prompt:
Chapter: 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.

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

completion: Mr. Rushworth and his mom greet everyone at the front door. They decide to start by taking a tour of the house and Mrs. Rushworth leads them around. Eventually, Mrs. Rushworth leads them all to the chapel. Fanny doesn't think it looks romantic or gothic enough. Mrs. Rushworth does her tour guide routine and says that the household used to have daily prayer services in the chapel but her husband quit doing that. Mary quips that every generation has its improvements. Fanny and Edmund disapprove and think that daily prayer services sound super. Mary laughs at them and says that no one in their right mind likes going to church every day. She thinks it's better to just leave people alone and let them do their own thing rather than sermonize to them. Fanny and Edmund and shocked and horrified. Fanny is surprised that a lightening bolt hasn't come down from the sky and struck the heretical Mary. Meanwhile, Julia decides to have some fun with her sister and comments loudly about Maria and Mr. Rushworth standing together by the alter and how it's too bad they can't get married this second. Henry sidles up to Maria and drops some hints about how he'd rather she not get married any time soon. Scandalous. Julia carries on and says it's too bad Edmund isn't ordained as a clergyman yet or he could perform the ceremony. Mary wishes she could disappear right about now and is really embarrassed that she was just bashing the church to a future clergyman. She's also not thrilled that Edmund will be a clergyman. His attractiveness drops a few notches. Everyone now finally heads outside. We learn that Mr. Rushworth's name is James, thanks to his mom. Thanks, Mama Rushworth. Everyone breaks up into small groups. Maria, Henry, and Mr. Rushworth tromp off to look at the grounds . Edmund, Mary, and Fanny wander off together . And Julia gets stuck with Mrs. Norris and Mrs. Rushworth . No one formed these groups very well. Mary grills Edmund about his career path and wonders if he's visited a career counselor to find out about all his options because the church doesn't sound very exciting. Mary hints that no one willingly becomes a clergyman but Edmund begs to differ. Clearly, if you are as boring and as moralistic as Edmund, you do become a clergyman, so the joke's on you, Mary. The two get into a rather lengthy and very interesting debate about organized religion. In short, Mary doesn't have much respect for the church and sees a lot of things wrong with it. Edmund sees the need for reform but thinks the church is overall a good thing and that clergymen do important work since people need religious guidance. Fanny agrees with Edmund. Mary says that Edmund could really do something better with himself and then changes the subject. Fanny notes that she's tired and they find a bench. Mary and Edmund start flirting and they wander off together in order to settle a debate they are having over the dimensions of the woods. Hm.


prompt:
Chapter: 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.

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

completion: Fanny is sitting by herself, which is pretty sad. Eventually Maria, Henry, and Mr. Rushworth stumble upon her. They comment on what a bummer it is that she got ditched. However, the group quickly ditches Fanny as well. They want to go check out a hill to get a good view of the property. But there's a locked gate, so Mr. Rushworth goes back to the house to get the key. Maria and Henry start flirting big time in front of Fanny. Henry and Maria then seize this chance to run off by themselves and they hop the fence. They tell Fanny to let Mr. Rushworth know they've gone on ahead. Fanny finds this all very awkward and borderline scandalous. Fanny sits by herself yet again. This entire chapter has a really interesting construction, almost like a play. Nearly the entire chapter takes place at one bench, where Fanny sits while all the other main characters parade by her. Julia now shows up. She's trying to escape from Mrs. Norris and Mrs. Rushworth and she complains that Fanny always manages to get out of situations like that by making herself scarce. Julia is alarmed when she hears that Henry is alone with Maria. She, too, hops the fence and runs off to find the pair and break up their party. Fanny is alone again. Finally Mr. Rushworth comes back out of breath. Mr. Rushworth isn't in the best of shape so his trip back to the house wasn't fun nor very easy. He's upset to find that the others left him. He starts complaining about Henry, and Fanny just lets him rant a while. He leaves, too, and Fanny is alone on her bench yet again. She's upset that Edmund is totally ignoring her. Finally Edmund and Mary return, having been gone way longer than they said they would. They had found a nice tree to sit by and had a very long conversation. Everyone finally makes their way back to the house for dinner. Mr. Rushworth and Julia are both in foul moods. But Julia gets in a better mood when Henry asks if she'll sit next to him on the ride back home. Mrs. Norris has been making a nuisance of herself all day and has somehow managed to get a bunch of free food and other stuff from Mrs. Rushworth. Mrs. Norris is super crafty that way. She'd totally be that person who would hit all the free sample tables at a grocery store way too many times. The ride back is not fun - Mrs. Norris won't shut up and she makes everyone in the carriage hold all her new belongings for her.


prompt:
Chapter: 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.

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

completion: A letter arrives from Antigua and Sir Thomas is now planning to return home in November, which is three months away. Maria isn't so happy to hear this since she's supposed to marry Mr. Rushworth after her dad returns. She decides to ignore it since a lot can change in three months. Mary is intrigued by the return of Sir Thomas since it will shake things up. Edmund, Fanny, and Mary are in a group together once again and discuss Sir Thomas's return. Once he arrives, Maria will get married and Edmund will take orders in the church. A lot of change seems to be on the horizon. Mary once again hints that Edmund needs a new career plan pronto but Edmund insists that he wants to be a clergyman. The group then discusses other careers too. Mary suggests that Edmund is only joining the church because his dad has a living set aside for him, which Edmund denies. Fanny defends Edmund's career decision and the group then compares the navy and the army with the church. Mary says that the army and the navy are appropriately manly jobs. The church is lame. Mary and Edmund once again debate the politics of the church, Mary taking a more negative view and Edmund defending it. Mary offers up Dr. Grant as an example of how the clergy isn't the best job. Dr. Grant is fairly lazy and selfish. Fanny pipes up and defends the church and says that Dr. Grant is probably better for being a clergyman than if he had a different job that may have made him even more selfish. Mary compliments Fanny and then walks off. Edmund rambles on about how super Mary is. Fanny agrees and then quickly starts talking about what a pretty night it is and how great nature is. Edmund agrees and says it's a good thing she's been well educated into having good taste and appreciating nature. Since he did most of the educating, he's basically patting himself on the back here. Edmund than wanders off and leaves Fanny alone at the window.


prompt:
Chapter: 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: Tom returns home, which most people are happy about since he's a life-of-the-party kind of guy. Mary is upset, though, because she discovers that she really likes Edmund better and she can't quite figure out why. Love is illogical that way. Henry leaves Mansfield and goes back to his own house, Everingham. It's now September. The Bertram girls are bummed that Henry is gone. Julia is mopey and Maria is increasingly annoyed with Mr. Rushworth. Fanny has come to the conclusion that Henry is terrible and a flirt. She doesn't like him at all and is glad he's gone. Fanny tries to hint to Edmund that Henry is way to close to Maria, but Edmund doesn't pick up on it. Fanny decides to drop it, but she has doubts that Edmund is really right. All the young people gather at Mansfield for an evening of dancing and music. While Fanny is sitting a dance out, she's forced to listen to Mrs. Norris and Mrs. Rushworth gossip about how awesome Maria's future marriage will be and how they think that Henry really loves Julia. The women then start to comment on Edmund and Mary, and Fanny quietly flips out. Tom comes over and half-heartedly offers to dance with Fanny, but she declines. He's glad and says he finds dancing lame and thinks that all this love and romance and couple stuff is stupid. We learn that a Mr. Yates, one of Tom's friends, is at this impromptu dance party. Tom starts to chat politics with Dr. Grant when Mrs. Norris interrupts and asks why Tom isn't dancing. She then suggests that Tom play some cards with her and Mrs. Rushworth. Tom quickly asks Fanny to dance and bolts. He gripes about how annoying Mrs. Norris is.


prompt:
Chapter: The Honourable John Yates, this new friend, had not much to recommend
him beyond habits of fashion and expense, and being the younger son of
a lord with a tolerable independence; and Sir Thomas would probably
have thought his introduction at Mansfield by no means desirable. Mr.
Bertram's acquaintance with him had begun at Weymouth, where they had
spent ten days together in the same society, and the friendship, if
friendship it might be called, had been proved and perfected by Mr.
Yates's being invited to take Mansfield in his way, whenever he could,
and by his promising to come; and he did come rather earlier than had
been expected, in consequence of the sudden breaking-up of a large party
assembled for gaiety at the house of another friend, which he had left
Weymouth to join. He came on the wings of disappointment, and with his
head full of acting, for it had been a theatrical party; and the play
in which he had borne a part was within two days of representation,
when the sudden death of one of the nearest connexions of the family
had destroyed the scheme and dispersed the performers. To be so near
happiness, so near fame, so near the long paragraph in praise of the
private theatricals at Ecclesford, the seat of the Right Hon. Lord
Ravenshaw, in Cornwall, which would of course have immortalised the
whole party for at least a twelvemonth! and being so near, to lose
it all, was an injury to be keenly felt, and Mr. Yates could talk of
nothing else. Ecclesford and its theatre, with its arrangements and
dresses, rehearsals and jokes, was his never-failing subject, and to
boast of the past his only consolation.

Happily for him, a love of the theatre is so general, an itch for acting
so strong among young people, that he could hardly out-talk the interest
of his hearers. From the first casting of the parts to the epilogue it
was all bewitching, and there were few who did not wish to have been a
party concerned, or would have hesitated to try their skill. The play
had been Lovers' Vows, and Mr. Yates was to have been Count Cassel. "A
trifling part," said he, "and not at all to my taste, and such a one
as I certainly would not accept again; but I was determined to make no
difficulties. Lord Ravenshaw and the duke had appropriated the only two
characters worth playing before I reached Ecclesford; and though Lord
Ravenshaw offered to resign his to me, it was impossible to take it, you
know. I was sorry for _him_ that he should have so mistaken his powers,
for he was no more equal to the Baron--a little man with a weak voice,
always hoarse after the first ten minutes. It must have injured the
piece materially; but _I_ was resolved to make no difficulties. Sir
Henry thought the duke not equal to Frederick, but that was because
Sir Henry wanted the part himself; whereas it was certainly in the best
hands of the two. I was surprised to see Sir Henry such a stick. Luckily
the strength of the piece did not depend upon him. Our Agatha was
inimitable, and the duke was thought very great by many. And upon the
whole, it would certainly have gone off wonderfully."

"It was a hard case, upon my word"; and, "I do think you were very much
to be pitied," were the kind responses of listening sympathy.

"It is not worth complaining about; but to be sure the poor old dowager
could not have died at a worse time; and it is impossible to help
wishing that the news could have been suppressed for just the three days
we wanted. It was but three days; and being only a grandmother, and all
happening two hundred miles off, I think there would have been no great
harm, and it was suggested, I know; but Lord Ravenshaw, who I suppose is
one of the most correct men in England, would not hear of it."

"An afterpiece instead of a comedy," said Mr. Bertram. "Lovers' Vows
were at an end, and Lord and Lady Ravenshaw left to act My Grandmother
by themselves. Well, the jointure may comfort _him_; and perhaps,
between friends, he began to tremble for his credit and his lungs in the
Baron, and was not sorry to withdraw; and to make _you_ amends, Yates, I
think we must raise a little theatre at Mansfield, and ask you to be our
manager."

This, though the thought of the moment, did not end with the moment; for
the inclination to act was awakened, and in no one more strongly than in
him who was now master of the house; and who, having so much leisure as
to make almost any novelty a certain good, had likewise such a degree of
lively talents and comic taste, as were exactly adapted to the novelty
of acting. The thought returned again and again. "Oh for the Ecclesford
theatre and scenery to try something with." Each sister could echo the
wish; and Henry Crawford, to whom, in all the riot of his gratifications
it was yet an untasted pleasure, was quite alive at the idea. "I really
believe," said he, "I could be fool enough at this moment to undertake
any character that ever was written, from Shylock or Richard III down to
the singing hero of a farce in his scarlet coat and cocked hat. I feel
as if I could be anything or everything; as if I could rant and storm,
or sigh or cut capers, in any tragedy or comedy in the English language.
Let us be doing something. Be it only half a play, an act, a scene; what
should prevent us? Not these countenances, I am sure," looking towards
the Miss Bertrams; "and for a theatre, what signifies a theatre? We
shall be only amusing ourselves. Any room in this house might suffice."

"We must have a curtain," said Tom Bertram; "a few yards of green baize
for a curtain, and perhaps that may be enough."

"Oh, quite enough," cried Mr. Yates, "with only just a side wing or two
run up, doors in flat, and three or four scenes to be let down; nothing
more would be necessary on such a plan as this. For mere amusement among
ourselves we should want nothing more."

"I believe we must be satisfied with _less_," said Maria. "There would
not be time, and other difficulties would arise. We must rather adopt
Mr. Crawford's views, and make the _performance_, not the _theatre_, our
object. Many parts of our best plays are independent of scenery."

"Nay," said Edmund, who began to listen with alarm. "Let us do nothing
by halves. If we are to act, let it be in a theatre completely fitted
up with pit, boxes, and gallery, and let us have a play entire from
beginning to end; so as it be a German play, no matter what, with a good
tricking, shifting afterpiece, and a figure-dance, and a hornpipe, and a
song between the acts. If we do not outdo Ecclesford, we do nothing."

"Now, Edmund, do not be disagreeable," said Julia. "Nobody loves a play
better than you do, or can have gone much farther to see one."

"True, to see real acting, good hardened real acting; but I would hardly
walk from this room to the next to look at the raw efforts of those who
have not been bred to the trade: a set of gentlemen and ladies, who have
all the disadvantages of education and decorum to struggle through."

After a short pause, however, the subject still continued, and was
discussed with unabated eagerness, every one's inclination increasing
by the discussion, and a knowledge of the inclination of the rest; and
though nothing was settled but that Tom Bertram would prefer a comedy,
and his sisters and Henry Crawford a tragedy, and that nothing in the
world could be easier than to find a piece which would please them all,
the resolution to act something or other seemed so decided as to
make Edmund quite uncomfortable. He was determined to prevent it, if
possible, though his mother, who equally heard the conversation which
passed at table, did not evince the least disapprobation.

The same evening afforded him an opportunity of trying his strength.
Maria, Julia, Henry Crawford, and Mr. Yates were in the billiard-room.
Tom, returning from them into the drawing-room, where Edmund was
standing thoughtfully by the fire, while Lady Bertram was on the sofa at
a little distance, and Fanny close beside her arranging her work, thus
began as he entered--"Such a horribly vile billiard-table as ours is not
to be met with, I believe, above ground. I can stand it no longer, and I
think, I may say, that nothing shall ever tempt me to it again; but one
good thing I have just ascertained: it is the very room for a theatre,
precisely the shape and length for it; and the doors at the farther
end, communicating with each other, as they may be made to do in five
minutes, by merely moving the bookcase in my father's room, is the very
thing we could have desired, if we had sat down to wish for it; and
my father's room will be an excellent greenroom. It seems to join the
billiard-room on purpose."

"You are not serious, Tom, in meaning to act?" said Edmund, in a low
voice, as his brother approached the fire.

"Not serious! never more so, I assure you. What is there to surprise you
in it?"

"I think it would be very wrong. In a _general_ light, private
theatricals are open to some objections, but as _we_ are circumstanced,
I must think it would be highly injudicious, and more than injudicious
to attempt anything of the kind. It would shew great want of feeling
on my father's account, absent as he is, and in some degree of constant
danger; and it would be imprudent, I think, with regard to Maria, whose
situation is a very delicate one, considering everything, extremely
delicate."

"You take up a thing so seriously! as if we were going to act three
times a week till my father's return, and invite all the country. But
it is not to be a display of that sort. We mean nothing but a little
amusement among ourselves, just to vary the scene, and exercise our
powers in something new. We want no audience, no publicity. We may be
trusted, I think, in chusing some play most perfectly unexceptionable;
and I can conceive no greater harm or danger to any of us in conversing
in the elegant written language of some respectable author than in
chattering in words of our own. I have no fears and no scruples. And
as to my father's being absent, it is so far from an objection, that I
consider it rather as a motive; for the expectation of his return must
be a very anxious period to my mother; and if we can be the means of
amusing that anxiety, and keeping up her spirits for the next few weeks,
I shall think our time very well spent, and so, I am sure, will he. It
is a _very_ anxious period for her."

As he said this, each looked towards their mother. Lady Bertram, sunk
back in one corner of the sofa, the picture of health, wealth, ease,
and tranquillity, was just falling into a gentle doze, while Fanny was
getting through the few difficulties of her work for her.

Edmund smiled and shook his head.

"By Jove! this won't do," cried Tom, throwing himself into a chair with
a hearty laugh. "To be sure, my dear mother, your anxiety--I was unlucky
there."

"What is the matter?" asked her ladyship, in the heavy tone of one
half-roused; "I was not asleep."

"Oh dear, no, ma'am, nobody suspected you! Well, Edmund," he continued,
returning to the former subject, posture, and voice, as soon as Lady
Bertram began to nod again, "but _this_ I _will_ maintain, that we shall
be doing no harm."

"I cannot agree with you; I am convinced that my father would totally
disapprove it."

"And I am convinced to the contrary. Nobody is fonder of the exercise
of talent in young people, or promotes it more, than my father, and for
anything of the acting, spouting, reciting kind, I think he has always a
decided taste. I am sure he encouraged it in us as boys. How many a time
have we mourned over the dead body of Julius Caesar, and to _be'd_ and
not _to_ _be'd_, in this very room, for his amusement? And I am sure,
_my_ _name_ _was_ _Norval_, every evening of my life through one
Christmas holidays."

"It was a very different thing. You must see the difference yourself. My
father wished us, as schoolboys, to speak well, but he would never
wish his grown-up daughters to be acting plays. His sense of decorum is
strict."

"I know all that," said Tom, displeased. "I know my father as well as
you do; and I'll take care that his daughters do nothing to distress
him. Manage your own concerns, Edmund, and I'll take care of the rest of
the family."

"If you are resolved on acting," replied the persevering Edmund, "I must
hope it will be in a very small and quiet way; and I think a theatre
ought not to be attempted. It would be taking liberties with my father's
house in his absence which could not be justified."

"For everything of that nature I will be answerable," said Tom, in a
decided tone. "His house shall not be hurt. I have quite as great an
interest in being careful of his house as you can have; and as to such
alterations as I was suggesting just now, such as moving a bookcase, or
unlocking a door, or even as using the billiard-room for the space of a
week without playing at billiards in it, you might just as well suppose
he would object to our sitting more in this room, and less in the
breakfast-room, than we did before he went away, or to my sister's
pianoforte being moved from one side of the room to the other. Absolute
nonsense!"

"The innovation, if not wrong as an innovation, will be wrong as an
expense."

"Yes, the expense of such an undertaking would be prodigious! Perhaps
it might cost a whole twenty pounds. Something of a theatre we must have
undoubtedly, but it will be on the simplest plan: a green curtain and a
little carpenter's work, and that's all; and as the carpenter's work
may be all done at home by Christopher Jackson himself, it will be
too absurd to talk of expense; and as long as Jackson is employed,
everything will be right with Sir Thomas. Don't imagine that nobody in
this house can see or judge but yourself. Don't act yourself, if you do
not like it, but don't expect to govern everybody else."

"No, as to acting myself," said Edmund, "_that_ I absolutely protest
against."

Tom walked out of the room as he said it, and Edmund was left to sit
down and stir the fire in thoughtful vexation.

Fanny, who had heard it all, and borne Edmund company in every feeling
throughout the whole, now ventured to say, in her anxiety to suggest
some comfort, "Perhaps they may not be able to find any play to suit
them. Your brother's taste and your sisters' seem very different."

"I have no hope there, Fanny. If they persist in the scheme, they will
find something. I shall speak to my sisters and try to dissuade _them_,
and that is all I can do."

"I should think my aunt Norris would be on your side."

"I dare say she would, but she has no influence with either Tom or my
sisters that could be of any use; and if I cannot convince them myself,
I shall let things take their course, without attempting it through
her. Family squabbling is the greatest evil of all, and we had better do
anything than be altogether by the ears."

His sisters, to whom he had an opportunity of speaking the next morning,
were quite as impatient of his advice, quite as unyielding to his
representation, quite as determined in the cause of pleasure, as Tom.
Their mother had no objection to the plan, and they were not in the
least afraid of their father's disapprobation. There could be no harm in
what had been done in so many respectable families, and by so many women
of the first consideration; and it must be scrupulousness run mad that
could see anything to censure in a plan like theirs, comprehending only
brothers and sisters and intimate friends, and which would never be
heard of beyond themselves. Julia _did_ seem inclined to admit that
Maria's situation might require particular caution and delicacy--but
that could not extend to _her_--she was at liberty; and Maria evidently
considered her engagement as only raising her so much more above
restraint, and leaving her less occasion than Julia to consult either
father or mother. Edmund had little to hope, but he was still urging the
subject when Henry Crawford entered the room, fresh from the Parsonage,
calling out, "No want of hands in our theatre, Miss Bertram. No want
of understrappers: my sister desires her love, and hopes to be admitted
into the company, and will be happy to take the part of any old duenna
or tame confidante, that you may not like to do yourselves."

Maria gave Edmund a glance, which meant, "What say you now? Can we
be wrong if Mary Crawford feels the same?" And Edmund, silenced,
was obliged to acknowledge that the charm of acting might well carry
fascination to the mind of genius; and with the ingenuity of love, to
dwell more on the obliging, accommodating purport of the message than on
anything else.

The scheme advanced. Opposition was vain; and as to Mrs. Norris, he
was mistaken in supposing she would wish to make any. She started no
difficulties that were not talked down in five minutes by her eldest
nephew and niece, who were all-powerful with her; and as the whole
arrangement was to bring very little expense to anybody, and none at all
to herself, as she foresaw in it all the comforts of hurry, bustle,
and importance, and derived the immediate advantage of fancying herself
obliged to leave her own house, where she had been living a month at
her own cost, and take up her abode in theirs, that every hour might be
spent in their service, she was, in fact, exceedingly delighted with the
project.

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

completion: The narrator fills us in on John Yates. He's the younger son of a wealthy Lord, and he and Tom have mutual friends. Tom invited him to come visit Mansfield, so Mr. Yates takes him up on the offer. Mr. Yates is bummed when he arrives, though: he'd recently been hanging out at a fancy house with some Lords and Earls and they were all putting on a play together. But someone's relative had the nerve to die in the middle of rehearsals and the play was canceled. Mr. Yates still has the acting bug and talks all about the awesome play they were going to perform, something called Lovers' Vows. Everyone is intrigued by this idea and they soon decide that the group at Mansfield should put on a play, too. Everyone's excited by the idea except Edmund. Edmund's idea of fun is probably watching paint dry. Edmund objects to the idea of putting on a play. Historical Context Lesson! It might seem weird that Edmund would have a problem with putting on a play, which seems like a harmless past-time. But during this period, an evangelical movement was going on and a lot of religious thinkers objected to activities like dancing, card playing, and acting. Acting was seen as especially bad and dangerous since it let people get away with doing scandalous things in the name of "playing pretend." Interestingly, people involved in the French Revolution, which had happened in the 1790s, also thought that actors were immoral since they were essentially lying about who they were. Edmund's objection to acting has religious and political significance that Austen's readers would have picked up on. But everyone else disagrees with Edmund and tells him to stop being a party pooper. Edmund says that he has nothing against the theater, really, but thinks that their group shouldn't be acting together without parental supervision. He says Sir Thomas won't like it at all. The others say that Sir Thomas is gone and what he doesn't know won't hurt him. Later that evening Tom and Edmund discuss the acting thing. Tom's determined to do it since it will be fun. He wants to turn the billiard room into a theater. Edmund urges caution, saying that Maria's in a weird situation since her engagement can't be really locked down until Sir Thomas actually gets back and can handle things in person. Quick FYI: As Maria's father, Sir Thomas would have been in charge of handling all the financial and legal issues that went into arranging a marriage in this era. Women had no say over their own financial matters, and fathers and husbands pretty much had all the legal rights. Tom attempts to convince Edmund that Lady Bertram is stressed over Sir Thomas's absence and that a play will distract her. Unfortunately for Tom, Lady Bertram is dozing and isn't paying them any attention. She doesn't look stressed out at all. Tom complains to his mother that she ruined his argument and she's confused - she was asleep, after all. Edmund laughs. After debating a bit more, Tom finally tells Edmund to mind his own business and to not judge things for everyone else. Edmund gives up but refuses to be one of the actors. Fanny tries to console Edmund by saying that the group will never be able to agree on a play anyway. Edmund tries once again to talk with his sisters about the acting thing but they both ignore him. Henry's back and he stops by to say that he and Mary are happy to act in the play and are looking forward to doing it. Maria looks over at Edmund after this and Edmund begins to think that acting might not be so bad since Mary's doing it. Mrs. Norris fully approves of the acting scheme and helps make arrangements.