes on."



Fanny could have said a great deal,
but it was safer
to say nothing,
and leave untouched all Miss Crawford's resources-- her accomplishments,
her spirits,
her importance,
her friends,
lest it should betray her into any observations seemingly unhandsome.

Miss Crawford's kind opinion of herself deserved at least a grateful forbearance,
and she began
to talk of something else.

"To-morrow,
I think,
my uncle dines at Sotherton,
and you and Mr. Bertram too.

We shall be quite a small party at home.

I hope my uncle may continue
to like Mr. Rushworth."



"That is impossible,
Fanny.

He must like him less after to-morrow's visit,
for we shall be five hours in his company.

I should dread the stupidity of the day,
if there were not a much greater evil
to follow-- the impression it must leave on Sir Thomas.

He cannot much longer deceive himself.

I am sorry
for them all,
and would give something that Rushworth and Maria had never met."



In this quarter,
indeed,
disappointment was impending over Sir Thomas.

Not all his good-will
for Mr. Rushworth,
not all Mr. Rushworth's deference
for him,
could prevent him from soon discerning some part of the truth-- that Mr. Rushworth was an inferior young man,
as ignorant in business as in books,
with opinions in general unfixed,
and without seeming much aware of it himself.

He had expected a very different son-in-law;
and beginning
to feel grave on Maria's account,
tried
to understand _her_ feelings.

Little observation there was necessary
to tell him that indifference was the most favourable state they could be in.

Her behaviour
to Mr. Rushworth was careless and cold.

She could not,
did not like him.

Sir Thomas resolved
to speak seriously
to her.

Advantageous as would be the alliance,
and long standing and public as was the engagement,
her happiness must not be sacrificed
to it.

Mr. Rushworth had,
perhaps,
been accepted on too short an acquaintance,
and,
on knowing him better,
she was repenting.

With solemn kindness Sir Thomas addressed her:

told her his fears,
inquired into her wishes,
entreated her
to be open and sincere,
and assured her that every inconvenience should be braved,
and the connexion entirely given up,
if she felt herself unhappy in the prospect of it.

He would act
for her and release her.

Maria had a moment's struggle as she listened,
and only a moment's:

when her father ceased,
she was able
to give her answer immediately,
decidedly,
and
with no apparent agitation.

She thanked him
for his great attention,
his paternal kindness,
but he was quite mistaken in supposing she had the smallest desire of breaking through her engagement,
or was sensible of any change of opinion or inclination since her forming it.

She had the highest esteem
for Mr. Rushworth's character and disposition,
and could not have a doubt of her happiness
with him.

Sir Thomas was satisfied;
too glad
to be satisfied,
perhaps,
to urge the matter quite so far as his judgment might have dictated
to others.

It was an alliance which he could not have relinquished without pain;
and thus he reasoned.

Mr. Rushworth was young enough
to improve.

Mr. Rushworth must and would improve in good society;
and if Maria could now speak so securely of her happiness
with him,
speaking certainly without the prejudice,
the blindness of love,
she ought
to be believed.

Her feelings,
probably,
were not acute;
he had never supposed them
to be so;
but her comforts might not be less on that account;
and if she could dispense
with seeing her husband a leading,
shining character,
there would certainly be everything else in her favour.

A well-disposed young woman,
who did not marry
for love,
was in general but the more attached
to her own family;
and the nearness of Sotherton
to Mansfield must naturally hold out the greatest temptation,
and would,
in all probability,
be a continual supply of the most amiable and innocent enjoyments.

Such and such-like were the reasonings of Sir Thomas,
happy
to escape the embarrassing evils of a rupture,
the wonder,
the reflections,
the reproach that must attend it;
happy
to secure a marriage which would bring him such an addition of respectability and influence,
and very happy
to think anything of his daughter's disposition that was most favourable
for the purpose.

To her the conference closed as satisfactorily as
to him.

She was in a state of mind
to be glad that she had secured her fate beyond recall:

that she had pledged herself anew
to Sotherton;
that she was safe from the possibility of giving Crawford the triumph of governing her actions,
and destroying her prospects;
and retired in proud resolve,
determined only
to behave more cautiously
to Mr. Rushworth in future,
that her father might not be again suspecting her.

Had Sir Thomas applied
to his daughter within the first three or four days after Henry Crawford's leaving Mansfield,
before her feelings were at all tranquillised,
before she had given up every hope of him,
or absolutely resolved on enduring his rival,
her answer might have been different;
but after another three or four days,
when there was no return,
no letter,
no message,
no symptom of a softened heart,
no hope of advantage from separation,
her mind became cool enough
to seek all the comfort that pride and self revenge could give.

Henry Crawford had destroyed her happiness,
but he should not know that he had done it;
he should not destroy her credit,
her appearance,
her prosperity,
too.

He should not have
to think of her as pining in the retirement of Mansfield
for _him_,
rejecting Sotherton and London,
independence and splendour,
for _his_ sake.

Independence was more needful than ever;
the want of it at Mansfield more sensibly felt.

She was less and less able
to endure the restraint which her father imposed.

The liberty which his absence had given was now become absolutely necessary.

She must escape from him and Mansfield as soon as possible,
and find consolation in fortune and consequence,
bustle and the world,
for a wounded spirit.

Her mind was quite determined,
and varied not.

To such feelings delay,
even the delay of much preparation,
would have been an evil,
and Mr. Rushworth could hardly be more impatient
for the marriage than herself.

In all the important preparations of the mind she was complete:

being prepared
for matrimony by an hatred of home,
restraint,
and tranquillity;
by the misery of disappointed affection,
and contempt of the man she was
to marry.

The rest might wait.

The preparations of new carriages and furniture might wait
for London and spring,
when her own taste could have fairer play.

The principals being all agreed in this respect,
it soon appeared that a very few weeks would be sufficient
for such arrangements as must precede the wedding.

Mrs. Rushworth was quite ready
to retire,
and make way
for the fortunate young woman whom her dear son had selected;
and very early in November removed herself,
her maid,
her footman,
and her chariot,
with true dowager propriety,
to Bath,
there
to parade over the wonders of Sotherton in her evening parties;
enjoying them as thoroughly,
perhaps,
in the animation of a card-table,
as she had ever done on the spot;
and before the middle of the same month the ceremony had taken place which gave Sotherton another mistress.

It was a very proper wedding.

The bride was elegantly dressed;
the two bridesmaids were duly inferior;
her father gave her away;
her mother stood
with salts in her hand,
expecting
to be agitated;
her aunt tried
to cry;
and the service was impressively read by Dr. Grant.

Nothing could be objected
to when it came under the discussion of the neighbourhood,
except that the carriage which conveyed the bride and bridegroom and Julia from the church-door
to Sotherton was the same chaise which Mr. Rushworth had used
for a twelvemonth before.

In everything else the etiquette of the day might stand the strictest investigation.

It was done,
and they were gone.

Sir Thomas felt as an anxious father must feel,
and was indeed experiencing much of the agitation which his wife had been apprehensive of
for herself,
but had fortunately escaped.

Mrs. Norris,
most happy
to assist in the duties of the day,
by spending it at the Park
to support her sister's spirits,
and drinking the health of Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth in a supernumerary glass or two,
was all joyous delight;
for she had made the match;
she had done everything;
and no one would have supposed,
from her confident triumph,
that she had ever heard of conjugal infelicity in her life,
or could have the smallest insight into the disposition of the niece who had been brought up under her eye.

The plan of the young couple was
to proceed,
after a few days,
to Brighton,
and take a house there
for some weeks.

Every public place was new
to Maria,
and Brighton is almost as gay in winter as in summer.

When the novelty of amusement there was over,
it would be time
for the wider range of London.

Julia was
to go
with them
to Brighton.

Since rivalry between the sisters had ceased,
they had been gradually recovering much of their former good understanding;
and were at least sufficiently friends
to make each of them exceedingly glad
to be
with the other at such a time.

Some other companion than Mr. Rushworth was of the first consequence
to his lady;
and Julia was quite as eager
for novelty and pleasure as Maria,
though she might not have struggled through so much
to obtain them,
and could better bear a subordinate situation.

Their departure made another material change at Mansfield,
a chasm which required some time
to fill up.

The family circle became greatly contracted;
and though the Miss Bertrams had latterly added little
to its gaiety,
they could not but be missed.

Even their mother missed them;
and how much more their tenderhearted cousin,
who wandered about the house,
and thought of them,
and felt
for them,
with a degree of affectionate regret which they had never done much
to deserve! CHAPTER XXII Fanny's consequence increased on the departure of her cousins.

Becoming,
as she then did,
the only young woman in the drawing-room,
the only occupier of that interesting division of a family in which she had hitherto held so humble a third,
it was impossible
for her not
to be more looked at,
more thought of and attended to,
than she had ever been before;
and
"Where is Fanny?"

became no uncommon question,
even without her being wanted
for any one's convenience.

Not only at home did her value increase,
but at the Parsonage too.

In that house,
which she had hardly entered twice a year since Mr. Norris's death,
she became a welcome,
an invited guest,
and in the gloom and dirt of a November day,
most acceptable
to Mary Crawford.

Her visits there,
beginning by chance,
were continued by solicitation.

Mrs. Grant,
really eager
to get any change
for her sister,
could,
by the easiest self-deceit,
persuade herself that she was doing the kindest thing by Fanny,
and giving her the most important opportunities of improvement in pressing her frequent calls.

Fanny,
having been sent into the village on some errand by her aunt Norris,
was overtaken by a heavy shower close
to the Parsonage;
and being descried from one of the windows endeavouring
to find shelter under the branches and lingering leaves of an oak just beyond their premises,
was forced,
though not without some modest reluctance on her part,
to come in.

A civil servant she had withstood;
but when Dr. Grant himself went out
with an umbrella,
there was nothing
to be done but
to be very much ashamed,
and
to get into the house as fast as possible;
and
to poor Miss Crawford,
who had just been contemplating the dismal rain in a very desponding state of mind,
sighing over the ruin of all her plan of exercise
for that morning,
and of every chance of seeing a single creature beyond themselves
for the next twenty-four hours,
the sound of a little bustle at the front door,
and the sight of Miss Price dripping
with wet in the vestibule,
was delightful.

The value of an event on a wet day in the country was most forcibly brought before her.

She was all alive again directly,
and among the most active in being useful
to Fanny,
in detecting her
to be wetter than she would at first allow,
and providing her
with dry clothes;
and Fanny,
after being obliged
to submit
to all this attention,
and
to being assisted and waited on by mistresses and maids,
being also obliged,
on returning downstairs,
to be fixed in their drawing-room
for an hour while the rain continued,
the blessing of something fresh
to see and think of was thus extended
to Miss Crawford,
and might carry on her spirits
to the period of dressing and dinner.

The two sisters were so kind
to her,
and so pleasant,
that Fanny might have enjoyed her visit could she have believed herself not in the way,
and could she have foreseen that the weather would certainly clear at the end of the hour,
and save her from the shame of having Dr. Grant's carriage and horses out
to take her home,
with which she was threatened.

As
to anxiety
for any alarm that her absence in such weather might occasion at home,
she had nothing
to suffer on that score;
for as her being out was known only
to her two aunts,
she was perfectly aware that none would be felt,
and that in whatever cottage aunt Norris might chuse
to establish her during the rain,
her being in such cottage would be indubitable
to aunt Bertram.

It was beginning
to look brighter,
when Fanny,
observing a harp in the room,
asked some questions about it,
which soon led
to an acknowledgment of her wishing very much
to hear it,
and a confession,
which could hardly be believed,
of her having never yet heard it since its being in Mansfield.

To Fanny herself it appeared a very simple and natural circumstance.

She had scarcely ever been at the Parsonage since the instrument's arrival,
there had been no reason that she should;
but Miss Crawford,
calling
to mind an early expressed wish on the subject,
was concerned at her own neglect;
and
"Shall I play
to you now?"

and
"What will you have?"

were questions immediately following
with the readiest good-humour.

She played accordingly;
happy
to have a new listener,
and a listener who seemed so much obliged,
so full of wonder at the performance,
and who shewed herself not wanting in taste.

She played till Fanny's eyes,
straying
to the window on the weather's being evidently fair,
spoke what she felt must be done.

"Another quarter of an hour,"
said Miss Crawford,
"and we shall see how it will be.

Do not run away the first moment of its holding up.

Those clouds look alarming."



"But they are passed over,"
said Fanny.

"I have been watching them.

This weather is all from the south."



"South or north,
I know a black cloud when I see it;
and you must not set forward while it is so threatening.

And besides,
I want
to play something more
to you--a very pretty piece--and your cousin Edmund's prime favourite.

You must stay and hear your cousin's favourite."



Fanny felt that she must;
and though she had not waited
for that sentence
to be thinking of Edmund,
such a memento made her particularly awake
to his idea,
and she fancied him sitting in that room again and again,
perhaps in the very spot where she sat now,
listening
with constant delight
to the favourite air,
played,
as it appeared
to her,
with superior tone and expression;
and though pleased
with it herself,
and glad
to like whatever was liked by him,
she was more sincerely impatient
to go away at the conclusion of it than she had been before;
and on this being evident,
she was so kindly asked
to call again,
to take them in her walk whenever she could,
to come and hear more of the harp,
that she felt it necessary
to be done,
if no objection arose at home.

Such was the origin of the sort of intimacy which took place between them within the first fortnight after the Miss Bertrams'
going away--an intimacy resulting principally from Miss Crawford's desire of something new,
and which had little reality in Fanny's feelings.

Fanny went
to her every two or three days:

it seemed a kind of fascination:

she could not be easy without going,
and yet it was without loving her,
without ever thinking like her,
without any sense of obligation
for being sought after now when nobody else was
to be had;
and deriving no higher pleasure from her conversation than occasional amusement,
and _that_ often at the expense of her judgment,
when it was raised by pleasantry on people or subjects which she wished
to be respected.

She went,
however,
and they sauntered about together many an half-hour in Mrs. Grant's shrubbery,
the weather being unusually mild
for the time of year,
and venturing sometimes even
to sit down on one of the benches now comparatively unsheltered,
remaining there perhaps till,
in the midst of some tender ejaculation of Fanny's on the sweets of so protracted an autumn,
they were forced,
by the sudden swell of a cold gust shaking down the last few yellow leaves about them,
to jump up and walk
for warmth.

"This is pretty,
very pretty,"
said Fanny,
looking around her as they were thus sitting together one day;
"every time I come into this shrubbery I am more struck
with its growth and beauty.

Three years ago,
this was nothing but a rough hedgerow along the upper side of the field,
never thought of as anything,
or capable of becoming anything;
and now it is converted into a walk,
and it would be difficult
to say whether most valuable as a convenience or an ornament;
and perhaps,
in another three years,
we may be forgetting--almost forgetting what it was before.

How wonderful,
how very wonderful the operations of time,
and the changes of the human mind!"

And following the latter train of thought,
she soon afterwards added:

"If any one faculty of our nature may be called _more_ wonderful than the rest,
I do think it is memory.

There seems something more speakingly incomprehensible in the powers,
the failures,
the inequalities of memory,
than in any other of our intelligences.

The memory is sometimes so retentive,
so serviceable,
so obedient;
at others,
so bewildered and so weak;
and at others again,
so tyrannic,
so beyond control! We are,
to be sure,
a miracle every way;
but our powers of recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly past finding out."



Miss Crawford,
untouched and inattentive,
had nothing
to say;
and Fanny,
perceiving it,
brought back her own mind
to what she thought must interest.

"It may seem impertinent in _me_
to praise,
but I must admire the taste Mrs. Grant has shewn in all this.

There is such a quiet simplicity in the plan of the walk! Not too much attempted!"

"Yes,"
replied Miss Crawford carelessly,
"it does very well
for a place of this sort.

One does not think of extent _here_;
and between ourselves,
till I came
to Mansfield,
I had not imagined a country parson ever aspired
to a shrubbery,
or anything of the kind."



"I am so glad
to see the evergreens thrive!"

said Fanny,
in reply.

"My uncle's gardener always says the soil here is better than his own,
and so it appears from the growth of the laurels and evergreens in general.

The evergreen! How beautiful,
how welcome,
how wonderful the evergreen! When one thinks of it,
how astonishing a variety of nature! In some countries we know the tree that sheds its leaf is the variety,
but that does not make it less amazing that the same soil and the same sun should nurture plants differing in the first rule and law of their existence.

You will think me rhapsodising;
but when I am out of doors,
especially when I am sitting out of doors,
I am very apt
to get into this sort of wondering strain.

One cannot fix one's eyes on the commonest natural production without finding food
for a rambling fancy."



"To say the truth,"
replied Miss Crawford,
"I am something like the famous Doge at the court of Lewis XIV.;
and may declare that I see no wonder in this shrubbery equal
to seeing myself in it.

If anybody had told me a year ago that this place would be my home,
that I should be spending month after month here,
as I have done,
I certainly should not have believed them.

I have now been here nearly five months;
and,
moreover,
the quietest five months I ever passed."



"_Too_ quiet
for you,
I believe."



"I should have thought so _theoretically_ myself,
but,"
and her eyes brightened as she spoke,
"take it all and all,
I never spent so happy a summer.

But then,"
with a more thoughtful air and lowered voice,
"there is no saying what it may lead to."



Fanny's heart beat quick,
and she felt quite unequal
to surmising or soliciting anything more.

Miss Crawford,
however,
with renewed animation,
soon went on--
"I am conscious of being far better reconciled
to a country residence than I had ever expected
to be.

I can even suppose it pleasant
to spend _half_ the year in the country,
under certain circumstances,
very pleasant.

An elegant,
moderate-sized house in the centre of family connexions;
continual engagements among them;
commanding the first society in the neighbourhood;
looked up to,
perhaps,
as leading it even more than those of larger fortune,
and turning from the cheerful round of such amusements
to nothing worse than a _tete-a-tete_
with the person one feels most agreeable in the world.

There is nothing frightful in such a picture,
is there,
Miss Price?

One need not envy the new Mrs. Rushworth
with such a home as _that_."



"Envy Mrs. Rushworth!"

was all that Fanny attempted
to say.

"Come,
come,
it would be very un-handsome in us
to be severe on Mrs. Rushworth,
for I look forward
to our owing her a great many gay,
brilliant,
happy hours.

I expect we shall be all very much at Sotherton another year.

Such a match as Miss Bertram has made is a public blessing;
for the first pleasures of Mr. Rushworth's wife must be
to fill her house,
and give the best balls in the country."



Fanny was silent,
and Miss Crawford relapsed into thoughtfulness,
till suddenly looking up at the end of a few minutes,
she exclaimed,
"Ah! here he is."



It was not Mr. Rushworth,
however,
but Edmund,
who then appeared walking towards them
with Mrs. Grant.

"My sister and Mr. Bertram.

I am so glad your eldest cousin is gone,
that he may be Mr. Bertram again.

There is something in the sound of Mr. _Edmund_ Bertram so formal,
so pitiful,
so younger-brother-like,
that I detest it."



"How differently we feel!"

cried Fanny.

"To me,
the sound of _Mr. _ Bertram is so cold and nothing-meaning,
so entirely without warmth or character! It just stands
for a gentleman,
and that's all.

But there is nobleness in the name of Edmund.

It is a name of heroism and renown;
of kings,
princes,
and knights;
and seems
to breathe the spirit of chivalry and warm affections."



"I grant you the name is good in itself,
and _Lord_ Edmund or _Sir_ Edmund sound delightfully;
but sink it under the chill,
the annihilation of a Mr. ,
and Mr. Edmund is no more than Mr. John or Mr. Thomas.

Well,
shall we join and disappoint them of half their lecture upon sitting down out of doors at this time of year,
by being up before they can begin?"

Edmund met them
with particular pleasure.

It was the first time of his seeing them together since the beginning of that better acquaintance which he had been hearing of
with great satisfaction.

A friendship between two so very dear
to him was exactly what he could have wished:

and
to the credit of the lover's understanding,
be it stated,
that he did not by any means consider Fanny as the only,
or even as the greater gainer by such a friendship.

"Well,"
said Miss Crawford,
"and do you not scold us
for our imprudence?

What do you think we have been sitting down
for but
to be talked
to about it,
and entreated and supplicated never
to do so again?"

"Perhaps I might have scolded,"
said Edmund,
"if either of you had been sitting down alone;
but while you do wrong together,
I can overlook a great deal."



"They cannot have been sitting long,"
cried Mrs. Grant,
"for when I went up
for my shawl I saw them from the staircase window,
and then they were walking."



"And really,"
added Edmund,
"the day is so mild,
that your sitting down
for a few minutes can be hardly thought imprudent.

Our weather must not always be judged by the calendar.

We may sometimes take greater liberties in November than in May."



"Upon my word,"
cried Miss Crawford,
"you are two of the most disappointing and unfeeling kind friends I ever met with! There is no giving you a moment's uneasiness.

You do not know how much we have been suffering,
nor what chills we have felt! But I have long thought Mr. Bertram one of the worst subjects
to work on,
in any little manoeuvre against common sense,
that a woman could be plagued with.

I had very little hope of _him_ from the first;
but you,
Mrs. Grant,
my sister,
my own sister,
I think I had a right
to alarm you a little."



"Do not flatter yourself,
my dearest Mary.

You have not the smallest chance of moving me.

I have my alarms,
but they are quite in a different quarter;
and if I could have altered the weather,
you would have had a good sharp east wind blowing on you the whole time--for here are some of my plants which Robert _will_ leave out because the nights are so mild,
and I know the end of it will be,
that we shall have a sudden change of weather,
a hard frost setting in all at once,
taking everybody
(at least Robert)
by surprise,
and I shall lose every one;
and what is worse,
cook has just been telling me that the turkey,
which I particularly wished not
to be dressed till Sunday,
because I know how much more Dr. Grant would enjoy it on Sunday after the fatigues of the day,
will not keep beyond to-morrow.

These are something like grievances,
and make me think the weather most unseasonably close."



"The sweets of housekeeping in a country village!"

said Miss Crawford archly.

"Commend me
to the nurseryman and the poulterer."



"My dear child,
commend Dr. Grant
to the deanery of Westminster or St. Paul's,
and I should be as glad of your nurseryman and poulterer as you could be.

But we have no such people in Mansfield.

What would you have me do?"

"Oh! you can do nothing but what you do already:

be plagued very often,
and never lose your temper."



"Thank you;
but there is no escaping these little vexations,
Mary,
live where we may;
and when you are settled in town and I come
to see you,
I dare say I shall find you
with yours,
in spite of the nurseryman and the poulterer,
perhaps on their very account.

Their remoteness and unpunctuality,
or their exorbitant charges and frauds,
will be drawing forth bitter lamentations."



"I mean
to be too rich
to lament or
to feel anything of the sort.

A large income is the best recipe
for happiness I ever heard of.

It certainly may secure all the myrtle and turkey part of it."



"You intend
to be very rich?"

said Edmund,
with a look which,
to Fanny's eye,
had a great deal of serious meaning.

"To be sure.

Do not you?

Do not we all?"

"I cannot intend anything which it must be so completely beyond my power
to command.

Miss Crawford may chuse her degree of wealth.

She has only
to fix on her number of thousands a year,
and there can be no doubt of their coming.

My intentions are only not
to be poor."



"By moderation and economy,
and bringing down your wants
to your income,
and all that.

I understand you--and a very proper plan it is
for a person at your time of life,
with such limited means and indifferent connexions.

What can _you_ want but a decent maintenance?

You have not much time before you;
and your relations are in no situation
to do anything
for you,
or
to mortify you by the contrast of their own wealth and consequence.

Be honest and poor,
by all means--but I shall not envy you;
I do not much think I shall even respect you.

I have a much greater respect
for those that are honest and rich."



"Your degree of respect
for honesty,
rich or poor,
is precisely what I have no manner of concern with.

I do not mean
to be poor.

Poverty is exactly what I have determined against.

Honesty,
in the something between,
in the middle state of worldly circumstances,
is all that I am anxious
for your not looking down on."



"But I do look down upon it,
if it might have been higher.

I must look down upon anything contented
with obscurity when it might rise
to distinction."



"But how may it rise?

How may my honesty at least rise
to any distinction?"

This was not so very easy a question
to answer,
and occasioned an
"Oh!"

of some length from the fair lady before she could add,
"You ought
to be in parliament,
or you should have gone into the army ten years ago."



"_That_ is not much
to the purpose now;
and as
to my being in parliament,
I believe I must wait till there is an especial assembly
for the representation of younger sons who have little
to live on.

No,
Miss Crawford,"
he added,
in a more serious tone,
"there _are_ distinctions which I should be miserable if I thought myself without any chance-- absolutely without chance or possibility of obtaining-- but they are of a different character."



A look of consciousness as he spoke,
and what seemed a consciousness of manner on Miss Crawford's side as she made some laughing answer,
was sorrowfull food
for Fanny's observation;
and finding herself quite unable
to attend as she ought
to Mrs. Grant,
by whose side she was now following the others,
she had nearly resolved on going home immediately,
and only waited
for courage
to say so,
when the sound of the great clock at Mansfield Park,
striking three,
made her feel that she had really been much longer absent than usual,
and brought the previous self-inquiry of whether she should take leave or not just then,
and how,
to a very speedy issue.

With undoubting decision she directly began her adieus;
and Edmund began at the same time
to recollect that his mother had been inquiring
for her,
and that he had walked down
to the Parsonage on purpose
to bring her back.

Fanny's hurry increased;
and without in the least expecting Edmund's attendance,
she would have hastened away alone;
but the general pace was quickened,
and they all accompanied her into the house,
through which it was necessary
to pass.

Dr. Grant was in the vestibule,
and as they stopt
to speak
to him she found,
from Edmund's manner,
that he _did_ mean
to go
with her.

He too was taking leave.

She could not but be thankful.

In the moment of parting,
Edmund was invited by Dr. Grant
to eat his mutton
with him the next day;
and Fanny had barely time
for an unpleasant feeling on the occasion,
when Mrs. Grant,
with sudden recollection,
turned
to her and asked
for the pleasure of her company too.

This was so new an attention,
so perfectly new a circumstance in the events of Fanny's life,
that she was all surprise and embarrassment;
and while stammering out her great obligation,
and her
"but she did not suppose it would be in her power,"
was looking at Edmund
for his opinion and help.

But Edmund,
delighted
with her having such an happiness offered,
and ascertaining
with half a look,
and half a sentence,
that she had no objection but on her aunt's account,
could not imagine that his mother would make any difficulty of sparing her,
and therefore gave his decided open advice that the invitation should be accepted;
and though Fanny would not venture,
even on his encouragement,
to such a flight of audacious independence,
it was soon settled,
that if nothing were heard
to the contrary,
Mrs. Grant might expect her.

"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 to-morrow."



"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 chuse
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.

CHAPTER XXIII
"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?"

Edmund found himself obliged
to speak and fill up the blanks in his mother's story.

He told the whole;
and she had only
to add,
"So strange!
for Mrs. Grant never used
to ask her."



"But is it not very natural,"
observed Edmund,
"that Mrs. Grant should wish
to procure so agreeable a visitor
for her sister?"

"Nothing can be more natural,"
said Sir Thomas,
after a short deliberation;
"nor,
were there no sister in the case,
could anything,
in my opinion,
be more natural.

Mrs. Grant's shewing civility
to Miss Price,
to Lady Bertram's niece,
could never want explanation.

The only surprise I can feel is,
that this should be the _first_ time of its being paid.

Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional answer.

She appears
to feel as she ought.

But as I conclude that she must wish
to go,
since all young people like
to be together,
I can see no reason why she should be denied the indulgence."



"But can I do without her,
Sir Thomas?"

"Indeed I think you may."



"She always makes tea,
you know,
when my sister is not here."



"Your sister,
perhaps,
may be prevailed on
to spend the day
with us,
and I shall certainly be at home."



"Very well,
then,
Fanny may go,
Edmund."



The good news soon followed her.

Edmund knocked at her door in his way
to his own.

"Well,
Fanny,
it is all happily settled,
and without the smallest hesitation on your uncle's side.

He had but one opinion.

You are
to go."



"Thank you,
I am _so_ glad,"
was Fanny's instinctive reply;
though when she had turned from him and shut the door,
she could not help feeling,
"And yet why should I be glad?

for am I not certain of seeing or hearing something there
to pain me?"

In spite of this conviction,
however,
she was glad.

Simple as such an engagement might appear in other eyes,
it had novelty and importance in hers,
for excepting the day at Sotherton,
she had scarcely ever dined out before;
and though now going only half a mile,
and only
to three people,
still it was dining out,
and all the little interests of preparation were enjoyments in themselves.

She had neither sympathy nor assistance from those who ought
to have entered into her feelings and directed her taste;
for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful
to anybody,
and Mrs. Norris,
when she came on the morrow,
in consequence of an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas,
was in a very ill humour,
and seemed intent only on lessening her niece's pleasure,
both present and future,
as much as possible.

"Upon my word,
Fanny,
you are in high luck
to meet
with such attention and indulgence! You ought
to be very much obliged
to Mrs. Grant
for thinking of you,
and
to your aunt
for letting you go,
and you ought
to look upon it as something extraordinary;
for I hope you are aware that there is no real occasion
for your going into company in this sort of way,
or ever dining out at all;
and it is what you must not depend upon ever being repeated.

Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is meant as any particular compliment
to _you_;
the compliment is intended
to your uncle and aunt and me.

Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due
to _us_
to take a little notice of you,
or else it would never have come into her head,
and you may be very certain that,
if your cousin Julia had been at home,
you would not have been asked at all."



Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all Mrs. Grant's part of the favour,
that Fanny,
who found herself expected
to speak,
could only say that she was very much obliged
to her aunt Bertram
for sparing her,
and that she was endeavouring
to put her aunt's evening work in such a state as
to prevent her being missed.

"Oh! depend upon it,
your aunt can do very well without you,
or you would not be allowed
to go.

_I_ shall be here,
so you may be quite easy about your aunt.

And I hope you will have a very _agreeable_ day,
and find it all mighty _delightful_.

But I must observe that five is the very awkwardest of all possible numbers
to sit down
to table;
and I cannot but be surprised that such an _elegant_ lady as Mrs. Grant should not contrive better! And round their enormous great wide table,
too,
which fills up the room so dreadfully! Had the doctor been contented
to take my dining-table when I came away,
as anybody in their senses would have done,
instead of having that absurd new one of his own,
which is wider,
literally wider than the dinner-table here,
how infinitely better it would have been! and how much more he would have been respected!
for people are never respected when they step out of their proper sphere.

Remember that,
Fanny.

Five--only five
to be sitting round that table.

However,
you will have dinner enough on it
for ten,
I dare say."



Mrs. Norris fetched breath,
and went on again.

"The nonsense and folly of people's stepping out of their rank and trying
to appear above themselves,
makes me think it right
to give _you_ a hint,
Fanny,
now that you are going into company without any of us;
and I do beseech and entreat you not
to be putting yourself forward,
and talking and giving your opinion as if you were one of your cousins--as if you were dear Mrs. Rushworth or Julia.

_That_ will never do,
believe me.

Remember,
wherever you are,
you must be the lowest and last;
and though Miss Crawford is in a manner at home at the Parsonage,
you are not
to be taking place of her.

And as
to coming away at night,
you are
to stay just as long as Edmund chuses.

Leave him
to settle _that_."



"Yes,
ma'am,
I should not think of anything else."



"And if it should rain,
which I think exceedingly likely,
for I never saw it more threatening
for a wet evening in my life,
you must manage as well as you can,
and not be expecting the carriage
to be sent
for you.

I certainly do not go home to-night,
and,
therefore,
the carriage will not be out on my account;
so you must make up your mind
to what may happen,
and take your things accordingly."



Her niece thought it perfectly reasonable.

She rated her own claims
to comfort as low even as Mrs. Norris could;
and when Sir Thomas soon afterwards,
just opening the door,
said,
"Fanny,
at what time would you have the carriage come round?"

she felt a degree of astonishment which made it impossible
for her
to speak.

"My dear Sir Thomas!"

cried Mrs. Norris,
red
with anger,
"Fanny can walk."



"Walk!"

repeated Sir Thomas,
in a tone of most unanswerable dignity,
and coming farther into the room.

"My niece walk
to a dinner engagement at this time of the year! Will twenty minutes after four suit you?"

"Yes,
sir,"
was Fanny's humble answer,
given
with the feelings almost of a criminal towards Mrs. Norris;
and not bearing
to remain
with her in what might seem a state of triumph,
she followed her uncle out of the room,
having staid behind him only long enough
to hear these words spoken in angry agitation--
"Quite unnecessary! a great deal too kind! But Edmund goes;
true,
it is upon Edmund's account.

I observed he was hoarse on Thursday night."



But this could not impose on Fanny.

She felt that the carriage was
for herself,
and herself alone:

and her uncle's consideration of her,
coming immediately after such representations from her aunt,
cost her some tears of gratitude when she was alone.

The coachman drove round
to a minute;
another minute brought down the gentleman;
and as the lady had,
with a most scrupulous fear of being late,
been many minutes seated in the drawing-room,
Sir Thomas saw them off in as good time as his own correctly punctual habits required.

"Now I must look at you,
Fanny,"
said Edmund,
with the kind smile of an affectionate brother,
"and tell you how I like you;
and as well as I can judge by this light,
you look very nicely indeed.

What have you got on?"

"The new dress that my uncle was so good as
to give me on my cousin's marriage.

I hope it is not too fine;
but I thought I ought
to wear it as soon as I could,
and that I might not have such another opportunity all the winter.

I hope you do not think me too fine."



"A woman can never be too fine while she is all in white.

No,
I see no finery about you;
nothing but what is perfectly proper.

Your gown seems very pretty.

I like these glossy spots.

Has not Miss Crawford a gown something the same?"

In approaching the Parsonage they passed close by the stable-yard and coach-house.

"Heyday!"

said Edmund,
"here's company,
here's a carriage! who have they got
to meet us?"

And letting down the side-glass
to distinguish,
"'Tis Crawford's,
Crawford's barouche,
I protest! There are his own two men pushing it back into its old quarters.

He is here,
of course.

This is quite a surprise,
Fanny.

I shall be very glad
to see him."



There was no occasion,
there was no time
for Fanny
to say how very differently she felt;
but the idea of having such another
to observe her was a great increase of the trepidation
with which she performed the very awful ceremony of walking into the drawing-room.

In the drawing-room Mr. Crawford certainly was,
having been just long enough arrived
to be ready
for dinner;
and the smiles and pleased looks of the three others standing round him,
shewed how welcome was his sudden resolution of coming
to them
for a few days on leaving Bath.

A very cordial meeting passed between him and Edmund;
and
with the exception of Fanny,
the pleasure was general;
and even
to _her_ there might be some advantage in his presence,
since every addition
to the party must rather forward her favourite indulgence of being suffered
to sit silent and unattended to.

She was soon aware of this herself;
for though she must submit,
as her own propriety of mind directed,
in spite of her aunt Norris's opinion,
to being the principal lady in company,
and
to all the little distinctions consequent thereon,
she found,
while they were at table,
such a happy flow of conversation prevailing,
in which she was not required
to take any part--there was so much
to be said between the brother and sister about Bath,
so much between the two young men about hunting,
so much of politics between Mr. Crawford and Dr. Grant,
and of everything and all together between Mr. Crawford and Mrs. Grant,
as
to leave her the fairest prospect of having only
to listen in quiet,
and of passing a very agreeable day.

She could not compliment the newly arrived gentleman,
however,
with any appearance of interest,
in a scheme
for extending his stay at Mansfield,
and sending
for his hunters from Norfolk,
which,
suggested by Dr. Grant,
advised by Edmund,
and warmly urged by the two sisters,
was soon in possession of his mind,
and which he seemed
to want
to be encouraged even by her
to resolve on.

Her opinion was sought as
to the probable continuance of the open weather,
but her answers were as short and indifferent as civility allowed.

She could not wish him
to stay,
and would much rather not have him speak
to her.

Her two absent cousins,
especially Maria,
were much in her thoughts on seeing him;
but no embarrassing remembrance affected _his_ spirits.

Here he was again on the same ground where all had passed before,
and apparently as willing
to stay and be happy without the Miss Bertrams,
as if he had never known Mansfield in any other state.

She heard them spoken of by him only in a general way,
till they were all re-assembled in the drawing-room,
when Edmund,
being engaged apart in some matter of business
with Dr. Grant,
which seemed entirely
to engross them,
and Mrs. Grant occupied at the tea-table,
he began talking of them
with more particularity
to his other sister.

With a significant smile,
which made Fanny quite hate him,
he said,
"So! Rushworth and his fair bride are at Brighton,
I understand;
happy man!"

"Yes,
they have been there about a fortnight,
Miss Price,
have they not?

And Julia is
with them."



"And Mr. Yates,
I presume,
is not far off."



"Mr. Yates! Oh! we hear nothing of Mr. Yates.

I do not imagine he figures much in the letters
to Mansfield Park;
do you,
Miss Price?

I think my friend Julia knows better than
to entertain her father
with Mr. Yates."



"Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty speeches!"

continued Crawford.

"Nobody can ever forget them.

Poor fellow! I see him now--his toil and his despair.

Well,
I am much mistaken if his lovely Maria will ever want him
to make two-and-forty speeches
to her";
adding,
with a momentary seriousness,
"She is too good
for him-- much too good."



And then changing his tone again
to one of gentle gallantry,
and addressing Fanny,
he said,
"You were Mr. Rushworth's best friend.

Your kindness and patience can never be forgotten,
your indefatigable patience in trying
to make it possible
for him
to learn his part-- in trying
to give him a brain which nature had denied--
to mix up an understanding
for him out of the superfluity of your own! _He_ might not have sense enough himself
to estimate your kindness,
but I may venture
to say that it had honour from all the rest of the party."



Fanny coloured,
and said nothing.

"It is as a dream,
a pleasant dream!"

he exclaimed,
breaking forth again,
after a few minutes'
musing.

"I shall always look back on our theatricals
with exquisite pleasure.

There was such an interest,
such an animation,
such a spirit diffused.

Everybody felt it.

We were all alive.

There was employment,
hope,
solicitude,
bustle,
for every hour of the day.

Always some little objection,
some little doubt,
some little anxiety
to be got over.

I never was happier."



With silent indignation Fanny repeated
to herself,
"Never happier!--never happier than when doing what you must know was not justifiable!--never happier than when behaving so dishonourably and unfeelingly! Oh! what a corrupted mind!"

"We were unlucky,
Miss Price,"
he continued,
in a lower tone,
to avoid the possibility of being heard by Edmund,
and not at all aware of her feelings,
"we certainly were very unlucky.

Another week,
only one other week,
would have been enough
for us.

I think if we had had the disposal of events--if Mansfield Park had had the government of the winds just
for a week or two,
about the equinox,
there would have been a difference.

Not that we would have endangered his safety by any tremendous weather-- but only by a steady contrary wind,
or a calm.

I think,
Miss Price,
we would have indulged ourselves
with a week's calm in the Atlantic at that season."



He seemed determined
to be answered;
and Fanny,
averting her face,
said,
with a firmer tone than usual,
"As far as _I_ am concerned,
sir,
I would not have delayed his return
for a day.

My uncle disapproved it all so entirely when he did arrive,
that in my opinion everything had gone quite far enough."



She had never spoken so much at once
to him in her life before,
and never so angrily
to any one;
and when her speech was over,
she trembled and blushed at her own daring.

He was surprised;
but after a few moments'
silent consideration of her,
replied in a calmer,
graver tone,
and as if the candid result of conviction,
"I believe you are right.

It was more pleasant than prudent.

We were getting too noisy."



And then turning the conversation,
he would have engaged her on some other subject,
but her answers were so shy and reluctant that he could not advance in any.

Miss Crawford,
who had been repeatedly eyeing Dr. Grant and Edmund,
now observed,
"Those gentlemen must have some very interesting point
to discuss."



"The most interesting in the world,"
replied her brother--
"how
to make money;
how
to turn a good income into a better.

Dr. Grant is giving Bertram instructions about the living he is
to step into so soon.

I find he takes orders in a few weeks.

They were at it in the dining-parlour.

I am glad
to hear Bertram will be so well off.

He will have a very pretty income
to make ducks and drakes with,
and earned without much trouble.

I apprehend he will not have less than seven hundred a year.

Seven hundred a year is a fine thing
for a younger brother;
and as of course he will still live at home,
it will be all
for his _menus_ _plaisirs_;
and a sermon at Christmas and Easter,
I suppose,
will be the sum total of sacrifice."



His sister tried
to laugh off her feelings by saying,
"Nothing amuses me more than the easy manner
with which everybody settles the abundance of those who have a great deal less than themselves.

You would look rather blank,
Henry,
if your _menus_ _plaisirs_ were
to be limited
to seven hundred a year."



"Perhaps I might;
but all _that_ you know is entirely comparative.

Birthright and habit must settle the business.

Bertram is certainly well off
for a cadet of even a baronet's family.

By the time he is four or five and twenty he will have seven hundred a year,
and nothing
to do
for it."



Miss Crawford _could_ have said that there would be a something
to do and
to suffer
for it,
which she could not think lightly of;
but she checked herself and let it pass;
and tried
to look calm and unconcerned when the two gentlemen shortly afterwards joined them.

"Bertram,"
said Henry Crawford,
"I shall make a point of coming
to Mansfield
to hear you preach your first sermon.

I shall come on purpose
to encourage a young beginner.

When is it
to be?

Miss Price,
will not you join me in encouraging your cousin?

Will not you engage
to attend
with your eyes steadily fixed on him the whole time-- as I shall do--not
to lose a word;
or only looking off just
to note down any sentence preeminently beautiful?

We will provide ourselves
with tablets and a pencil.

When will it be?

You must preach at Mansfield,
you know,
that Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram may hear you."



"I shall keep clear of you,
Crawford,
as long as I can,"
said Edmund;
"for you would be more likely
to disconcert me,
and I should be more sorry
to see you trying at it than almost any other man."



"Will he not feel this?"

thought Fanny.

"No,
he can feel nothing as he ought."



The party being now all united,
and the chief talkers attracting each other,
she remained in tranquillity;
and as a whist-table was formed after tea--formed really
for the amusement of Dr. Grant,
by his attentive wife,
though it was not
to be supposed so--and Miss Crawford took her harp,
she had nothing
to do but
to listen;
and her tranquillity remained undisturbed the rest of the evening,
except when Mr. Crawford now and then addressed
to her a question or observation,
which she could not avoid answering.

Miss Crawford was too much vexed by what had passed
to be in a humour
for anything but music.

With that she soothed herself and amused her friend.

The assurance of Edmund's being so soon
to take orders,
coming upon her like a blow that had been suspended,
and still hoped uncertain and at a distance,
was felt
with resentment and mortification.

She was very angry
with him.

She had thought her influence more.

She _had_ begun
to think of him;
she felt that she had,
with great regard,
with almost decided intentions;
but she would now meet him
with his own cool feelings.

It was plain that he could have no serious views,
no true attachment,
by fixing himself in a situation which he must know she would never stoop to.

She would learn
to match him in his indifference.

She would henceforth admit his attentions without any idea beyond immediate amusement.

If _he_ could so command his affections,
_hers_ should do her no harm.

CHAPTER XXIV Henry Crawford had quite made up his mind by the next morning
to give another fortnight
to Mansfield,
and having sent
for his hunters,
and written a few lines of explanation
to the Admiral,
he looked round at his sister as he sealed and threw the letter from him,
and seeing the coast clear of the rest of the family,
said,
with a smile,
"And how do you think I mean
to amuse myself,
Mary,
on the days that I do not hunt?

I am grown too old
to go out more than three times a week;
but I have a plan
for the intermediate days,
and what do you think it is?"

"To walk and ride
with me,
to be sure."



"Not exactly,
though I shall be happy
to do both,
but _that_ would be exercise only
to my body,
and I must take care of my mind.

Besides,
_that_ would be all recreation and indulgence,
without the wholesome alloy of labour,
and I do not like
to eat the bread of idleness.

No,
my plan is
to make Fanny Price in love
with me."



"Fanny Price! Nonsense! No,
no.

You ought
to be satisfied
with her two cousins."



"But I cannot be satisfied without Fanny Price,
without making a small hole in Fanny Price's heart.

You do not seem properly aware of her claims
to notice.

When we talked of her last night,
you none of you seemed sensible of the wonderful improvement that has taken place in her looks within the last six weeks.

You see her every day,
and therefore do not notice it;
but I assure you she is quite a different creature from what she was in the autumn.

She was then merely a quiet,
modest,
not plain-looking girl,
but she is now absolutely pretty.

I used
to think she had neither complexion nor countenance;
but in that soft skin of hers,
so frequently tinged
with a blush as it was yesterday,
there is decided beauty;
and from what I observed of her eyes and mouth,
I do not despair of their being capable of expression enough when she has anything
to express.

And then,
her air,
her manner,
her _tout_ _ensemble_,
is so indescribably improved! She must be grown two inches,
at least,
since October."



"Phoo! phoo! This is only because there were no tall women
to compare her with,
and because she has got a new gown,
and you never saw her so well dressed before.

She is just what she was in October,
believe me.

The truth is,
that she was the only girl in company
for you
to notice,
and you must have a somebody.

I have always thought her pretty--not strikingly pretty--but
'pretty enough,'
as people say;
a sort of beauty that grows on one.

Her eyes should be darker,
but she has a sweet smile;
but as
for this wonderful degree of improvement,
I am sure it may all be resolved into a better style of dress,
and your having nobody else
to look at;
and therefore,
if you do set about a flirtation
with her,
you never will persuade me that it is in compliment
to her beauty,
or that it proceeds from anything but your own idleness and folly."



Her brother gave only a smile
to this accusation,
and soon afterwards said,
"I do not quite know what
to make of Miss Fanny.

I do not understand her.

I could not tell what she would be at yesterday.

What is her character?

Is she solemn?

Is she queer?

Is she prudish?

Why did she draw back and look so grave at me?

I could hardly get her
to speak.

I never was so long in company
with a girl in my life,
trying
to entertain her,
and succeed so ill! Never met
with a girl who looked so grave on me! I must try
to get the better of this.

Her looks say,
'I will not like you,
I am determined not
to like you';
and I say she shall."



"Foolish fellow! And so this is her attraction after all! This it is,
her not caring about you,
which gives her such a soft skin,
and makes her so much taller,
and produces all these charms and graces! I do desire that you will not be making her really unhappy;
a _little_ love,
perhaps,
may animate and do her good,
but I will not have you plunge her deep,
for she is as good a little creature as ever lived,
and has a great deal of feeling."



"It can be but
for a fortnight,"
said Henry;
"and if a fortnight can kill her,
she must have a constitution which nothing could save.

No,
I will not do her any harm,
dear little soul! only want her
to look kindly on me,
to give me smiles as well as blushes,
to keep a chair
for me by herself wherever we are,
and be all animation when I take it and talk
to her;
to think as I think,
be interested in all my possessions and pleasures,
try
to keep me longer at Mansfield,
and feel when I go away that she shall be never happy again.

I want nothing more."



"Moderation itself!"

said Mary.

"I can have no scruples now.

Well,
you will have opportunities enough of endeavouring
to recommend yourself,
for we are a great deal together."



And without attempting any farther remonstrance,
she left Fanny
to her fate,
a fate which,
had not Fanny's heart been guarded in a way unsuspected by Miss Crawford,
might have been a little harder than she deserved;
for although there doubtless are such unconquerable young ladies of eighteen
(or one should not read about them)
as are never
to be persuaded into love against their judgment by all that talent,
manner,
attention,
and flattery can do,
I have no inclination
to believe Fanny one of them,
or
to think that
with so much tenderness of disposition,
and so much taste as belonged
to her,
she could have escaped heart-whole from the courtship
(though the courtship only of a fortnight)
of such a man as Crawford,
in spite of there being some previous ill opinion of him
to be overcome,
had not her affection been engaged elsewhere.

With all the security which love of another and disesteem of him could give
to the peace of mind he was attacking,
his continued attentions--continued,
but not obtrusive,
and adapting themselves more and more
to the gentleness and delicacy of her character--obliged her very soon
to dislike him less than formerly.

She had by no means forgotten the past,
and she thought as ill of him as ever;
but she felt his powers:

he was entertaining;
and his manners were so improved,
so polite,
so seriously and blamelessly polite,
that it was impossible not
to be civil
to him in return.

A very few days were enough
to effect this;
and at the end of those few days,
circumstances arose which had a tendency rather
to forward his views of pleasing her,
inasmuch as they gave her a degree of happiness which must dispose her
to be pleased
with everybody.

William,
her brother,
the so long absent and dearly loved brother,
was in England again.

She had a letter from him herself,
a few hurried happy lines,
written as the ship came up Channel,
and sent into Portsmouth
with the first boat that left the Antwerp at anchor in Spithead;
and when Crawford walked up
with the newspaper in his hand,
which he had hoped would bring the first tidings,
he found her trembling
with joy over this letter,
and listening
with a glowing,
grateful countenance
to the kind invitation which her uncle was most collectedly dictating in reply.

It was but the day before that Crawford had made himself thoroughly master of the subject,
or had in fact become at all aware of her having such a brother,
or his being in such a ship,
but the interest then excited had been very properly lively,
determining him on his return
to town
to apply
for information as
to the probable period of the Antwerp's return from the Mediterranean,
etc.;
and the good luck which attended his early examination of ship news the next morning seemed the reward of his ingenuity in finding out such a method of pleasing her,
as well as of his dutiful attention
to the Admiral,
in having
for many years taken in the paper esteemed
to have the earliest naval intelligence.

He proved,
however,
to be too late.

All those fine first feelings,
of which he had hoped
to be the exciter,
were already given.

But his intention,
the kindness of his intention,
was thankfully acknowledged:

quite thankfully and warmly,
for she was elevated beyond the common timidity of her mind by the flow of her love
for William.

This dear William would soon be amongst them.

There could be no doubt of his obtaining leave of absence immediately,
for he was still only a midshipman;
and as his parents,
from living on the spot,
must already have seen him,
and be seeing him perhaps daily,
his direct holidays might
with justice be instantly given
to the sister,
who had been his best correspondent through a period of seven years,
and the uncle who had done most
for his support and advancement;
and accordingly the reply
to her reply,
fixing a very early day
for his arrival,
came as soon as possible;
and scarcely ten days had passed since Fanny had been in the agitation of her first dinner-visit,
when she found herself in an agitation of a higher nature,
watching in the hall,
in the lobby,
on the stairs,
for the first sound of the carriage which was
to bring her a brother.

It came happily while she was thus waiting;
and there being neither ceremony nor fearfulness
to delay the moment of meeting,
she was
with him as he entered the house,
and the first minutes of exquisite feeling had no interruption and no witnesses,
unless the servants chiefly intent upon opening the proper doors could be called such.

This was exactly what Sir Thomas and Edmund had been separately conniving at,
as each proved
to the other by the sympathetic alacrity
with which they both advised Mrs. Norris's continuing where she was,
instead of rushing out into the hall as soon as the noises of the arrival reached them.

William and Fanny soon shewed themselves;
and Sir Thomas had the pleasure of receiving,
in his protege,
certainly a very different person from the one he had equipped seven years ago,
but a young man of an open,
pleasant countenance,
and frank,
unstudied,
but feeling and respectful manners,
and such as confirmed him his friend.

It was long before Fanny could recover from the agitating happiness of such an hour as was formed by the last thirty minutes of expectation,
and the first of fruition;
it was some time even before her happiness could be said
to make her happy,
before the disappointment inseparable from the alteration of person had vanished,
and she could see in him the same William as before,
and talk
to him,
as her heart had been yearning
to do through many a past year.

That time,
however,
did gradually come,
forwarded by an affection on his side as warm as her own,
and much less encumbered by refinement or self-distrust.

She was the first object of his love,
but it was a love which his stronger spirits,
and bolder temper,
made it as natural
for him
to express as
to feel.

On the morrow they were walking about together
with true enjoyment,
and every succeeding morrow renewed a _tete-a-tete_ which Sir Thomas could not but observe
with complacency,
even before Edmund had pointed it out
to him.

Excepting the moments of peculiar delight,
which any marked or unlooked-for instance of Edmund's consideration of her in the last few months had excited,
Fanny had never known so much felicity in her life,
as in this unchecked,
equal,
fearless intercourse
with the brother and friend who was opening all his heart
to her,
telling her all his hopes and fears,
plans,
and solicitudes respecting that long thought of,
dearly earned,
and justly valued blessing of promotion;
who could give her direct and minute information of the father and mother,
brothers and sisters,
of whom she very seldom heard;
who was interested in all the comforts and all the little hardships of her home at Mansfield;
ready
to think of every member of that home as she directed,
or differing only by a less scrupulous opinion,
and more noisy abuse of their aunt Norris,
and
with whom
(perhaps the dearest indulgence of the whole)
all the evil and good of their earliest years could be gone over again,
and every former united pain and pleasure retraced
with the fondest recollection.

An advantage this,
a strengthener of love,
in which even the conjugal tie is beneath the fraternal.

Children of the same family,
the same blood,
with the same first associations and habits,
have some means of enjoyment in their power,
which no subsequent connexions can supply;
and it must be by a long and unnatural estrangement,
by a divorce which no subsequent connexion can justify,
if such precious remains of the earliest attachments are ever entirely outlived.

Too often,
alas! it is so.

Fraternal love,
sometimes almost everything,
is at others worse than nothing.

But
with William and Fanny Price it was still a sentiment in all its prime and freshness,
wounded b