prompt:
Chapter: A week was gone since Edmund might be supposed in town, and Fanny had
heard nothing of him. There were three different conclusions to be drawn
from his silence, between which her mind was in fluctuation; each of
them at times being held the most probable. Either his going had been
again delayed, or he had yet procured no opportunity of seeing Miss
Crawford alone, or he was too happy for letter-writing!

One morning, about this time, Fanny having now been nearly four weeks
from Mansfield, a point which she never failed to think over and
calculate every day, as she and Susan were preparing to remove, as
usual, upstairs, they were stopped by the knock of a visitor, whom they
felt they could not avoid, from Rebecca's alertness in going to the
door, a duty which always interested her beyond any other.

It was a gentleman's voice; it was a voice that Fanny was just turning
pale about, when Mr. Crawford walked into the room.

Good sense, like hers, will always act when really called upon; and she
found that she had been able to name him to her mother, and recall her
remembrance of the name, as that of "William's friend," though she could
not previously have believed herself capable of uttering a syllable
at such a moment. The consciousness of his being known there only as
William's friend was some support. Having introduced him, however, and
being all reseated, the terrors that occurred of what this visit might
lead to were overpowering, and she fancied herself on the point of
fainting away.

While trying to keep herself alive, their visitor, who had at first
approached her with as animated a countenance as ever, was wisely and
kindly keeping his eyes away, and giving her time to recover, while he
devoted himself entirely to her mother, addressing her, and attending
to her with the utmost politeness and propriety, at the same time with
a degree of friendliness, of interest at least, which was making his
manner perfect.

Mrs. Price's manners were also at their best. Warmed by the sight of
such a friend to her son, and regulated by the wish of appearing to
advantage before him, she was overflowing with gratitude--artless,
maternal gratitude--which could not be unpleasing. Mr. Price was out,
which she regretted very much. Fanny was just recovered enough to
feel that _she_ could not regret it; for to her many other sources of
uneasiness was added the severe one of shame for the home in which he
found her. She might scold herself for the weakness, but there was no
scolding it away. She was ashamed, and she would have been yet more
ashamed of her father than of all the rest.

They talked of William, a subject on which Mrs. Price could never tire;
and Mr. Crawford was as warm in his commendation as even her heart could
wish. She felt that she had never seen so agreeable a man in her life;
and was only astonished to find that, so great and so agreeable as he
was, he should be come down to Portsmouth neither on a visit to the
port-admiral, nor the commissioner, nor yet with the intention of going
over to the island, nor of seeing the dockyard. Nothing of all that she
had been used to think of as the proof of importance, or the employment
of wealth, had brought him to Portsmouth. He had reached it late the
night before, was come for a day or two, was staying at the Crown, had
accidentally met with a navy officer or two of his acquaintance since
his arrival, but had no object of that kind in coming.

By the time he had given all this information, it was not unreasonable
to suppose that Fanny might be looked at and spoken to; and she was
tolerably able to bear his eye, and hear that he had spent half an hour
with his sister the evening before his leaving London; that she had
sent her best and kindest love, but had had no time for writing; that he
thought himself lucky in seeing Mary for even half an hour, having spent
scarcely twenty-four hours in London, after his return from Norfolk,
before he set off again; that her cousin Edmund was in town, had been in
town, he understood, a few days; that he had not seen him himself, but
that he was well, had left them all well at Mansfield, and was to dine,
as yesterday, with the Frasers.

Fanny listened collectedly, even to the last-mentioned circumstance;
nay, it seemed a relief to her worn mind to be at any certainty; and the
words, "then by this time it is all settled," passed internally, without
more evidence of emotion than a faint blush.

After talking a little more about Mansfield, a subject in which her
interest was most apparent, Crawford began to hint at the expediency of
an early walk. "It was a lovely morning, and at that season of the year
a fine morning so often turned off, that it was wisest for everybody
not to delay their exercise"; and such hints producing nothing, he soon
proceeded to a positive recommendation to Mrs. Price and her
daughters to take their walk without loss of time. Now they came to an
understanding. Mrs. Price, it appeared, scarcely ever stirred out of
doors, except of a Sunday; she owned she could seldom, with her large
family, find time for a walk. "Would she not, then, persuade her
daughters to take advantage of such weather, and allow him the pleasure
of attending them?" Mrs. Price was greatly obliged and very complying.
"Her daughters were very much confined; Portsmouth was a sad place; they
did not often get out; and she knew they had some errands in the town,
which they would be very glad to do." And the consequence was, that
Fanny, strange as it was--strange, awkward, and distressing--found
herself and Susan, within ten minutes, walking towards the High Street
with Mr. Crawford.

It was soon pain upon pain, confusion upon confusion; for they were
hardly in the High Street before they met her father, whose
appearance was not the better from its being Saturday. He stopt; and,
ungentlemanlike as he looked, Fanny was obliged to introduce him to Mr.
Crawford. She could not have a doubt of the manner in which Mr. Crawford
must be struck. He must be ashamed and disgusted altogether. He must
soon give her up, and cease to have the smallest inclination for the
match; and yet, though she had been so much wanting his affection to
be cured, this was a sort of cure that would be almost as bad as the
complaint; and I believe there is scarcely a young lady in the United
Kingdoms who would not rather put up with the misfortune of being sought
by a clever, agreeable man, than have him driven away by the vulgarity
of her nearest relations.

Mr. Crawford probably could not regard his future father-in-law with any
idea of taking him for a model in dress; but (as Fanny instantly, and to
her great relief, discerned) her father was a very different man, a
very different Mr. Price in his behaviour to this most highly respected
stranger, from what he was in his own family at home. His manners
now, though not polished, were more than passable: they were grateful,
animated, manly; his expressions were those of an attached father, and
a sensible man; his loud tones did very well in the open air, and there
was not a single oath to be heard. Such was his instinctive compliment
to the good manners of Mr. Crawford; and, be the consequence what it
might, Fanny's immediate feelings were infinitely soothed.

The conclusion of the two gentlemen's civilities was an offer of Mr.
Price's to take Mr. Crawford into the dockyard, which Mr. Crawford,
desirous of accepting as a favour what was intended as such, though
he had seen the dockyard again and again, and hoping to be so much the
longer with Fanny, was very gratefully disposed to avail himself of, if
the Miss Prices were not afraid of the fatigue; and as it was somehow or
other ascertained, or inferred, or at least acted upon, that they were
not at all afraid, to the dockyard they were all to go; and but for
Mr. Crawford, Mr. Price would have turned thither directly, without the
smallest consideration for his daughters' errands in the High Street. He
took care, however, that they should be allowed to go to the shops they
came out expressly to visit; and it did not delay them long, for Fanny
could so little bear to excite impatience, or be waited for, that before
the gentlemen, as they stood at the door, could do more than begin upon
the last naval regulations, or settle the number of three-deckers now in
commission, their companions were ready to proceed.

They were then to set forward for the dockyard at once, and the walk
would have been conducted--according to Mr. Crawford's opinion--in a
singular manner, had Mr. Price been allowed the entire regulation of it,
as the two girls, he found, would have been left to follow, and keep up
with them or not, as they could, while they walked on together at their
own hasty pace. He was able to introduce some improvement occasionally,
though by no means to the extent he wished; he absolutely would not walk
away from them; and at any crossing or any crowd, when Mr. Price was
only calling out, "Come, girls; come, Fan; come, Sue, take care of
yourselves; keep a sharp lookout!" he would give them his particular
attendance.

Once fairly in the dockyard, he began to reckon upon some happy
intercourse with Fanny, as they were very soon joined by a brother
lounger of Mr. Price's, who was come to take his daily survey of how
things went on, and who must prove a far more worthy companion than
himself; and after a time the two officers seemed very well satisfied
going about together, and discussing matters of equal and never-failing
interest, while the young people sat down upon some timbers in the yard,
or found a seat on board a vessel in the stocks which they all went to
look at. Fanny was most conveniently in want of rest. Crawford could not
have wished her more fatigued or more ready to sit down; but he could
have wished her sister away. A quick-looking girl of Susan's age was the
very worst third in the world: totally different from Lady Bertram, all
eyes and ears; and there was no introducing the main point before her.
He must content himself with being only generally agreeable, and letting
Susan have her share of entertainment, with the indulgence, now and
then, of a look or hint for the better-informed and conscious Fanny.
Norfolk was what he had mostly to talk of: there he had been some time,
and everything there was rising in importance from his present schemes.
Such a man could come from no place, no society, without importing
something to amuse; his journeys and his acquaintance were all of use,
and Susan was entertained in a way quite new to her. For Fanny, somewhat
more was related than the accidental agreeableness of the parties he had
been in. For her approbation, the particular reason of his going into
Norfolk at all, at this unusual time of year, was given. It had been
real business, relative to the renewal of a lease in which the welfare
of a large and--he believed--industrious family was at stake. He had
suspected his agent of some underhand dealing; of meaning to bias
him against the deserving; and he had determined to go himself, and
thoroughly investigate the merits of the case. He had gone, had done
even more good than he had foreseen, had been useful to more than his
first plan had comprehended, and was now able to congratulate himself
upon it, and to feel that in performing a duty, he had secured agreeable
recollections for his own mind. He had introduced himself to some
tenants whom he had never seen before; he had begun making acquaintance
with cottages whose very existence, though on his own estate, had been
hitherto unknown to him. This was aimed, and well aimed, at Fanny. It
was pleasing to hear him speak so properly; here he had been acting as
he ought to do. To be the friend of the poor and the oppressed! Nothing
could be more grateful to her; and she was on the point of giving him an
approving look, when it was all frightened off by his adding a something
too pointed of his hoping soon to have an assistant, a friend, a guide
in every plan of utility or charity for Everingham: a somebody that
would make Everingham and all about it a dearer object than it had ever
been yet.

She turned away, and wished he would not say such things. She was
willing to allow he might have more good qualities than she had been
wont to suppose. She began to feel the possibility of his turning out
well at last; but he was and must ever be completely unsuited to her,
and ought not to think of her.

He perceived that enough had been said of Everingham, and that it would
be as well to talk of something else, and turned to Mansfield. He could
not have chosen better; that was a topic to bring back her attention and
her looks almost instantly. It was a real indulgence to her to hear or
to speak of Mansfield. Now so long divided from everybody who knew the
place, she felt it quite the voice of a friend when he mentioned it,
and led the way to her fond exclamations in praise of its beauties and
comforts, and by his honourable tribute to its inhabitants allowed her
to gratify her own heart in the warmest eulogium, in speaking of her
uncle as all that was clever and good, and her aunt as having the
sweetest of all sweet tempers.

He had a great attachment to Mansfield himself; he said so; he looked
forward with the hope of spending much, very much, of his time there;
always there, or in the neighbourhood. He particularly built upon a very
happy summer and autumn there this year; he felt that it would be so: he
depended upon it; a summer and autumn infinitely superior to the last.
As animated, as diversified, as social, but with circumstances of
superiority undescribable.

"Mansfield, Sotherton, Thornton Lacey," he continued; "what a society
will be comprised in those houses! And at Michaelmas, perhaps, a fourth
may be added: some small hunting-box in the vicinity of everything so
dear; for as to any partnership in Thornton Lacey, as Edmund Bertram
once good-humouredly proposed, I hope I foresee two objections: two
fair, excellent, irresistible objections to that plan."

Fanny was doubly silenced here; though when the moment was passed,
could regret that she had not forced herself into the acknowledged
comprehension of one half of his meaning, and encouraged him to say
something more of his sister and Edmund. It was a subject which she must
learn to speak of, and the weakness that shrunk from it would soon be
quite unpardonable.

When Mr. Price and his friend had seen all that they wished, or had time
for, the others were ready to return; and in the course of their walk
back, Mr. Crawford contrived a minute's privacy for telling Fanny that
his only business in Portsmouth was to see her; that he was come down
for a couple of days on her account, and hers only, and because he could
not endure a longer total separation. She was sorry, really sorry; and
yet in spite of this and the two or three other things which she wished
he had not said, she thought him altogether improved since she had seen
him; he was much more gentle, obliging, and attentive to other people's
feelings than he had ever been at Mansfield; she had never seen him so
agreeable--so _near_ being agreeable; his behaviour to her father could
not offend, and there was something particularly kind and proper in the
notice he took of Susan. He was decidedly improved. She wished the next
day over, she wished he had come only for one day; but it was not
so very bad as she would have expected: the pleasure of talking of
Mansfield was so very great!

Before they parted, she had to thank him for another pleasure, and one
of no trivial kind. Her father asked him to do them the honour of taking
his mutton with them, and Fanny had time for only one thrill of horror,
before he declared himself prevented by a prior engagement. He was
engaged to dinner already both for that day and the next; he had met
with some acquaintance at the Crown who would not be denied; he should
have the honour, however, of waiting on them again on the morrow, etc.,
and so they parted--Fanny in a state of actual felicity from escaping so
horrible an evil!

To have had him join their family dinner-party, and see all their
deficiencies, would have been dreadful! Rebecca's cookery and Rebecca's
waiting, and Betsey's eating at table without restraint, and pulling
everything about as she chose, were what Fanny herself was not yet
enough inured to for her often to make a tolerable meal. _She_ was nice
only from natural delicacy, but _he_ had been brought up in a school of
luxury and epicurism.

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

completion: Edmund is now probably in London and Fanny's trying not to feel broken-hearted or jealous about the courtship that is likely ensuing. Suddenly, Henry turns up at the Price house. He says he's in town to visit some friends, but really just wants to see Fanny. Fanny's family acts well around Henry, sensing that he is rich and important. Fanny is relieved since she's a little ashamed of her family, especially her father who fortunately isn't home. The group discusses William and Mansfield Park, and then Henry invites Fanny on a walk. Susan accompanies the two of them. The group runs into Mr. Price, who is luckily on his best behavior, and they all decide to go to the dockyards to look at the ships. It's a beautiful day and Fanny is having a pretty decent time. Henry's frustrated by Susan's presence, though, since she's rather nosey and he can't really say anything to Fanny with her sister around. However, he puts on the charm and entertains both the Price girls. Henry then tells Fanny how she has inspired him to turn over a new leaf and how he's started doing more charity work and paying more attention to the tenants that live on his property in Norfolk. Fanny is slowly warming up to Henry. The group heads back to the Price house and Henry's invited to dinner but he declines since he already has plans. Fanny is relieved since her family is especially embarrassing during dinner.


prompt:
Chapter: The Prices were just setting off for church the next day when Mr.
Crawford appeared again. He came, not to stop, but to join them; he was
asked to go with them to the Garrison chapel, which was exactly what he
had intended, and they all walked thither together.

The family were now seen to advantage. Nature had given them no
inconsiderable share of beauty, and every Sunday dressed them in their
cleanest skins and best attire. Sunday always brought this comfort to
Fanny, and on this Sunday she felt it more than ever. Her poor mother
now did not look so very unworthy of being Lady Bertram's sister as she
was but too apt to look. It often grieved her to the heart to think of
the contrast between them; to think that where nature had made so little
difference, circumstances should have made so much, and that her mother,
as handsome as Lady Bertram, and some years her junior, should have an
appearance so much more worn and faded, so comfortless, so slatternly,
so shabby. But Sunday made her a very creditable and tolerably
cheerful-looking Mrs. Price, coming abroad with a fine family of
children, feeling a little respite of her weekly cares, and only
discomposed if she saw her boys run into danger, or Rebecca pass by with
a flower in her hat.

In chapel they were obliged to divide, but Mr. Crawford took care not to
be divided from the female branch; and after chapel he still continued
with them, and made one in the family party on the ramparts.

Mrs. Price took her weekly walk on the ramparts every fine Sunday
throughout the year, always going directly after morning service and
staying till dinner-time. It was her public place: there she met her
acquaintance, heard a little news, talked over the badness of the
Portsmouth servants, and wound up her spirits for the six days ensuing.

Thither they now went; Mr. Crawford most happy to consider the Miss
Prices as his peculiar charge; and before they had been there long,
somehow or other, there was no saying how, Fanny could not have believed
it, but he was walking between them with an arm of each under his,
and she did not know how to prevent or put an end to it. It made her
uncomfortable for a time, but yet there were enjoyments in the day and
in the view which would be felt.

The day was uncommonly lovely. It was really March; but it was April in
its mild air, brisk soft wind, and bright sun, occasionally clouded for
a minute; and everything looked so beautiful under the influence of such
a sky, the effects of the shadows pursuing each other on the ships at
Spithead and the island beyond, with the ever-varying hues of the sea,
now at high water, dancing in its glee and dashing against the ramparts
with so fine a sound, produced altogether such a combination of charms
for Fanny, as made her gradually almost careless of the circumstances
under which she felt them. Nay, had she been without his arm, she would
soon have known that she needed it, for she wanted strength for a two
hours' saunter of this kind, coming, as it generally did, upon a week's
previous inactivity. Fanny was beginning to feel the effect of being
debarred from her usual regular exercise; she had lost ground as to
health since her being in Portsmouth; and but for Mr. Crawford and the
beauty of the weather would soon have been knocked up now.

The loveliness of the day, and of the view, he felt like herself. They
often stopt with the same sentiment and taste, leaning against the wall,
some minutes, to look and admire; and considering he was not Edmund,
Fanny could not but allow that he was sufficiently open to the charms
of nature, and very well able to express his admiration. She had a few
tender reveries now and then, which he could sometimes take advantage
of to look in her face without detection; and the result of these looks
was, that though as bewitching as ever, her face was less blooming than
it ought to be. She _said_ she was very well, and did not like to be
supposed otherwise; but take it all in all, he was convinced that her
present residence could not be comfortable, and therefore could not
be salutary for her, and he was growing anxious for her being again at
Mansfield, where her own happiness, and his in seeing her, must be so
much greater.

"You have been here a month, I think?" said he.

"No; not quite a month. It is only four weeks to-morrow since I left
Mansfield."

"You are a most accurate and honest reckoner. I should call that a
month."

"I did not arrive here till Tuesday evening."

"And it is to be a two months' visit, is not?"

"Yes. My uncle talked of two months. I suppose it will not be less."

"And how are you to be conveyed back again? Who comes for you?"

"I do not know. I have heard nothing about it yet from my aunt. Perhaps
I may be to stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be fetched
exactly at the two months' end."

After a moment's reflection, Mr. Crawford replied, "I know Mansfield, I
know its way, I know its faults towards _you_. I know the danger of
your being so far forgotten, as to have your comforts give way to the
imaginary convenience of any single being in the family. I am aware
that you may be left here week after week, if Sir Thomas cannot settle
everything for coming himself, or sending your aunt's maid for you,
without involving the slightest alteration of the arrangements which he
may have laid down for the next quarter of a year. This will not do. Two
months is an ample allowance; I should think six weeks quite enough.
I am considering your sister's health," said he, addressing himself to
Susan, "which I think the confinement of Portsmouth unfavourable to. She
requires constant air and exercise. When you know her as well as I do,
I am sure you will agree that she does, and that she ought never to
be long banished from the free air and liberty of the country. If,
therefore" (turning again to Fanny), "you find yourself growing unwell,
and any difficulties arise about your returning to Mansfield, without
waiting for the two months to be ended, _that_ must not be regarded
as of any consequence, if you feel yourself at all less strong or
comfortable than usual, and will only let my sister know it, give her
only the slightest hint, she and I will immediately come down, and take
you back to Mansfield. You know the ease and the pleasure with which
this would be done. You know all that would be felt on the occasion."

Fanny thanked him, but tried to laugh it off.

"I am perfectly serious," he replied, "as you perfectly know. And I
hope you will not be cruelly concealing any tendency to indisposition.
Indeed, you shall _not_; it shall not be in your power; for so long only
as you positively say, in every letter to Mary, 'I am well,' and I
know you cannot speak or write a falsehood, so long only shall you be
considered as well."

Fanny thanked him again, but was affected and distressed to a degree
that made it impossible for her to say much, or even to be certain of
what she ought to say. This was towards the close of their walk. He
attended them to the last, and left them only at the door of their own
house, when he knew them to be going to dinner, and therefore pretended
to be waited for elsewhere.

"I wish you were not so tired," said he, still detaining Fanny after all
the others were in the house--"I wish I left you in stronger health. Is
there anything I can do for you in town? I have half an idea of going
into Norfolk again soon. I am not satisfied about Maddison. I am sure
he still means to impose on me if possible, and get a cousin of his own
into a certain mill, which I design for somebody else. I must come to an
understanding with him. I must make him know that I will not be tricked
on the south side of Everingham, any more than on the north: that I will
be master of my own property. I was not explicit enough with him before.
The mischief such a man does on an estate, both as to the credit of his
employer and the welfare of the poor, is inconceivable. I have a great
mind to go back into Norfolk directly, and put everything at once on
such a footing as cannot be afterwards swerved from. Maddison is a
clever fellow; I do not wish to displace him, provided he does not try
to displace _me_; but it would be simple to be duped by a man who has no
right of creditor to dupe me, and worse than simple to let him give me a
hard-hearted, griping fellow for a tenant, instead of an honest man,
to whom I have given half a promise already. Would it not be worse than
simple? Shall I go? Do you advise it?"

"I advise! You know very well what is right."

"Yes. When you give me your opinion, I always know what is right. Your
judgment is my rule of right."

"Oh, no! do not say so. We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we
would attend to it, than any other person can be. Good-bye; I wish you a
pleasant journey to-morrow."

"Is there nothing I can do for you in town?"

"Nothing; I am much obliged to you."

"Have you no message for anybody?"

"My love to your sister, if you please; and when you see my cousin, my
cousin Edmund, I wish you would be so good as to say that I suppose I
shall soon hear from him."

"Certainly; and if he is lazy or negligent, I will write his excuses
myself."

He could say no more, for Fanny would be no longer detained. He pressed
her hand, looked at her, and was gone. _He_ went to while away the next
three hours as he could, with his other acquaintance, till the best
dinner that a capital inn afforded was ready for their enjoyment, and
_she_ turned in to her more simple one immediately.

Their general fare bore a very different character; and could he have
suspected how many privations, besides that of exercise, she endured in
her father's house, he would have wondered that her looks were not much
more affected than he found them. She was so little equal to Rebecca's
puddings and Rebecca's hashes, brought to table, as they all were, with
such accompaniments of half-cleaned plates, and not half-cleaned knives
and forks, that she was very often constrained to defer her heartiest
meal till she could send her brothers in the evening for biscuits and
buns. After being nursed up at Mansfield, it was too late in the day
to be hardened at Portsmouth; and though Sir Thomas, had he known all,
might have thought his niece in the most promising way of being starved,
both mind and body, into a much juster value for Mr. Crawford's good
company and good fortune, he would probably have feared to push his
experiment farther, lest she might die under the cure.

Fanny was out of spirits all the rest of the day. Though tolerably
secure of not seeing Mr. Crawford again, she could not help being low.
It was parting with somebody of the nature of a friend; and though, in
one light, glad to have him gone, it seemed as if she was now deserted
by everybody; it was a sort of renewed separation from Mansfield; and
she could not think of his returning to town, and being frequently with
Mary and Edmund, without feelings so near akin to envy as made her hate
herself for having them.

Her dejection had no abatement from anything passing around her; a
friend or two of her father's, as always happened if he was not with
them, spent the long, long evening there; and from six o'clock till
half-past nine, there was little intermission of noise or grog. She
was very low. The wonderful improvement which she still fancied in Mr.
Crawford was the nearest to administering comfort of anything within the
current of her thoughts. Not considering in how different a circle she
had been just seeing him, nor how much might be owing to contrast, she
was quite persuaded of his being astonishingly more gentle and regardful
of others than formerly. And, if in little things, must it not be so in
great? So anxious for her health and comfort, so very feeling as he now
expressed himself, and really seemed, might not it be fairly supposed
that he would not much longer persevere in a suit so distressing to her?

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

completion: Henry pops back up the next day and goes to church with the Prices. Fanny is surprised by how much her mom resembles Lady Bertram when she's dressed up and relaxed on Sunday. The family and Henry all go for a walk and it's a beautiful day. Once again, Fanny has a pretty good time with Henry and Susan. Though Henry isn't Edmund, he isn't half bad. Henry encourages Fanny to let him know if she wants to leave Portsmouth sooner, since two months is such a long time to stay and he's worried that the Mansfield crew will forget to come get her. He's also concerned about Fanny's health and insists that he and Mary will come get her and take her back to Mansfield Park whenever she wants. Henry again declines a dinner invite and we learn that he doesn't really have other plans; he's just aware that Fanny is a little embarrassed by her family and is therefore giving her some space. Before he leaves, Henry detains Fanny from going inside the house with the others in order to ask her opinion on some matters with his house. Fanny tells him to trust his own judgment. Henry tells Fanny good-bye since he's heading back to London and says that he'll say "hi" to Mary and Edmund for her. We learn that, as Henry feared, Fanny is not doing so well in Portsmouth - she isn't eating much since the food isn't very good, and she's been feeling pretty depressed. She still wishes Henry would drop his proposal, though.


prompt:
Chapter: It was presumed that Mr. Crawford was travelling back, to London, on the
morrow, for nothing more was seen of him at Mr. Price's; and two days
afterwards, it was a fact ascertained to Fanny by the following letter
from his sister, opened and read by her, on another account, with the
most anxious curiosity:--

"I have to inform you, my dearest Fanny, that Henry has been down to
Portsmouth to see you; that he had a delightful walk with you to the
dockyard last Saturday, and one still more to be dwelt on the next day,
on the ramparts; when the balmy air, the sparkling sea, and your sweet
looks and conversation were altogether in the most delicious harmony,
and afforded sensations which are to raise ecstasy even in retrospect.
This, as well as I understand, is to be the substance of my information.
He makes me write, but I do not know what else is to be communicated,
except this said visit to Portsmouth, and these two said walks, and his
introduction to your family, especially to a fair sister of yours, a
fine girl of fifteen, who was of the party on the ramparts, taking her
first lesson, I presume, in love. I have not time for writing much, but
it would be out of place if I had, for this is to be a mere letter of
business, penned for the purpose of conveying necessary information,
which could not be delayed without risk of evil. My dear, dear Fanny,
if I had you here, how I would talk to you! You should listen to me till
you were tired, and advise me till you were still tired more; but it is
impossible to put a hundredth part of my great mind on paper, so I will
abstain altogether, and leave you to guess what you like. I have no news
for you. You have politics, of course; and it would be too bad to plague
you with the names of people and parties that fill up my time. I ought
to have sent you an account of your cousin's first party, but I was
lazy, and now it is too long ago; suffice it, that everything was just
as it ought to be, in a style that any of her connexions must have been
gratified to witness, and that her own dress and manners did her the
greatest credit. My friend, Mrs. Fraser, is mad for such a house, and it
would not make _me_ miserable. I go to Lady Stornaway after Easter;
she seems in high spirits, and very happy. I fancy Lord S. is very
good-humoured and pleasant in his own family, and I do not think him so
very ill-looking as I did--at least, one sees many worse. He will not
do by the side of your cousin Edmund. Of the last-mentioned hero, what
shall I say? If I avoided his name entirely, it would look suspicious.
I will say, then, that we have seen him two or three times, and that
my friends here are very much struck with his gentlemanlike appearance.
Mrs. Fraser (no bad judge) declares she knows but three men in town
who have so good a person, height, and air; and I must confess, when he
dined here the other day, there were none to compare with him, and
we were a party of sixteen. Luckily there is no distinction of dress
nowadays to tell tales, but--but--but Yours affectionately."

"I had almost forgot (it was Edmund's fault: he gets into my head more
than does me good) one very material thing I had to say from Henry and
myself--I mean about our taking you back into Northamptonshire. My dear
little creature, do not stay at Portsmouth to lose your pretty looks.
Those vile sea-breezes are the ruin of beauty and health. My poor aunt
always felt affected if within ten miles of the sea, which the Admiral
of course never believed, but I know it was so. I am at your service
and Henry's, at an hour's notice. I should like the scheme, and we would
make a little circuit, and shew you Everingham in our way, and perhaps
you would not mind passing through London, and seeing the inside of St.
George's, Hanover Square. Only keep your cousin Edmund from me at such
a time: I should not like to be tempted. What a long letter! one word
more. Henry, I find, has some idea of going into Norfolk again upon
some business that _you_ approve; but this cannot possibly be permitted
before the middle of next week; that is, he cannot anyhow be spared till
after the 14th, for _we_ have a party that evening. The value of a man
like Henry, on such an occasion, is what you can have no conception
of; so you must take it upon my word to be inestimable. He will see the
Rushworths, which own I am not sorry for--having a little curiosity, and
so I think has he--though he will not acknowledge it."

This was a letter to be run through eagerly, to be read deliberately,
to supply matter for much reflection, and to leave everything in greater
suspense than ever. The only certainty to be drawn from it was, that
nothing decisive had yet taken place. Edmund had not yet spoken. How
Miss Crawford really felt, how she meant to act, or might act without
or against her meaning; whether his importance to her were quite what
it had been before the last separation; whether, if lessened, it were
likely to lessen more, or to recover itself, were subjects for endless
conjecture, and to be thought of on that day and many days to come,
without producing any conclusion. The idea that returned the oftenest
was that Miss Crawford, after proving herself cooled and staggered by
a return to London habits, would yet prove herself in the end too much
attached to him to give him up. She would try to be more ambitious than
her heart would allow. She would hesitate, she would tease, she would
condition, she would require a great deal, but she would finally accept.

This was Fanny's most frequent expectation. A house in town--that, she
thought, must be impossible. Yet there was no saying what Miss Crawford
might not ask. The prospect for her cousin grew worse and worse. The
woman who could speak of him, and speak only of his appearance! What an
unworthy attachment! To be deriving support from the commendations of
Mrs. Fraser! _She_ who had known him intimately half a year! Fanny was
ashamed of her. Those parts of the letter which related only to Mr.
Crawford and herself, touched her, in comparison, slightly. Whether Mr.
Crawford went into Norfolk before or after the 14th was certainly no
concern of hers, though, everything considered, she thought he _would_
go without delay. That Miss Crawford should endeavour to secure a
meeting between him and Mrs. Rushworth, was all in her worst line of
conduct, and grossly unkind and ill-judged; but she hoped _he_ would
not be actuated by any such degrading curiosity. He acknowledged no such
inducement, and his sister ought to have given him credit for better
feelings than her own.

She was yet more impatient for another letter from town after receiving
this than she had been before; and for a few days was so unsettled by
it altogether, by what had come, and what might come, that her usual
readings and conversation with Susan were much suspended. She could
not command her attention as she wished. If Mr. Crawford remembered her
message to her cousin, she thought it very likely, most likely, that he
would write to her at all events; it would be most consistent with his
usual kindness; and till she got rid of this idea, till it gradually
wore off, by no letters appearing in the course of three or four days
more, she was in a most restless, anxious state.

At length, a something like composure succeeded. Suspense must be
submitted to, and must not be allowed to wear her out, and make her
useless. Time did something, her own exertions something more, and she
resumed her attentions to Susan, and again awakened the same interest in
them.

Susan was growing very fond of her, and though without any of the early
delight in books which had been so strong in Fanny, with a disposition
much less inclined to sedentary pursuits, or to information for
information's sake, she had so strong a desire of not _appearing_
ignorant, as, with a good clear understanding, made her a most
attentive, profitable, thankful pupil. Fanny was her oracle. Fanny's
explanations and remarks were a most important addition to every essay,
or every chapter of history. What Fanny told her of former times dwelt
more on her mind than the pages of Goldsmith; and she paid her sister
the compliment of preferring her style to that of any printed author.
The early habit of reading was wanting.

Their conversations, however, were not always on subjects so high as
history or morals. Others had their hour; and of lesser matters, none
returned so often, or remained so long between them, as Mansfield Park,
a description of the people, the manners, the amusements, the ways
of Mansfield Park. Susan, who had an innate taste for the genteel and
well-appointed, was eager to hear, and Fanny could not but indulge
herself in dwelling on so beloved a theme. She hoped it was not wrong;
though, after a time, Susan's very great admiration of everything
said or done in her uncle's house, and earnest longing to go into
Northamptonshire, seemed almost to blame her for exciting feelings which
could not be gratified.

Poor Susan was very little better fitted for home than her elder sister;
and as Fanny grew thoroughly to understand this, she began to feel that
when her own release from Portsmouth came, her happiness would have a
material drawback in leaving Susan behind. That a girl so capable of
being made everything good should be left in such hands, distressed her
more and more. Were _she_ likely to have a home to invite her to, what
a blessing it would be! And had it been possible for her to return Mr.
Crawford's regard, the probability of his being very far from objecting
to such a measure would have been the greatest increase of all her own
comforts. She thought he was really good-tempered, and could fancy his
entering into a plan of that sort most pleasantly.

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

completion: After Henry leaves, Fanny gets another letter from Mary. Mary reports that Henry still loves and misses her. Mary confesses that she's confused about her feelings for Edmund and could really use someone to talk to. Mary's friends all really like Edmund, though. She reiterates that she is happy to come with Henry to get Fanny whenever she wants to head back to Mansfield Park. Mary then tells Fanny that Henry will see the Rushworths at a party next week. Fanny is relieved that Mary and Edmund aren't engaged yet but she thinks it's only a matter of time. Fanny's pretty jealous of their courtship, and thinks that Mary doesn't deserve Edmund since she's so shallow and superficial. She also thinks it's bad that Mary is OK with Henry meeting Maria again. At the same time, Fanny longs for another letter from Mary. Susan and Fanny continue to grow closer and Susan learns a lot from her older sister. Fanny tells Susan all about Mansfield Park and longs to visit and escape Portsmouth.


prompt:
Chapter: Seven weeks of the two months were very nearly gone, when the one
letter, the letter from Edmund, so long expected, was put into Fanny's
hands. As she opened, and saw its length, she prepared herself for a
minute detail of happiness and a profusion of love and praise towards
the fortunate creature who was now mistress of his fate. These were the
contents--

"My Dear Fanny,--Excuse me that I have not written before. Crawford told
me that you were wishing to hear from me, but I found it impossible to
write from London, and persuaded myself that you would understand my
silence. Could I have sent a few happy lines, they should not have been
wanting, but nothing of that nature was ever in my power. I am returned
to Mansfield in a less assured state than when I left it. My hopes are
much weaker. You are probably aware of this already. So very fond of you
as Miss Crawford is, it is most natural that she should tell you enough
of her own feelings to furnish a tolerable guess at mine. I will not be
prevented, however, from making my own communication. Our confidences in
you need not clash. I ask no questions. There is something soothing
in the idea that we have the same friend, and that whatever unhappy
differences of opinion may exist between us, we are united in our love
of you. It will be a comfort to me to tell you how things now are, and
what are my present plans, if plans I can be said to have. I have been
returned since Saturday. I was three weeks in London, and saw her (for
London) very often. I had every attention from the Frasers that could be
reasonably expected. I dare say I was not reasonable in carrying with
me hopes of an intercourse at all like that of Mansfield. It was her
manner, however, rather than any unfrequency of meeting. Had she been
different when I did see her, I should have made no complaint, but from
the very first she was altered: my first reception was so unlike what I
had hoped, that I had almost resolved on leaving London again directly.
I need not particularise. You know the weak side of her character, and
may imagine the sentiments and expressions which were torturing me. She
was in high spirits, and surrounded by those who were giving all the
support of their own bad sense to her too lively mind. I do not like
Mrs. Fraser. She is a cold-hearted, vain woman, who has married entirely
from convenience, and though evidently unhappy in her marriage,
places her disappointment not to faults of judgment, or temper, or
disproportion of age, but to her being, after all, less affluent than
many of her acquaintance, especially than her sister, Lady Stornaway,
and is the determined supporter of everything mercenary and ambitious,
provided it be only mercenary and ambitious enough. I look upon her
intimacy with those two sisters as the greatest misfortune of her life
and mine. They have been leading her astray for years. Could she be
detached from them!--and sometimes I do not despair of it, for the
affection appears to me principally on their side. They are very fond of
her; but I am sure she does not love them as she loves you. When I think
of her great attachment to you, indeed, and the whole of her judicious,
upright conduct as a sister, she appears a very different creature,
capable of everything noble, and I am ready to blame myself for a too
harsh construction of a playful manner. I cannot give her up, Fanny. She
is the only woman in the world whom I could ever think of as a wife. If
I did not believe that she had some regard for me, of course I should
not say this, but I do believe it. I am convinced that she is not
without a decided preference. I have no jealousy of any individual. It
is the influence of the fashionable world altogether that I am jealous
of. It is the habits of wealth that I fear. Her ideas are not higher
than her own fortune may warrant, but they are beyond what our incomes
united could authorise. There is comfort, however, even here. I could
better bear to lose her because not rich enough, than because of my
profession. That would only prove her affection not equal to sacrifices,
which, in fact, I am scarcely justified in asking; and, if I am refused,
that, I think, will be the honest motive. Her prejudices, I trust, are
not so strong as they were. You have my thoughts exactly as they arise,
my dear Fanny; perhaps they are sometimes contradictory, but it will
not be a less faithful picture of my mind. Having once begun, it is a
pleasure to me to tell you all I feel. I cannot give her up. Connected
as we already are, and, I hope, are to be, to give up Mary Crawford
would be to give up the society of some of those most dear to me; to
banish myself from the very houses and friends whom, under any other
distress, I should turn to for consolation. The loss of Mary I must
consider as comprehending the loss of Crawford and of Fanny. Were it a
decided thing, an actual refusal, I hope I should know how to bear it,
and how to endeavour to weaken her hold on my heart, and in the course
of a few years--but I am writing nonsense. Were I refused, I must bear
it; and till I am, I can never cease to try for her. This is the truth.
The only question is _how_? What may be the likeliest means? I have
sometimes thought of going to London again after Easter, and sometimes
resolved on doing nothing till she returns to Mansfield. Even now, she
speaks with pleasure of being in Mansfield in June; but June is at
a great distance, and I believe I shall write to her. I have nearly
determined on explaining myself by letter. To be at an early certainty
is a material object. My present state is miserably irksome. Considering
everything, I think a letter will be decidedly the best method of
explanation. I shall be able to write much that I could not say, and
shall be giving her time for reflection before she resolves on her
answer, and I am less afraid of the result of reflection than of an
immediate hasty impulse; I think I am. My greatest danger would lie in
her consulting Mrs. Fraser, and I at a distance unable to help my own
cause. A letter exposes to all the evil of consultation, and where
the mind is anything short of perfect decision, an adviser may, in an
unlucky moment, lead it to do what it may afterwards regret. I must
think this matter over a little. This long letter, full of my own
concerns alone, will be enough to tire even the friendship of a Fanny.
The last time I saw Crawford was at Mrs. Fraser's party. I am more
and more satisfied with all that I see and hear of him. There is not a
shadow of wavering. He thoroughly knows his own mind, and acts up to his
resolutions: an inestimable quality. I could not see him and my eldest
sister in the same room without recollecting what you once told me,
and I acknowledge that they did not meet as friends. There was
marked coolness on her side. They scarcely spoke. I saw him draw back
surprised, and I was sorry that Mrs. Rushworth should resent any former
supposed slight to Miss Bertram. You will wish to hear my opinion
of Maria's degree of comfort as a wife. There is no appearance of
unhappiness. I hope they get on pretty well together. I dined twice in
Wimpole Street, and might have been there oftener, but it is mortifying
to be with Rushworth as a brother. Julia seems to enjoy London
exceedingly. I had little enjoyment there, but have less here. We are
not a lively party. You are very much wanted. I miss you more than I
can express. My mother desires her best love, and hopes to hear from
you soon. She talks of you almost every hour, and I am sorry to find
how many weeks more she is likely to be without you. My father means
to fetch you himself, but it will not be till after Easter, when he has
business in town. You are happy at Portsmouth, I hope, but this must
not be a yearly visit. I want you at home, that I may have your opinion
about Thornton Lacey. I have little heart for extensive improvements
till I know that it will ever have a mistress. I think I shall certainly
write. It is quite settled that the Grants go to Bath; they leave
Mansfield on Monday. I am glad of it. I am not comfortable enough to be
fit for anybody; but your aunt seems to feel out of luck that such an
article of Mansfield news should fall to my pen instead of hers.--Yours
ever, my dearest Fanny."

"I never will, no, I certainly never will wish for a letter again," was
Fanny's secret declaration as she finished this. "What do they bring but
disappointment and sorrow? Not till after Easter! How shall I bear it?
And my poor aunt talking of me every hour!"

Fanny checked the tendency of these thoughts as well as she could, but
she was within half a minute of starting the idea that Sir Thomas was
quite unkind, both to her aunt and to herself. As for the main subject
of the letter, there was nothing in that to soothe irritation. She was
almost vexed into displeasure and anger against Edmund. "There is no
good in this delay," said she. "Why is not it settled? He is blinded,
and nothing will open his eyes; nothing can, after having had truths
before him so long in vain. He will marry her, and be poor and
miserable. God grant that her influence do not make him cease to be
respectable!" She looked over the letter again. "'So very fond of me!'
'tis nonsense all. She loves nobody but herself and her brother. Her
friends leading her astray for years! She is quite as likely to have led
_them_ astray. They have all, perhaps, been corrupting one another; but
if they are so much fonder of her than she is of them, she is the less
likely to have been hurt, except by their flattery. 'The only woman in
the world whom he could ever think of as a wife.' I firmly believe it.
It is an attachment to govern his whole life. Accepted or refused, his
heart is wedded to her for ever. 'The loss of Mary I must consider as
comprehending the loss of Crawford and Fanny.' Edmund, you do not know
me. The families would never be connected if you did not connect
them! Oh! write, write. Finish it at once. Let there be an end of this
suspense. Fix, commit, condemn yourself."

Such sensations, however, were too near akin to resentment to be long
guiding Fanny's soliloquies. She was soon more softened and sorrowful.
His warm regard, his kind expressions, his confidential treatment,
touched her strongly. He was only too good to everybody. It was a
letter, in short, which she would not but have had for the world, and
which could never be valued enough. This was the end of it.

Everybody at all addicted to letter-writing, without having much to say,
which will include a large proportion of the female world at least, must
feel with Lady Bertram that she was out of luck in having such a capital
piece of Mansfield news as the certainty of the Grants going to Bath,
occur at a time when she could make no advantage of it, and will admit
that it must have been very mortifying to her to see it fall to the
share of her thankless son, and treated as concisely as possible at the
end of a long letter, instead of having it to spread over the largest
part of a page of her own. For though Lady Bertram rather shone in the
epistolary line, having early in her marriage, from the want of other
employment, and the circumstance of Sir Thomas's being in Parliament,
got into the way of making and keeping correspondents, and formed for
herself a very creditable, common-place, amplifying style, so that a
very little matter was enough for her: she could not do entirely without
any; she must have something to write about, even to her niece; and
being so soon to lose all the benefit of Dr. Grant's gouty symptoms and
Mrs. Grant's morning calls, it was very hard upon her to be deprived of
one of the last epistolary uses she could put them to.

There was a rich amends, however, preparing for her. Lady Bertram's
hour of good luck came. Within a few days from the receipt of Edmund's
letter, Fanny had one from her aunt, beginning thus--

"My Dear Fanny,--I take up my pen to communicate some very alarming
intelligence, which I make no doubt will give you much concern".

This was a great deal better than to have to take up the pen to acquaint
her with all the particulars of the Grants' intended journey, for the
present intelligence was of a nature to promise occupation for the pen
for many days to come, being no less than the dangerous illness of her
eldest son, of which they had received notice by express a few hours
before.

Tom had gone from London with a party of young men to Newmarket, where
a neglected fall and a good deal of drinking had brought on a fever; and
when the party broke up, being unable to move, had been left by himself
at the house of one of these young men to the comforts of sickness and
solitude, and the attendance only of servants. Instead of being soon
well enough to follow his friends, as he had then hoped, his disorder
increased considerably, and it was not long before he thought so ill of
himself as to be as ready as his physician to have a letter despatched
to Mansfield.

"This distressing intelligence, as you may suppose," observed
her ladyship, after giving the substance of it, "has agitated us
exceedingly, and we cannot prevent ourselves from being greatly alarmed
and apprehensive for the poor invalid, whose state Sir Thomas fears
may be very critical; and Edmund kindly proposes attending his brother
immediately, but I am happy to add that Sir Thomas will not leave me on
this distressing occasion, as it would be too trying for me. We shall
greatly miss Edmund in our small circle, but I trust and hope he
will find the poor invalid in a less alarming state than might be
apprehended, and that he will be able to bring him to Mansfield shortly,
which Sir Thomas proposes should be done, and thinks best on every
account, and I flatter myself the poor sufferer will soon be able to
bear the removal without material inconvenience or injury. As I
have little doubt of your feeling for us, my dear Fanny, under these
distressing circumstances, I will write again very soon."

Fanny's feelings on the occasion were indeed considerably more warm and
genuine than her aunt's style of writing. She felt truly for them all.
Tom dangerously ill, Edmund gone to attend him, and the sadly small
party remaining at Mansfield, were cares to shut out every other care,
or almost every other. She could just find selfishness enough to wonder
whether Edmund _had_ written to Miss Crawford before this summons came,
but no sentiment dwelt long with her that was not purely affectionate
and disinterestedly anxious. Her aunt did not neglect her: she wrote
again and again; they were receiving frequent accounts from Edmund,
and these accounts were as regularly transmitted to Fanny, in the same
diffuse style, and the same medley of trusts, hopes, and fears, all
following and producing each other at haphazard. It was a sort of
playing at being frightened. The sufferings which Lady Bertram did not
see had little power over her fancy; and she wrote very comfortably
about agitation, and anxiety, and poor invalids, till Tom was actually
conveyed to Mansfield, and her own eyes had beheld his altered
appearance. Then a letter which she had been previously preparing for
Fanny was finished in a different style, in the language of real feeling
and alarm; then she wrote as she might have spoken. "He is just come, my
dear Fanny, and is taken upstairs; and I am so shocked to see him, that
I do not know what to do. I am sure he has been very ill. Poor Tom! I am
quite grieved for him, and very much frightened, and so is Sir Thomas;
and how glad I should be if you were here to comfort me. But Sir
Thomas hopes he will be better to-morrow, and says we must consider his
journey."

The real solicitude now awakened in the maternal bosom was not
soon over. Tom's extreme impatience to be removed to Mansfield, and
experience those comforts of home and family which had been little
thought of in uninterrupted health, had probably induced his being
conveyed thither too early, as a return of fever came on, and for a week
he was in a more alarming state than ever. They were all very seriously
frightened. Lady Bertram wrote her daily terrors to her niece, who
might now be said to live upon letters, and pass all her time between
suffering from that of to-day and looking forward to to-morrow's.
Without any particular affection for her eldest cousin, her tenderness
of heart made her feel that she could not spare him, and the purity of
her principles added yet a keener solicitude, when she considered how
little useful, how little self-denying his life had (apparently) been.

Susan was her only companion and listener on this, as on more common
occasions. Susan was always ready to hear and to sympathise. Nobody else
could be interested in so remote an evil as illness in a family above an
hundred miles off; not even Mrs. Price, beyond a brief question or two,
if she saw her daughter with a letter in her hand, and now and then the
quiet observation of, "My poor sister Bertram must be in a great deal of
trouble."

So long divided and so differently situated, the ties of blood were
little more than nothing. An attachment, originally as tranquil as their
tempers, was now become a mere name. Mrs. Price did quite as much for
Lady Bertram as Lady Bertram would have done for Mrs. Price. Three or
four Prices might have been swept away, any or all except Fanny and
William, and Lady Bertram would have thought little about it; or perhaps
might have caught from Mrs. Norris's lips the cant of its being a very
happy thing and a great blessing to their poor dear sister Price to have
them so well provided for.

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

completion: Fanny has been in Portsmouth for seven weeks and finally gets a letter from Edmund. Things are still unsettled between him and Mary. Edmund wasn't happy with what he saw of Mary in London, especially her fashionable friends. He's now especially confused about what to do. He loves Mary and wants to marry her, but he still has problems accepting her London society ways. Edmund decides he just has to go for it and ask her - he remains uncertain whether she'll accept his proposal or not. He also says he risks losing Fanny and Henry if he loses Mary since he sees them as all connected. Edmund notes that he still thinks that Henry is great. He says Maria and Julia seem happy in London and that Henry and Maria barely spoke when they met in London. Edmund adds that Sir Thomas won't be able to come get her until after Easter, so she'll have to hang out in Portsmouth a bit longer. Fanny is very stressed out by this letter because of Edmund's unwavering feelings for Mary. Lady Bertram starts writing Fanny too. She reports that the Grants have gone to Bath for a while and updates her on other Mansfield Park news. Then Lady Bertram sends a distressing letter: Tom has gotten sick and Edmund has had to go get him and bring him back to Mansfield Park. Fanny's worried about Tom and the rest of the family. Lady Bertram updates Fanny continually once Tom arrives home. He is dangerously ill. Fanny longs to go home to Mansfield to help out. Fanny is distressed that the Prices don't really seem to care at all about Tom, except for Susan who always wants to hear about Mansfield and who sympathizes with Fanny.


prompt:
Chapter: At about the week's end from his return to Mansfield, Tom's immediate
danger was over, and he was so far pronounced safe as to make his mother
perfectly easy; for being now used to the sight of him in his suffering,
helpless state, and hearing only the best, and never thinking beyond
what she heard, with no disposition for alarm and no aptitude at a hint,
Lady Bertram was the happiest subject in the world for a little medical
imposition. The fever was subdued; the fever had been his complaint;
of course he would soon be well again. Lady Bertram could think nothing
less, and Fanny shared her aunt's security, till she received a few
lines from Edmund, written purposely to give her a clearer idea of his
brother's situation, and acquaint her with the apprehensions which
he and his father had imbibed from the physician with respect to some
strong hectic symptoms, which seemed to seize the frame on the departure
of the fever. They judged it best that Lady Bertram should not be
harassed by alarms which, it was to be hoped, would prove unfounded;
but there was no reason why Fanny should not know the truth. They were
apprehensive for his lungs.

A very few lines from Edmund shewed her the patient and the sickroom
in a juster and stronger light than all Lady Bertram's sheets of paper
could do. There was hardly any one in the house who might not have
described, from personal observation, better than herself; not one who
was not more useful at times to her son. She could do nothing but glide
in quietly and look at him; but when able to talk or be talked to, or
read to, Edmund was the companion he preferred. His aunt worried him by
her cares, and Sir Thomas knew not how to bring down his conversation or
his voice to the level of irritation and feebleness. Edmund was all in
all. Fanny would certainly believe him so at least, and must find that
her estimation of him was higher than ever when he appeared as the
attendant, supporter, cheerer of a suffering brother. There was not only
the debility of recent illness to assist: there was also, as she now
learnt, nerves much affected, spirits much depressed to calm and raise,
and her own imagination added that there must be a mind to be properly
guided.

The family were not consumptive, and she was more inclined to hope than
fear for her cousin, except when she thought of Miss Crawford; but Miss
Crawford gave her the idea of being the child of good luck, and to her
selfishness and vanity it would be good luck to have Edmund the only
son.

Even in the sick chamber the fortunate Mary was not forgotten. Edmund's
letter had this postscript. "On the subject of my last, I had actually
begun a letter when called away by Tom's illness, but I have now changed
my mind, and fear to trust the influence of friends. When Tom is better,
I shall go."

Such was the state of Mansfield, and so it continued, with scarcely any
change, till Easter. A line occasionally added by Edmund to his
mother's letter was enough for Fanny's information. Tom's amendment was
alarmingly slow.

Easter came particularly late this year, as Fanny had most sorrowfully
considered, on first learning that she had no chance of leaving
Portsmouth till after it. It came, and she had yet heard nothing of her
return--nothing even of the going to London, which was to precede
her return. Her aunt often expressed a wish for her, but there was no
notice, no message from the uncle on whom all depended. She supposed
he could not yet leave his son, but it was a cruel, a terrible delay
to her. The end of April was coming on; it would soon be almost three
months, instead of two, that she had been absent from them all, and that
her days had been passing in a state of penance, which she loved them
too well to hope they would thoroughly understand; and who could yet say
when there might be leisure to think of or fetch her?

Her eagerness, her impatience, her longings to be with them, were such
as to bring a line or two of Cowper's Tirocinium for ever before her.
"With what intense desire she wants her home," was continually on her
tongue, as the truest description of a yearning which she could not
suppose any schoolboy's bosom to feel more keenly.

When she had been coming to Portsmouth, she had loved to call it her
home, had been fond of saying that she was going home; the word had
been very dear to her, and so it still was, but it must be applied to
Mansfield. _That_ was now the home. Portsmouth was Portsmouth; Mansfield
was home. They had been long so arranged in the indulgence of her secret
meditations, and nothing was more consolatory to her than to find her
aunt using the same language: "I cannot but say I much regret your being
from home at this distressing time, so very trying to my spirits. I
trust and hope, and sincerely wish you may never be absent from home so
long again," were most delightful sentences to her. Still, however, it
was her private regale. Delicacy to her parents made her careful not to
betray such a preference of her uncle's house. It was always: "When I go
back into Northamptonshire, or when I return to Mansfield, I shall do
so and so." For a great while it was so, but at last the longing grew
stronger, it overthrew caution, and she found herself talking of what
she should do when she went home before she was aware. She reproached
herself, coloured, and looked fearfully towards her father and mother.
She need not have been uneasy. There was no sign of displeasure, or even
of hearing her. They were perfectly free from any jealousy of Mansfield.
She was as welcome to wish herself there as to be there.

It was sad to Fanny to lose all the pleasures of spring. She had not
known before what pleasures she _had_ to lose in passing March and April
in a town. She had not known before how much the beginnings and progress
of vegetation had delighted her. What animation, both of body and mind,
she had derived from watching the advance of that season which cannot,
in spite of its capriciousness, be unlovely, and seeing its increasing
beauties from the earliest flowers in the warmest divisions of her
aunt's garden, to the opening of leaves of her uncle's plantations, and
the glory of his woods. To be losing such pleasures was no trifle; to
be losing them, because she was in the midst of closeness and noise,
to have confinement, bad air, bad smells, substituted for liberty,
freshness, fragrance, and verdure, was infinitely worse: but even these
incitements to regret were feeble, compared with what arose from the
conviction of being missed by her best friends, and the longing to be
useful to those who were wanting her!

Could she have been at home, she might have been of service to every
creature in the house. She felt that she must have been of use to all.
To all she must have saved some trouble of head or hand; and were it
only in supporting the spirits of her aunt Bertram, keeping her from
the evil of solitude, or the still greater evil of a restless, officious
companion, too apt to be heightening danger in order to enhance her own
importance, her being there would have been a general good. She loved to
fancy how she could have read to her aunt, how she could have talked to
her, and tried at once to make her feel the blessing of what was, and
prepare her mind for what might be; and how many walks up and down
stairs she might have saved her, and how many messages she might have
carried.

It astonished her that Tom's sisters could be satisfied with remaining
in London at such a time, through an illness which had now, under
different degrees of danger, lasted several weeks. _They_ might return
to Mansfield when they chose; travelling could be no difficulty to
_them_, and she could not comprehend how both could still keep away.
If Mrs. Rushworth could imagine any interfering obligations, Julia was
certainly able to quit London whenever she chose. It appeared from one
of her aunt's letters that Julia had offered to return if wanted, but
this was all. It was evident that she would rather remain where she was.

Fanny was disposed to think the influence of London very much at war
with all respectable attachments. She saw the proof of it in Miss
Crawford, as well as in her cousins; _her_ attachment to Edmund had been
respectable, the most respectable part of her character; her friendship
for herself had at least been blameless. Where was either sentiment now?
It was so long since Fanny had had any letter from her, that she had
some reason to think lightly of the friendship which had been so dwelt
on. It was weeks since she had heard anything of Miss Crawford or of
her other connexions in town, except through Mansfield, and she was
beginning to suppose that she might never know whether Mr. Crawford had
gone into Norfolk again or not till they met, and might never hear from
his sister any more this spring, when the following letter was received
to revive old and create some new sensations--

"Forgive me, my dear Fanny, as soon as you can, for my long silence, and
behave as if you could forgive me directly. This is my modest request
and expectation, for you are so good, that I depend upon being treated
better than I deserve, and I write now to beg an immediate answer. I
want to know the state of things at Mansfield Park, and you, no doubt,
are perfectly able to give it. One should be a brute not to feel for the
distress they are in; and from what I hear, poor Mr. Bertram has a bad
chance of ultimate recovery. I thought little of his illness at first.
I looked upon him as the sort of person to be made a fuss with, and to
make a fuss himself in any trifling disorder, and was chiefly concerned
for those who had to nurse him; but now it is confidently asserted that
he is really in a decline, that the symptoms are most alarming, and that
part of the family, at least, are aware of it. If it be so, I am sure
you must be included in that part, that discerning part, and therefore
entreat you to let me know how far I have been rightly informed. I need
not say how rejoiced I shall be to hear there has been any mistake, but
the report is so prevalent that I confess I cannot help trembling. To
have such a fine young man cut off in the flower of his days is most
melancholy. Poor Sir Thomas will feel it dreadfully. I really am quite
agitated on the subject. Fanny, Fanny, I see you smile and look cunning,
but, upon my honour, I never bribed a physician in my life. Poor young
man! If he is to die, there will be _two_ poor young men less in the
world; and with a fearless face and bold voice would I say to any one,
that wealth and consequence could fall into no hands more deserving of
them. It was a foolish precipitation last Christmas, but the evil of
a few days may be blotted out in part. Varnish and gilding hide many
stains. It will be but the loss of the Esquire after his name. With real
affection, Fanny, like mine, more might be overlooked. Write to me by
return of post, judge of my anxiety, and do not trifle with it. Tell me
the real truth, as you have it from the fountainhead. And now, do
not trouble yourself to be ashamed of either my feelings or your own.
Believe me, they are not only natural, they are philanthropic and
virtuous. I put it to your conscience, whether 'Sir Edmund' would not do
more good with all the Bertram property than any other possible 'Sir.'
Had the Grants been at home I would not have troubled you, but you are
now the only one I can apply to for the truth, his sisters not being
within my reach. Mrs. R. has been spending the Easter with the Aylmers
at Twickenham (as to be sure you know), and is not yet returned; and
Julia is with the cousins who live near Bedford Square, but I forget
their name and street. Could I immediately apply to either, however, I
should still prefer you, because it strikes me that they have all along
been so unwilling to have their own amusements cut up, as to shut their
eyes to the truth. I suppose Mrs. R.'s Easter holidays will not last
much longer; no doubt they are thorough holidays to her. The Aylmers
are pleasant people; and her husband away, she can have nothing but
enjoyment. I give her credit for promoting his going dutifully down to
Bath, to fetch his mother; but how will she and the dowager agree in one
house? Henry is not at hand, so I have nothing to say from him. Do not
you think Edmund would have been in town again long ago, but for this
illness?--Yours ever, Mary."

"I had actually begun folding my letter when Henry walked in, but he
brings no intelligence to prevent my sending it. Mrs. R. knows a decline
is apprehended; he saw her this morning: she returns to Wimpole Street
to-day; the old lady is come. Now do not make yourself uneasy with any
queer fancies because he has been spending a few days at Richmond. He
does it every spring. Be assured he cares for nobody but you. At this
very moment he is wild to see you, and occupied only in contriving the
means for doing so, and for making his pleasure conduce to yours. In
proof, he repeats, and more eagerly, what he said at Portsmouth about
our conveying you home, and I join him in it with all my soul. Dear
Fanny, write directly, and tell us to come. It will do us all good.
He and I can go to the Parsonage, you know, and be no trouble to our
friends at Mansfield Park. It would really be gratifying to see them
all again, and a little addition of society might be of infinite use to
them; and as to yourself, you must feel yourself to be so wanted there,
that you cannot in conscience--conscientious as you are--keep away, when
you have the means of returning. I have not time or patience to give
half Henry's messages; be satisfied that the spirit of each and every
one is unalterable affection."

Fanny's disgust at the greater part of this letter, with her extreme
reluctance to bring the writer of it and her cousin Edmund together,
would have made her (as she felt) incapable of judging impartially
whether the concluding offer might be accepted or not. To herself,
individually, it was most tempting. To be finding herself, perhaps
within three days, transported to Mansfield, was an image of the
greatest felicity, but it would have been a material drawback to be
owing such felicity to persons in whose feelings and conduct, at the
present moment, she saw so much to condemn: the sister's feelings,
the brother's conduct, _her_ cold-hearted ambition, _his_ thoughtless
vanity. To have him still the acquaintance, the flirt perhaps, of Mrs.
Rushworth! She was mortified. She had thought better of him. Happily,
however, she was not left to weigh and decide between opposite
inclinations and doubtful notions of right; there was no occasion to
determine whether she ought to keep Edmund and Mary asunder or not. She
had a rule to apply to, which settled everything. Her awe of her uncle,
and her dread of taking a liberty with him, made it instantly plain to
her what she had to do. She must absolutely decline the proposal. If he
wanted, he would send for her; and even to offer an early return was
a presumption which hardly anything would have seemed to justify. She
thanked Miss Crawford, but gave a decided negative. "Her uncle,
she understood, meant to fetch her; and as her cousin's illness had
continued so many weeks without her being thought at all necessary,
she must suppose her return would be unwelcome at present, and that she
should be felt an encumbrance."

Her representation of her cousin's state at this time was exactly
according to her own belief of it, and such as she supposed would convey
to the sanguine mind of her correspondent the hope of everything she was
wishing for. Edmund would be forgiven for being a clergyman, it seemed,
under certain conditions of wealth; and this, she suspected, was all
the conquest of prejudice which he was so ready to congratulate himself
upon. She had only learnt to think nothing of consequence but money.

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

completion: Tom begins to recover slowly and Lady Bertram is happy once again. However, Edmund then writes Fanny a quick note to tell her the truth about Tom's condition: he still has some serious health problems and might not make it. He and his dad decide not to tell Lady Bertram about this so as to not worry her even more. Tom may have consumption, which is the old-fashioned term for tuberculosis, a disease of the lungs. This was a very dangerous and incurable disease during this time period. Edmund also notes that he's focusing on Tom now and will go see Mary in person when he's able, rather than propose to her in a letter. Easter comes and goes and no one comes to get Fanny. Fanny realizes that Mansfield Park is her true home and she longs to go back. She doesn't write the Crawfords to come get her, though. With Fanny's strong desire to go home, she's pretty shocked that Maria and Julia don't bother going back to see about Tom even though they're able to. Julia is having too much fun in London to leave. Another letter from Mary arrives - she offers her condolences about Tom and asks for an update on his condition. But then she notes that it may be a blessing in disguise, and that Edmund would make a really super Sir Edmund Bertram one day. Julia's still in London but Maria has gone off to visit some other friends in the country. Henry begs Fanny to write and says he'll come get her and take her to Mansfield Park so they can all check on Tom together. Fanny is disgusted by Mary's insinuations about how great it would be for Edmund to be the only Bertram son and inherit all the money. Fanny wants to go to Mansfield Park really badly, but she still refuses to ask the Crawfords to take her.