prompt:
Chapter: "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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: After a great deal of selfish haranguing, Mary Crawford finally has her harp delivered. The harp is Edmund's favorite instrument, and he falls even deeper under Mary's spell: "a young woman, pretty, lively with a harp...was enough to catch any man's heart." Fanny is taken aback by Mary's selfish attitude, but as usual she keeps her feelings to herself. Edmund arranges for Mary to ride Fanny's horse so that he can accompany her and neglects Fanny, who must ride for her health. Fanny, however, remains passive, and keeps running errands for both of her aunts. When she becomes ill, Edmund takes the older women to task and ensures that Fanny continues to ride. While plans are being made for the excursion to Sotherton, Mr. Rushworth's estate, it is decided that Fanny should stay at home to attend Lady Bertram: "Oh no," her aunt declares, "I cannot do without Fanny." Edmund insists, however, that he will stay with his mother so Fanny can have the rare opportunity of an outing. When Mrs. Grant volunteers to stay in his place, Fanny is allowed to go along with the group. In the carriage, Maria and Julia vie for the open seat next to Henry Crawford, and Julia wins out - much to Maria's consternation. Fanny is simply delighted to be seeing something new, while Maria brags about the extent of her fiance's property. At Sotherton, the Bertrams, the Crawfords, and Fanny Price are welcomed by the well-meaning but excruciatingly boring Mrs. Rushworth, who provides them with a tour of the estate. Fanny voices her disappointment with the sparse chapel to Edmund and Mary, but they both disagree with her. Mary sneers at the idea of the whole family traipsing to chapel twice a day, having no idea that Edmund plans to become a clergyman upon his father's return from Antigua. Julia remarks that it is too bad that Edmund cannot marry Maria and Mr. Rushworth right then and there. At this point, Mary realizes Edmund's choice of vocation, and assures him that had she known she would have spoken with more respect. Next, they go outside to view the grounds, and break into two groups: Henry Crawford, Mary Bertram, Mr. Rushworth and Fanny make up one group, and Edmund, Mary and Julia Bertram, Mrs. Norris and Mrs. Rushworth make up the other. Fanny is, as usual, generally ignored while Mary attempts to talk Edmund out of his choice of profession: "a clergyman is nothing," she declares. After a short time Fanny becomes tired, and they sit in the shade, but the lively Mary wants to continue on, and the two leave Fanny alone to rest. Just as she begins to feel abandoned, Henry Crawford, Rushworth and Maria arrive, but are stopped by a locked gate from which they view a knoll that Henry maintains would improve the approach to Sotherton. Rushworth must return to the house to get the key. While he is gone, Maria and Henry find they cannot wait and slip through the gate. Fanny is left behind once more. Julia arrives, and similarly passes through the gate after she becomes angry to learn that Maria and Henry are alone together. When Rushworth arrives with the key, he likewise becomes angry and begins to insult Henry, but Fanny calms him down. Finally, the reunited group goes back to the house. On the way home, Julia once again shares the open seat with Henry. The women are crowded and uncomfortable, surrounded with the packages of produce Mrs. Norris has managed to acquire from the Sotherton servants. Shortly after the excursion to Sotherton, a letter arrives informing the family that Sir Thomas will return in November. Maria becomes agitated because she realizes that for her "the father a husband." She will have to marry Rushworth when her father comes home. The rest of the group realizes that their father's return will put an end to their frivolity: "November was the black month fixed for his return." When Sir Thomas returns, Edmund will take orders to become a clergyman. Mary continues to harangue Edmund about his choice of occupation, stating that clergymen are fat and lazy. She also makes disparaging remarks about her brother-in-law, Mr. Grant, in whose house she resides. Fanny and Edmund look out at the sunset and the encroaching stars, but just as they decide to go outside, Edmund is called to rejoin the party. He joins Mary and the others, who are singing. Fanny sighs, alone once more. Tom Bertram reappears in chapter twelve. Although Mary Crawford has been hoping to make a match with Tom, the oldest son and the heir to Mansfield Park, she finds that she likes Edmund far more. Henry leaves to visit his Norfolk estate, Everingham, and is gone for two weeks - much to the dismay of the young people, who miss his lively personality and ability to entertain them. After he returns, a ball is hastily put together. It is Fanny's first ball, and she is excited and eager to dance. While waiting to be asked, Fanny overhears Mrs. Norris and Mrs. Rushworth discussing how Maria and Henry look so happy dancing together and Mrs. Norris practically announces a match between Henry and Julia Bertram. Tom Bertram walks over to Fanny and she very much hopes that he will ask her to dance, but he thinks of her merely as a sister and just plops down next to her. After a while, Tom says that if Fanny really wants to dance he will oblige her. She politely refuses. Then, when Mrs. Norris attempts to get Tom involved in a card game with some tiresome older people, he jumps up and says that he has to dance with a dismayed Fanny.