prompt:
Chapter: On reaching home Fanny went immediately upstairs to deposit this
unexpected acquisition, this doubtful good of a necklace, in some
favourite box in the East room, which held all her smaller treasures;
but on opening the door, what was her surprise to find her cousin Edmund
there writing at the table! Such a sight having never occurred before,
was almost as wonderful as it was welcome.

"Fanny," said he directly, leaving his seat and his pen, and meeting her
with something in his hand, "I beg your pardon for being here. I came
to look for you, and after waiting a little while in hope of your coming
in, was making use of your inkstand to explain my errand. You will find
the beginning of a note to yourself; but I can now speak my business,
which is merely to beg your acceptance of this little trifle--a chain
for William's cross. You ought to have had it a week ago, but there has
been a delay from my brother's not being in town by several days so soon
as I expected; and I have only just now received it at Northampton. I
hope you will like the chain itself, Fanny. I endeavoured to consult the
simplicity of your taste; but, at any rate, I know you will be kind to
my intentions, and consider it, as it really is, a token of the love of
one of your oldest friends."

And so saying, he was hurrying away, before Fanny, overpowered by a
thousand feelings of pain and pleasure, could attempt to speak; but
quickened by one sovereign wish, she then called out, "Oh! cousin, stop
a moment, pray stop!"

He turned back.

"I cannot attempt to thank you," she continued, in a very agitated
manner; "thanks are out of the question. I feel much more than I can
possibly express. Your goodness in thinking of me in such a way is
beyond--"

"If that is all you have to say, Fanny" smiling and turning away again.

"No, no, it is not. I want to consult you."

Almost unconsciously she had now undone the parcel he had just put
into her hand, and seeing before her, in all the niceness of jewellers'
packing, a plain gold chain, perfectly simple and neat, she could not
help bursting forth again, "Oh, this is beautiful indeed! This is the
very thing, precisely what I wished for! This is the only ornament I
have ever had a desire to possess. It will exactly suit my cross. They
must and shall be worn together. It comes, too, in such an acceptable
moment. Oh, cousin, you do not know how acceptable it is."

"My dear Fanny, you feel these things a great deal too much. I am most
happy that you like the chain, and that it should be here in time for
to-morrow; but your thanks are far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I
have no pleasure in the world superior to that of contributing to yours.
No, I can safely say, I have no pleasure so complete, so unalloyed. It
is without a drawback."

Upon such expressions of affection Fanny could have lived an hour
without saying another word; but Edmund, after waiting a moment, obliged
her to bring down her mind from its heavenly flight by saying, "But what
is it that you want to consult me about?"

It was about the necklace, which she was now most earnestly longing to
return, and hoped to obtain his approbation of her doing. She gave the
history of her recent visit, and now her raptures might well be over;
for Edmund was so struck with the circumstance, so delighted with what
Miss Crawford had done, so gratified by such a coincidence of conduct
between them, that Fanny could not but admit the superior power of one
pleasure over his own mind, though it might have its drawback. It was
some time before she could get his attention to her plan, or any answer
to her demand of his opinion: he was in a reverie of fond reflection,
uttering only now and then a few half-sentences of praise; but when
he did awake and understand, he was very decided in opposing what she
wished.

"Return the necklace! No, my dear Fanny, upon no account. It would be
mortifying her severely. There can hardly be a more unpleasant sensation
than the having anything returned on our hands which we have given with
a reasonable hope of its contributing to the comfort of a friend. Why
should she lose a pleasure which she has shewn herself so deserving of?"

"If it had been given to me in the first instance," said Fanny, "I
should not have thought of returning it; but being her brother's
present, is not it fair to suppose that she would rather not part with
it, when it is not wanted?"

"She must not suppose it not wanted, not acceptable, at least: and its
having been originally her brother's gift makes no difference; for as
she was not prevented from offering, nor you from taking it on that
account, it ought not to prevent you from keeping it. No doubt it is
handsomer than mine, and fitter for a ballroom."

"No, it is not handsomer, not at all handsomer in its way, and, for
my purpose, not half so fit. The chain will agree with William's cross
beyond all comparison better than the necklace."

"For one night, Fanny, for only one night, if it _be_ a sacrifice; I am
sure you will, upon consideration, make that sacrifice rather than give
pain to one who has been so studious of your comfort. Miss Crawford's
attentions to you have been--not more than you were justly entitled
to--I am the last person to think that _could_ _be_, but they have been
invariable; and to be returning them with what must have something the
_air_ of ingratitude, though I know it could never have the _meaning_,
is not in your nature, I am sure. Wear the necklace, as you are engaged
to do, to-morrow evening, and let the chain, which was not ordered with
any reference to the ball, be kept for commoner occasions. This is my
advice. I would not have the shadow of a coolness between the two whose
intimacy I have been observing with the greatest pleasure, and in whose
characters there is so much general resemblance in true generosity
and natural delicacy as to make the few slight differences, resulting
principally from situation, no reasonable hindrance to a perfect
friendship. I would not have the shadow of a coolness arise," he
repeated, his voice sinking a little, "between the two dearest objects I
have on earth."

He was gone as he spoke; and Fanny remained to tranquillise herself as
she could. She was one of his two dearest--that must support her. But
the other: the first! She had never heard him speak so openly before,
and though it told her no more than what she had long perceived, it was
a stab, for it told of his own convictions and views. They were
decided. He would marry Miss Crawford. It was a stab, in spite of every
long-standing expectation; and she was obliged to repeat again and
again, that she was one of his two dearest, before the words gave her
any sensation. Could she believe Miss Crawford to deserve him, it would
be--oh, how different would it be--how far more tolerable! But he was
deceived in her: he gave her merits which she had not; her faults were
what they had ever been, but he saw them no longer. Till she had shed
many tears over this deception, Fanny could not subdue her agitation;
and the dejection which followed could only be relieved by the influence
of fervent prayers for his happiness.

It was her intention, as she felt it to be her duty, to try to overcome
all that was excessive, all that bordered on selfishness, in her
affection for Edmund. To call or to fancy it a loss, a disappointment,
would be a presumption for which she had not words strong enough to
satisfy her own humility. To think of him as Miss Crawford might be
justified in thinking, would in her be insanity. To her he could be
nothing under any circumstances; nothing dearer than a friend. Why did
such an idea occur to her even enough to be reprobated and forbidden? It
ought not to have touched on the confines of her imagination. She would
endeavour to be rational, and to deserve the right of judging of Miss
Crawford's character, and the privilege of true solicitude for him by a
sound intellect and an honest heart.

She had all the heroism of principle, and was determined to do her duty;
but having also many of the feelings of youth and nature, let her not
be much wondered at, if, after making all these good resolutions on the
side of self-government, she seized the scrap of paper on which Edmund
had begun writing to her, as a treasure beyond all her hopes, and
reading with the tenderest emotion these words, "My very dear Fanny,
you must do me the favour to accept" locked it up with the chain, as the
dearest part of the gift. It was the only thing approaching to a letter
which she had ever received from him; she might never receive another;
it was impossible that she ever should receive another so perfectly
gratifying in the occasion and the style. Two lines more prized had
never fallen from the pen of the most distinguished author--never
more completely blessed the researches of the fondest biographer. The
enthusiasm of a woman's love is even beyond the biographer's. To her,
the handwriting itself, independent of anything it may convey, is a
blessedness. Never were such characters cut by any other human being as
Edmund's commonest handwriting gave! This specimen, written in haste
as it was, had not a fault; and there was a felicity in the flow of the
first four words, in the arrangement of "My very dear Fanny," which she
could have looked at for ever.

Having regulated her thoughts and comforted her feelings by this happy
mixture of reason and weakness, she was able in due time to go down
and resume her usual employments near her aunt Bertram, and pay her the
usual observances without any apparent want of spirits.

Thursday, predestined to hope and enjoyment, came; and opened with
more kindness to Fanny than such self-willed, unmanageable days often
volunteer, for soon after breakfast a very friendly note was brought
from Mr. Crawford to William, stating that as he found himself obliged
to go to London on the morrow for a few days, he could not help trying
to procure a companion; and therefore hoped that if William could
make up his mind to leave Mansfield half a day earlier than had been
proposed, he would accept a place in his carriage. Mr. Crawford meant to
be in town by his uncle's accustomary late dinner-hour, and William
was invited to dine with him at the Admiral's. The proposal was a very
pleasant one to William himself, who enjoyed the idea of travelling post
with four horses, and such a good-humoured, agreeable friend; and, in
likening it to going up with despatches, was saying at once everything
in favour of its happiness and dignity which his imagination could
suggest; and Fanny, from a different motive, was exceedingly pleased;
for the original plan was that William should go up by the mail from
Northampton the following night, which would not have allowed him an
hour's rest before he must have got into a Portsmouth coach; and though
this offer of Mr. Crawford's would rob her of many hours of his company,
she was too happy in having William spared from the fatigue of such
a journey, to think of anything else. Sir Thomas approved of it for
another reason. His nephew's introduction to Admiral Crawford might be
of service. The Admiral, he believed, had interest. Upon the whole, it
was a very joyous note. Fanny's spirits lived on it half the morning,
deriving some accession of pleasure from its writer being himself to go
away.

As for the ball, so near at hand, she had too many agitations and fears
to have half the enjoyment in anticipation which she ought to have had,
or must have been supposed to have by the many young ladies looking
forward to the same event in situations more at ease, but under
circumstances of less novelty, less interest, less peculiar
gratification, than would be attributed to her. Miss Price, known
only by name to half the people invited, was now to make her first
appearance, and must be regarded as the queen of the evening. Who could
be happier than Miss Price? But Miss Price had not been brought up to
the trade of _coming_ _out_; and had she known in what light this ball
was, in general, considered respecting her, it would very much have
lessened her comfort by increasing the fears she already had of doing
wrong and being looked at. To dance without much observation or any
extraordinary fatigue, to have strength and partners for about half the
evening, to dance a little with Edmund, and not a great deal with Mr.
Crawford, to see William enjoy himself, and be able to keep away
from her aunt Norris, was the height of her ambition, and seemed to
comprehend her greatest possibility of happiness. As these were the best
of her hopes, they could not always prevail; and in the course of a long
morning, spent principally with her two aunts, she was often under the
influence of much less sanguine views. William, determined to make this
last day a day of thorough enjoyment, was out snipe-shooting; Edmund,
she had too much reason to suppose, was at the Parsonage; and left
alone to bear the worrying of Mrs. Norris, who was cross because the
housekeeper would have her own way with the supper, and whom _she_ could
not avoid though the housekeeper might, Fanny was worn down at last to
think everything an evil belonging to the ball, and when sent off with
a parting worry to dress, moved as languidly towards her own room, and
felt as incapable of happiness as if she had been allowed no share in
it.

As she walked slowly upstairs she thought of yesterday; it had been
about the same hour that she had returned from the Parsonage, and
found Edmund in the East room. "Suppose I were to find him there again
to-day!" said she to herself, in a fond indulgence of fancy.

"Fanny," said a voice at that moment near her. Starting and looking up,
she saw, across the lobby she had just reached, Edmund himself, standing
at the head of a different staircase. He came towards her. "You look
tired and fagged, Fanny. You have been walking too far."

"No, I have not been out at all."

"Then you have had fatigues within doors, which are worse. You had
better have gone out."

Fanny, not liking to complain, found it easiest to make no answer; and
though he looked at her with his usual kindness, she believed he had
soon ceased to think of her countenance. He did not appear in spirits:
something unconnected with her was probably amiss. They proceeded
upstairs together, their rooms being on the same floor above.

"I come from Dr. Grant's," said Edmund presently. "You may guess my
errand there, Fanny." And he looked so conscious, that Fanny could think
but of one errand, which turned her too sick for speech. "I wished to
engage Miss Crawford for the two first dances," was the explanation that
followed, and brought Fanny to life again, enabling her, as she found
she was expected to speak, to utter something like an inquiry as to the
result.

"Yes," he answered, "she is engaged to me; but" (with a smile that did
not sit easy) "she says it is to be the last time that she ever will
dance with me. She is not serious. I think, I hope, I am sure she is
not serious; but I would rather not hear it. She never has danced with a
clergyman, she says, and she never _will_. For my own sake, I could wish
there had been no ball just at--I mean not this very week, this very
day; to-morrow I leave home."

Fanny struggled for speech, and said, "I am very sorry that anything has
occurred to distress you. This ought to be a day of pleasure. My uncle
meant it so."

"Oh yes, yes! and it will be a day of pleasure. It will all end right. I
am only vexed for a moment. In fact, it is not that I consider the ball
as ill-timed; what does it signify? But, Fanny," stopping her, by taking
her hand, and speaking low and seriously, "you know what all this means.
You see how it is; and could tell me, perhaps better than I could tell
you, how and why I am vexed. Let me talk to you a little. You are a
kind, kind listener. I have been pained by her manner this morning, and
cannot get the better of it. I know her disposition to be as sweet and
faultless as your own, but the influence of her former companions
makes her seem--gives to her conversation, to her professed opinions,
sometimes a tinge of wrong. She does not _think_ evil, but she speaks
it, speaks it in playfulness; and though I know it to be playfulness, it
grieves me to the soul."

"The effect of education," said Fanny gently.

Edmund could not but agree to it. "Yes, that uncle and aunt! They have
injured the finest mind; for sometimes, Fanny, I own to you, it does
appear more than manner: it appears as if the mind itself was tainted."

Fanny imagined this to be an appeal to her judgment, and therefore,
after a moment's consideration, said, "If you only want me as a
listener, cousin, I will be as useful as I can; but I am not qualified
for an adviser. Do not ask advice of _me_. I am not competent."

"You are right, Fanny, to protest against such an office, but you need
not be afraid. It is a subject on which I should never ask advice; it
is the sort of subject on which it had better never be asked; and few,
I imagine, do ask it, but when they want to be influenced against their
conscience. I only want to talk to you."

"One thing more. Excuse the liberty; but take care _how_ you talk to me.
Do not tell me anything now, which hereafter you may be sorry for. The
time may come--"

The colour rushed into her cheeks as she spoke.

"Dearest Fanny!" cried Edmund, pressing her hand to his lips with
almost as much warmth as if it had been Miss Crawford's, "you are all
considerate thought! But it is unnecessary here. The time will never
come. No such time as you allude to will ever come. I begin to think it
most improbable: the chances grow less and less; and even if it should,
there will be nothing to be remembered by either you or me that we need
be afraid of, for I can never be ashamed of my own scruples; and if they
are removed, it must be by changes that will only raise her character
the more by the recollection of the faults she once had. You are the
only being upon earth to whom I should say what I have said; but you
have always known my opinion of her; you can bear me witness, Fanny,
that I have never been blinded. How many a time have we talked over
her little errors! You need not fear me; I have almost given up every
serious idea of her; but I must be a blockhead indeed, if, whatever
befell me, I could think of your kindness and sympathy without the
sincerest gratitude."

He had said enough to shake the experience of eighteen. He had said
enough to give Fanny some happier feelings than she had lately known,
and with a brighter look, she answered, "Yes, cousin, I am convinced
that _you_ would be incapable of anything else, though perhaps some
might not. I cannot be afraid of hearing anything you wish to say. Do
not check yourself. Tell me whatever you like."

They were now on the second floor, and the appearance of a housemaid
prevented any farther conversation. For Fanny's present comfort it was
concluded, perhaps, at the happiest moment: had he been able to talk
another five minutes, there is no saying that he might not have talked
away all Miss Crawford's faults and his own despondence. But as it was,
they parted with looks on his side of grateful affection, and with
some very precious sensations on hers. She had felt nothing like it for
hours. Since the first joy from Mr. Crawford's note to William had worn
away, she had been in a state absolutely the reverse; there had been
no comfort around, no hope within her. Now everything was smiling.
William's good fortune returned again upon her mind, and seemed of
greater value than at first. The ball, too--such an evening of pleasure
before her! It was now a real animation; and she began to dress for it
with much of the happy flutter which belongs to a ball. All went well:
she did not dislike her own looks; and when she came to the necklaces
again, her good fortune seemed complete, for upon trial the one given
her by Miss Crawford would by no means go through the ring of the cross.
She had, to oblige Edmund, resolved to wear it; but it was too large for
the purpose. His, therefore, must be worn; and having, with delightful
feelings, joined the chain and the cross--those memorials of the two
most beloved of her heart, those dearest tokens so formed for each other
by everything real and imaginary--and put them round her neck, and seen
and felt how full of William and Edmund they were, she was able, without
an effort, to resolve on wearing Miss Crawford's necklace too. She
acknowledged it to be right. Miss Crawford had a claim; and when it was
no longer to encroach on, to interfere with the stronger claims, the
truer kindness of another, she could do her justice even with pleasure
to herself. The necklace really looked very well; and Fanny left her
room at last, comfortably satisfied with herself and all about her.

Her aunt Bertram had recollected her on this occasion with an unusual
degree of wakefulness. It had really occurred to her, unprompted, that
Fanny, preparing for a ball, might be glad of better help than the upper
housemaid's, and when dressed herself, she actually sent her own maid to
assist her; too late, of course, to be of any use. Mrs. Chapman had just
reached the attic floor, when Miss Price came out of her room completely
dressed, and only civilities were necessary; but Fanny felt her aunt's
attention almost as much as Lady Bertram or Mrs. Chapman could do
themselves.

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

completion: Fanny quickly goes to her room and finds Edmund there writing her a note. Fanny is excited to see him, as usual. Edmund explains that he has a gift for her: it's a chain for William's cross. Fanny is thrilled yet horrified because she already has a chain now from Mary/Henry. Fanny gushes her thanks and then asks Edmund his advice about the Great Necklace Debate. Edmund is really happy to hear about Mary's kind act and insists that she wear that chain. Fanny says that she likes Edmund's better and would feel better returning Mary's necklace. Edmund tells her that it would be super rude to return the chain and would hurt Mary's feelings. He says he wants her and Mary to be close friends since they are the two people he loves most in the world. Fanny's happy that he loves her, but not happy with the way that he loves her. She agonizes over what to do about he necklaces and over the fact that Edmund loves Mary. Fanny gives herself a pep talk and says that she doesn't have a right to think of Edmund as she does, and that she should be rational in order to have the right to judge people like Mary. For all of her low self-esteem, Fanny definitely displays a bit of an ego here. About ten seconds after Fanny resolves to get over Edmund she picks up Edmund's note and happily freaks out over the fact that he wrote her name. Fanny is about one step away from scrawling Mrs. Edmund Bertram in a notebook and doodling hearts. The day of the ball arrives. Exciting times. Henry offers to take William back to Portsmouth himself, though this will mean that William has to leave a little earlier than planned. Fanny's pretty sad that he's going but is glad he won't have to use public transportation on his trip. Sir Thomas is also a fan of the plan since William will get to meet Henry's Uncle Admiral on the course of their road trip. Fanny starts worrying about how the ball will go and gets a bit depressed. But then Edmund runs into her and tells her they'll have to dance together and Fanny's mood does and abrupt U-turn. Edmund is bummed because Mary told him that she's never danced with a clergyman and never will. He can't tell if she was joking or not and starts talking to Fanny about his problems with Mary. Fanny tells him to stop talking since this will be awkward later when they get engaged. Well she hints at that at least. Edmund gets the drift and tells her that's a nice thought but he doubts he'll be marring Mary now. Their conversation gets cut short but Fanny goes away happy. She also finds out that Mary's necklace doesn't fit the cross so she gets to wear Edmund's gift. But feeling charitable, she decides to wear Mary's chain too and just have two necklaces. Tres chic, Fanny. Lady Bertram nicely sent a maid up to help Fanny, but Fanny was already dressed so it wasn't necessary.


prompt:
Chapter: Her uncle and both her aunts were in the drawing-room when Fanny went
down. To the former she was an interesting object, and he saw with
pleasure the general elegance of her appearance, and her being in
remarkably good looks. The neatness and propriety of her dress was all
that he would allow himself to commend in her presence, but upon her
leaving the room again soon afterwards, he spoke of her beauty with very
decided praise.

"Yes," said Lady Bertram, "she looks very well. I sent Chapman to her."

"Look well! Oh, yes!" cried Mrs. Norris, "she has good reason to look
well with all her advantages: brought up in this family as she has been,
with all the benefit of her cousins' manners before her. Only think, my
dear Sir Thomas, what extraordinary advantages you and I have been the
means of giving her. The very gown you have been taking notice of is
your own generous present to her when dear Mrs. Rushworth married. What
would she have been if we had not taken her by the hand?"

Sir Thomas said no more; but when they sat down to table the eyes of
the two young men assured him that the subject might be gently touched
again, when the ladies withdrew, with more success. Fanny saw that she
was approved; and the consciousness of looking well made her look still
better. From a variety of causes she was happy, and she was soon made
still happier; for in following her aunts out of the room, Edmund, who
was holding open the door, said, as she passed him, "You must dance
with me, Fanny; you must keep two dances for me; any two that you like,
except the first." She had nothing more to wish for. She had hardly
ever been in a state so nearly approaching high spirits in her life. Her
cousins' former gaiety on the day of a ball was no longer surprising to
her; she felt it to be indeed very charming, and was actually practising
her steps about the drawing-room as long as she could be safe from the
notice of her aunt Norris, who was entirely taken up at first in fresh
arranging and injuring the noble fire which the butler had prepared.

Half an hour followed that would have been at least languid under any
other circumstances, but Fanny's happiness still prevailed. It was but
to think of her conversation with Edmund, and what was the restlessness
of Mrs. Norris? What were the yawns of Lady Bertram?

The gentlemen joined them; and soon after began the sweet expectation of
a carriage, when a general spirit of ease and enjoyment seemed diffused,
and they all stood about and talked and laughed, and every moment had
its pleasure and its hope. Fanny felt that there must be a struggle
in Edmund's cheerfulness, but it was delightful to see the effort so
successfully made.

When the carriages were really heard, when the guests began really to
assemble, her own gaiety of heart was much subdued: the sight of so
many strangers threw her back into herself; and besides the gravity and
formality of the first great circle, which the manners of neither Sir
Thomas nor Lady Bertram were of a kind to do away, she found herself
occasionally called on to endure something worse. She was introduced
here and there by her uncle, and forced to be spoken to, and to curtsey,
and speak again. This was a hard duty, and she was never summoned to
it without looking at William, as he walked about at his ease in the
background of the scene, and longing to be with him.

The entrance of the Grants and Crawfords was a favourable epoch. The
stiffness of the meeting soon gave way before their popular manners and
more diffused intimacies: little groups were formed, and everybody grew
comfortable. Fanny felt the advantage; and, drawing back from the toils
of civility, would have been again most happy, could she have kept her
eyes from wandering between Edmund and Mary Crawford. _She_ looked all
loveliness--and what might not be the end of it? Her own musings
were brought to an end on perceiving Mr. Crawford before her, and
her thoughts were put into another channel by his engaging her almost
instantly for the first two dances. Her happiness on this occasion was
very much _a_ _la_ _mortal_, finely chequered. To be secure of a partner
at first was a most essential good--for the moment of beginning was now
growing seriously near; and she so little understood her own claims as
to think that if Mr. Crawford had not asked her, she must have been the
last to be sought after, and should have received a partner only through
a series of inquiry, and bustle, and interference, which would have been
terrible; but at the same time there was a pointedness in his manner of
asking her which she did not like, and she saw his eye glancing for
a moment at her necklace, with a smile--she thought there was a
smile--which made her blush and feel wretched. And though there was no
second glance to disturb her, though his object seemed then to be only
quietly agreeable, she could not get the better of her embarrassment,
heightened as it was by the idea of his perceiving it, and had no
composure till he turned away to some one else. Then she could gradually
rise up to the genuine satisfaction of having a partner, a voluntary
partner, secured against the dancing began.

When the company were moving into the ballroom, she found herself
for the first time near Miss Crawford, whose eyes and smiles were
immediately and more unequivocally directed as her brother's had been,
and who was beginning to speak on the subject, when Fanny, anxious
to get the story over, hastened to give the explanation of the second
necklace: the real chain. Miss Crawford listened; and all her intended
compliments and insinuations to Fanny were forgotten: she felt only one
thing; and her eyes, bright as they had been before, shewing they could
yet be brighter, she exclaimed with eager pleasure, "Did he? Did Edmund?
That was like himself. No other man would have thought of it. I honour
him beyond expression." And she looked around as if longing to tell him
so. He was not near, he was attending a party of ladies out of the room;
and Mrs. Grant coming up to the two girls, and taking an arm of each,
they followed with the rest.

Fanny's heart sunk, but there was no leisure for thinking long even of
Miss Crawford's feelings. They were in the ballroom, the violins were
playing, and her mind was in a flutter that forbade its fixing on
anything serious. She must watch the general arrangements, and see how
everything was done.

In a few minutes Sir Thomas came to her, and asked if she were engaged;
and the "Yes, sir; to Mr. Crawford," was exactly what he had intended
to hear. Mr. Crawford was not far off; Sir Thomas brought him to her,
saying something which discovered to Fanny, that _she_ was to lead the
way and open the ball; an idea that had never occurred to her before.
Whenever she had thought of the minutiae of the evening, it had been as
a matter of course that Edmund would begin with Miss Crawford; and the
impression was so strong, that though _her_ _uncle_ spoke the contrary,
she could not help an exclamation of surprise, a hint of her unfitness,
an entreaty even to be excused. To be urging her opinion against Sir
Thomas's was a proof of the extremity of the case; but such was her
horror at the first suggestion, that she could actually look him in
the face and say that she hoped it might be settled otherwise; in vain,
however: Sir Thomas smiled, tried to encourage her, and then looked too
serious, and said too decidedly, "It must be so, my dear," for her to
hazard another word; and she found herself the next moment conducted by
Mr. Crawford to the top of the room, and standing there to be joined by
the rest of the dancers, couple after couple, as they were formed.

She could hardly believe it. To be placed above so many elegant young
women! The distinction was too great. It was treating her like her
cousins! And her thoughts flew to those absent cousins with most
unfeigned and truly tender regret, that they were not at home to take
their own place in the room, and have their share of a pleasure which
would have been so very delightful to them. So often as she had heard
them wish for a ball at home as the greatest of all felicities! And
to have them away when it was given--and for _her_ to be opening the
ball--and with Mr. Crawford too! She hoped they would not envy her that
distinction _now_; but when she looked back to the state of things in
the autumn, to what they had all been to each other when once dancing
in that house before, the present arrangement was almost more than she
could understand herself.

The ball began. It was rather honour than happiness to Fanny, for the
first dance at least: her partner was in excellent spirits, and tried to
impart them to her; but she was a great deal too much frightened to have
any enjoyment till she could suppose herself no longer looked at. Young,
pretty, and gentle, however, she had no awkwardnesses that were not
as good as graces, and there were few persons present that were not
disposed to praise her. She was attractive, she was modest, she was Sir
Thomas's niece, and she was soon said to be admired by Mr. Crawford. It
was enough to give her general favour. Sir Thomas himself was watching
her progress down the dance with much complacency; he was proud of his
niece; and without attributing all her personal beauty, as Mrs. Norris
seemed to do, to her transplantation to Mansfield, he was pleased with
himself for having supplied everything else: education and manners she
owed to him.

Miss Crawford saw much of Sir Thomas's thoughts as he stood, and having,
in spite of all his wrongs towards her, a general prevailing desire of
recommending herself to him, took an opportunity of stepping aside to
say something agreeable of Fanny. Her praise was warm, and he
received it as she could wish, joining in it as far as discretion, and
politeness, and slowness of speech would allow, and certainly appearing
to greater advantage on the subject than his lady did soon afterwards,
when Mary, perceiving her on a sofa very near, turned round before she
began to dance, to compliment her on Miss Price's looks.

"Yes, she does look very well," was Lady Bertram's placid reply.
"Chapman helped her to dress. I sent Chapman to her." Not but that
she was really pleased to have Fanny admired; but she was so much more
struck with her own kindness in sending Chapman to her, that she could
not get it out of her head.

Miss Crawford knew Mrs. Norris too well to think of gratifying _her_
by commendation of Fanny; to her, it was as the occasion offered--"Ah!
ma'am, how much we want dear Mrs. Rushworth and Julia to-night!" and
Mrs. Norris paid her with as many smiles and courteous words as she had
time for, amid so much occupation as she found for herself in making
up card-tables, giving hints to Sir Thomas, and trying to move all the
chaperons to a better part of the room.

Miss Crawford blundered most towards Fanny herself in her intentions
to please. She meant to be giving her little heart a happy flutter,
and filling her with sensations of delightful self-consequence; and,
misinterpreting Fanny's blushes, still thought she must be doing so when
she went to her after the two first dances, and said, with a significant
look, "Perhaps _you_ can tell me why my brother goes to town to-morrow?
He says he has business there, but will not tell me what. The first time
he ever denied me his confidence! But this is what we all come to.
All are supplanted sooner or later. Now, I must apply to you for
information. Pray, what is Henry going for?"

Fanny protested her ignorance as steadily as her embarrassment allowed.

"Well, then," replied Miss Crawford, laughing, "I must suppose it to be
purely for the pleasure of conveying your brother, and of talking of you
by the way."

Fanny was confused, but it was the confusion of discontent; while Miss
Crawford wondered she did not smile, and thought her over-anxious,
or thought her odd, or thought her anything rather than insensible of
pleasure in Henry's attentions. Fanny had a good deal of enjoyment in
the course of the evening; but Henry's attentions had very little to
do with it. She would much rather _not_ have been asked by him again so
very soon, and she wished she had not been obliged to suspect that his
previous inquiries of Mrs. Norris, about the supper hour, were all for
the sake of securing her at that part of the evening. But it was not to
be avoided: he made her feel that she was the object of all; though she
could not say that it was unpleasantly done, that there was indelicacy
or ostentation in his manner; and sometimes, when he talked of William,
he was really not unagreeable, and shewed even a warmth of heart
which did him credit. But still his attentions made no part of her
satisfaction. She was happy whenever she looked at William, and saw how
perfectly he was enjoying himself, in every five minutes that she could
walk about with him and hear his account of his partners; she was happy
in knowing herself admired; and she was happy in having the two dances
with Edmund still to look forward to, during the greatest part of the
evening, her hand being so eagerly sought after that her indefinite
engagement with _him_ was in continual perspective. She was happy even
when they did take place; but not from any flow of spirits on his side,
or any such expressions of tender gallantry as had blessed the morning.
His mind was fagged, and her happiness sprung from being the friend with
whom it could find repose. "I am worn out with civility," said he. "I
have been talking incessantly all night, and with nothing to say. But
with _you_, Fanny, there may be peace. You will not want to be talked
to. Let us have the luxury of silence." Fanny would hardly even speak
her agreement. A weariness, arising probably, in great measure, from the
same feelings which he had acknowledged in the morning, was peculiarly
to be respected, and they went down their two dances together with such
sober tranquillity as might satisfy any looker-on that Sir Thomas had
been bringing up no wife for his younger son.

The evening had afforded Edmund little pleasure. Miss Crawford had
been in gay spirits when they first danced together, but it was not her
gaiety that could do him good: it rather sank than raised his comfort;
and afterwards, for he found himself still impelled to seek her
again, she had absolutely pained him by her manner of speaking of the
profession to which he was now on the point of belonging. They had
talked, and they had been silent; he had reasoned, she had ridiculed;
and they had parted at last with mutual vexation. Fanny, not able to
refrain entirely from observing them, had seen enough to be tolerably
satisfied. It was barbarous to be happy when Edmund was suffering. Yet
some happiness must and would arise from the very conviction that he did
suffer.

When her two dances with him were over, her inclination and strength for
more were pretty well at an end; and Sir Thomas, having seen her walk
rather than dance down the shortening set, breathless, and with her hand
at her side, gave his orders for her sitting down entirely. From that
time Mr. Crawford sat down likewise.

"Poor Fanny!" cried William, coming for a moment to visit her, and
working away his partner's fan as if for life, "how soon she is knocked
up! Why, the sport is but just begun. I hope we shall keep it up these
two hours. How can you be tired so soon?"

"So soon! my good friend," said Sir Thomas, producing his watch with all
necessary caution; "it is three o'clock, and your sister is not used to
these sort of hours."

"Well, then, Fanny, you shall not get up to-morrow before I go. Sleep as
long as you can, and never mind me."

"Oh! William."

"What! Did she think of being up before you set off?"

"Oh! yes, sir," cried Fanny, rising eagerly from her seat to be nearer
her uncle; "I must get up and breakfast with him. It will be the last
time, you know; the last morning."

"You had better not. He is to have breakfasted and be gone by half-past
nine. Mr. Crawford, I think you call for him at half-past nine?"

Fanny was too urgent, however, and had too many tears in her eyes for
denial; and it ended in a gracious "Well, well!" which was permission.

"Yes, half-past nine," said Crawford to William as the latter was
leaving them, "and I shall be punctual, for there will be no kind sister
to get up for _me_." And in a lower tone to Fanny, "I shall have only
a desolate house to hurry from. Your brother will find my ideas of time
and his own very different to-morrow."

After a short consideration, Sir Thomas asked Crawford to join the early
breakfast party in that house instead of eating alone: he should himself
be of it; and the readiness with which his invitation was accepted
convinced him that the suspicions whence, he must confess to himself,
this very ball had in great measure sprung, were well founded. Mr.
Crawford was in love with Fanny. He had a pleasing anticipation of what
would be. His niece, meanwhile, did not thank him for what he had just
done. She had hoped to have William all to herself the last morning. It
would have been an unspeakable indulgence. But though her wishes
were overthrown, there was no spirit of murmuring within her. On the
contrary, she was so totally unused to have her pleasure consulted, or
to have anything take place at all in the way she could desire, that she
was more disposed to wonder and rejoice in having carried her point so
far, than to repine at the counteraction which followed.

Shortly afterward, Sir Thomas was again interfering a little with her
inclination, by advising her to go immediately to bed. "Advise" was his
word, but it was the advice of absolute power, and she had only to
rise, and, with Mr. Crawford's very cordial adieus, pass quietly away;
stopping at the entrance-door, like the Lady of Branxholm Hall, "one
moment and no more," to view the happy scene, and take a last look at
the five or six determined couple who were still hard at work; and then,
creeping slowly up the principal staircase, pursued by the ceaseless
country-dance, feverish with hopes and fears, soup and negus,
sore-footed and fatigued, restless and agitated, yet feeling, in spite
of everything, that a ball was indeed delightful.

In thus sending her away, Sir Thomas perhaps might not be thinking
merely of her health. It might occur to him that Mr. Crawford had been
sitting by her long enough, or he might mean to recommend her as a wife
by shewing her persuadableness.

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

completion: Fanny heads downstairs and all the adults agree that she looks very nice. Fanny is excited and happy to go to her first ball. But she gets less happy when the Crawfords arrive and she sees Mary and Edmund together again, especially since Mary looks particularly pretty. Henry quickly asks Fanny to dance the first two dances with him and she agrees, somewhat reluctantly. Henry then compliments Fanny's necklace, the one he originally gave Mary, which makes her uncomfortable. Sir Thomas proceeds to ruin the ball for Fanny by announcing that she'll be opening the ball and that this is basically her "coming out" ball. This means that Fanny is now "out" in society and this evening is sort of like a debutante ball for her. Fanny flips out over this since she's super shy and being the center of attention is nightmarish. Fanny is incredibly nervous but manages to dance just fine and opens the ball well. Mary's feelings are still confused but the doesn't pass up the chance to suck up to Sir Thomas some by complimenting Fanny. Mary then tries to give Fanny a boost by hinting about Henry's feelings for her, but this just causes Fanny to stress out even more. Overall, Fanny still has a good time, though, and enjoys her quiet dance with Edmund. Edmund has an awful time at the ball. He and Mary get into a fight and part on bad terms. Fanny is secretly happy about it, but then is upset with herself for feeling happy. By the end of the ball Fanny is exhausted. William told her to not get up to see him off in the morning but she gets upset at the mere idea and Sir Thomas says she can come see William off tomorrow. Sir Thomas has decided the Henry is in love with Fanny. He orders Fanny off to bed in order to show Henry how persuadable she is - always a good quality in a wife. Hmm.


prompt:
Chapter: The ball was over, and the breakfast was soon over too; the last kiss
was given, and William was gone. Mr. Crawford had, as he foretold, been
very punctual, and short and pleasant had been the meal.

After seeing William to the last moment, Fanny walked back to the
breakfast-room with a very saddened heart to grieve over the melancholy
change; and there her uncle kindly left her to cry in peace, conceiving,
perhaps, that the deserted chair of each young man might exercise her
tender enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold pork bones and mustard in
William's plate might but divide her feelings with the broken egg-shells
in Mr. Crawford's. She sat and cried _con_ _amore_ as her uncle
intended, but it was _con_ _amore_ fraternal and no other. William was
gone, and she now felt as if she had wasted half his visit in idle cares
and selfish solicitudes unconnected with him.

Fanny's disposition was such that she could never even think of her
aunt Norris in the meagreness and cheerlessness of her own small house,
without reproaching herself for some little want of attention to her
when they had been last together; much less could her feelings acquit
her of having done and said and thought everything by William that was
due to him for a whole fortnight.

It was a heavy, melancholy day. Soon after the second breakfast, Edmund
bade them good-bye for a week, and mounted his horse for Peterborough,
and then all were gone. Nothing remained of last night but remembrances,
which she had nobody to share in. She talked to her aunt Bertram--she
must talk to somebody of the ball; but her aunt had seen so little of
what had passed, and had so little curiosity, that it was heavy work.
Lady Bertram was not certain of anybody's dress or anybody's place at
supper but her own. "She could not recollect what it was that she had
heard about one of the Miss Maddoxes, or what it was that Lady Prescott
had noticed in Fanny: she was not sure whether Colonel Harrison had been
talking of Mr. Crawford or of William when he said he was the finest
young man in the room--somebody had whispered something to her; she had
forgot to ask Sir Thomas what it could be." And these were her longest
speeches and clearest communications: the rest was only a languid "Yes,
yes; very well; did you? did he? I did not see _that_; I should not know
one from the other." This was very bad. It was only better than Mrs.
Norris's sharp answers would have been; but she being gone home with
all the supernumerary jellies to nurse a sick maid, there was peace
and good-humour in their little party, though it could not boast much
beside.

The evening was heavy like the day. "I cannot think what is the matter
with me," said Lady Bertram, when the tea-things were removed. "I feel
quite stupid. It must be sitting up so late last night. Fanny, you must
do something to keep me awake. I cannot work. Fetch the cards; I feel so
very stupid."

The cards were brought, and Fanny played at cribbage with her aunt till
bedtime; and as Sir Thomas was reading to himself, no sounds were
heard in the room for the next two hours beyond the reckonings of the
game--"And _that_ makes thirty-one; four in hand and eight in crib. You
are to deal, ma'am; shall I deal for you?" Fanny thought and thought
again of the difference which twenty-four hours had made in that room,
and all that part of the house. Last night it had been hope and smiles,
bustle and motion, noise and brilliancy, in the drawing-room, and out
of the drawing-room, and everywhere. Now it was languor, and all but
solitude.

A good night's rest improved her spirits. She could think of William the
next day more cheerfully; and as the morning afforded her an opportunity
of talking over Thursday night with Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, in a
very handsome style, with all the heightenings of imagination, and
all the laughs of playfulness which are so essential to the shade of a
departed ball, she could afterwards bring her mind without much effort
into its everyday state, and easily conform to the tranquillity of the
present quiet week.

They were indeed a smaller party than she had ever known there for
a whole day together, and _he_ was gone on whom the comfort and
cheerfulness of every family meeting and every meal chiefly depended.
But this must be learned to be endured. He would soon be always gone;
and she was thankful that she could now sit in the same room with her
uncle, hear his voice, receive his questions, and even answer them,
without such wretched feelings as she had formerly known.

"We miss our two young men," was Sir Thomas's observation on both the
first and second day, as they formed their very reduced circle after
dinner; and in consideration of Fanny's swimming eyes, nothing more was
said on the first day than to drink their good health; but on the
second it led to something farther. William was kindly commended and
his promotion hoped for. "And there is no reason to suppose," added Sir
Thomas, "but that his visits to us may now be tolerably frequent. As to
Edmund, we must learn to do without him. This will be the last winter of
his belonging to us, as he has done."

"Yes," said Lady Bertram, "but I wish he was not going away. They are
all going away, I think. I wish they would stay at home."

This wish was levelled principally at Julia, who had just applied for
permission to go to town with Maria; and as Sir Thomas thought it best
for each daughter that the permission should be granted, Lady Bertram,
though in her own good-nature she would not have prevented it, was
lamenting the change it made in the prospect of Julia's return, which
would otherwise have taken place about this time. A great deal of good
sense followed on Sir Thomas's side, tending to reconcile his wife to
the arrangement. Everything that a considerate parent _ought_ to feel
was advanced for her use; and everything that an affectionate mother
_must_ feel in promoting her children's enjoyment was attributed to her
nature. Lady Bertram agreed to it all with a calm "Yes"; and at the end
of a quarter of an hour's silent consideration spontaneously observed,
"Sir Thomas, I have been thinking--and I am very glad we took Fanny as
we did, for now the others are away we feel the good of it."

Sir Thomas immediately improved this compliment by adding, "Very true.
We shew Fanny what a good girl we think her by praising her to her face,
she is now a very valuable companion. If we have been kind to _her_, she
is now quite as necessary to _us_."

"Yes," said Lady Bertram presently; "and it is a comfort to think that
we shall always have _her_."

Sir Thomas paused, half smiled, glanced at his niece, and then gravely
replied, "She will never leave us, I hope, till invited to some other
home that may reasonably promise her greater happiness than she knows
here."

"And _that_ is not very likely to be, Sir Thomas. Who should invite her?
Maria might be very glad to see her at Sotherton now and then, but she
would not think of asking her to live there; and I am sure she is better
off here; and besides, I cannot do without her."

The week which passed so quietly and peaceably at the great house in
Mansfield had a very different character at the Parsonage. To the young
lady, at least, in each family, it brought very different feelings. What
was tranquillity and comfort to Fanny was tediousness and vexation to
Mary. Something arose from difference of disposition and habit: one so
easily satisfied, the other so unused to endure; but still more might be
imputed to difference of circumstances. In some points of interest they
were exactly opposed to each other. To Fanny's mind, Edmund's absence
was really, in its cause and its tendency, a relief. To Mary it was
every way painful. She felt the want of his society every day, almost
every hour, and was too much in want of it to derive anything but
irritation from considering the object for which he went. He could not
have devised anything more likely to raise his consequence than this
week's absence, occurring as it did at the very time of her brother's
going away, of William Price's going too, and completing the sort of
general break-up of a party which had been so animated. She felt it
keenly. They were now a miserable trio, confined within doors by a
series of rain and snow, with nothing to do and no variety to hope for.
Angry as she was with Edmund for adhering to his own notions, and acting
on them in defiance of her (and she had been so angry that they had
hardly parted friends at the ball), she could not help thinking of
him continually when absent, dwelling on his merit and affection, and
longing again for the almost daily meetings they lately had. His absence
was unnecessarily long. He should not have planned such an absence--he
should not have left home for a week, when her own departure from
Mansfield was so near. Then she began to blame herself. She wished she
had not spoken so warmly in their last conversation. She was afraid she
had used some strong, some contemptuous expressions in speaking of the
clergy, and that should not have been. It was ill-bred; it was wrong.
She wished such words unsaid with all her heart.

Her vexation did not end with the week. All this was bad, but she had
still more to feel when Friday came round again and brought no Edmund;
when Saturday came and still no Edmund; and when, through the slight
communication with the other family which Sunday produced, she learned
that he had actually written home to defer his return, having promised
to remain some days longer with his friend.

If she had felt impatience and regret before--if she had been sorry for
what she said, and feared its too strong effect on him--she now felt
and feared it all tenfold more. She had, moreover, to contend with one
disagreeable emotion entirely new to her--jealousy. His friend Mr.
Owen had sisters; he might find them attractive. But, at any rate, his
staying away at a time when, according to all preceding plans, she was
to remove to London, meant something that she could not bear. Had Henry
returned, as he talked of doing, at the end of three or four days, she
should now have been leaving Mansfield. It became absolutely necessary
for her to get to Fanny and try to learn something more. She could not
live any longer in such solitary wretchedness; and she made her way
to the Park, through difficulties of walking which she had deemed
unconquerable a week before, for the chance of hearing a little in
addition, for the sake of at least hearing his name.

The first half-hour was lost, for Fanny and Lady Bertram were together,
and unless she had Fanny to herself she could hope for nothing. But
at last Lady Bertram left the room, and then almost immediately Miss
Crawford thus began, with a voice as well regulated as she could--"And
how do _you_ like your cousin Edmund's staying away so long? Being the
only young person at home, I consider _you_ as the greatest sufferer.
You must miss him. Does his staying longer surprise you?"

"I do not know," said Fanny hesitatingly. "Yes; I had not particularly
expected it."

"Perhaps he will always stay longer than he talks of. It is the general
way all young men do."

"He did not, the only time he went to see Mr. Owen before."

"He finds the house more agreeable _now_. He is a very--a very pleasing
young man himself, and I cannot help being rather concerned at not
seeing him again before I go to London, as will now undoubtedly be the
case. I am looking for Henry every day, and as soon as he comes there
will be nothing to detain me at Mansfield. I should like to have seen
him once more, I confess. But you must give my compliments to him. Yes;
I think it must be compliments. Is not there a something wanted,
Miss Price, in our language--a something between compliments and--and
love--to suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have had together? So
many months' acquaintance! But compliments may be sufficient here.
Was his letter a long one? Does he give you much account of what he is
doing? Is it Christmas gaieties that he is staying for?"

"I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle; but I believe
it was very short; indeed I am sure it was but a few lines. All that I
heard was that his friend had pressed him to stay longer, and that he
had agreed to do so. A _few_ days longer, or _some_ days longer; I am
not quite sure which."

"Oh! if he wrote to his father; but I thought it might have been to Lady
Bertram or you. But if he wrote to his father, no wonder he was concise.
Who could write chat to Sir Thomas? If he had written to you, there
would have been more particulars. You would have heard of balls
and parties. He would have sent you a description of everything and
everybody. How many Miss Owens are there?"

"Three grown up."

"Are they musical?"

"I do not at all know. I never heard."

"That is the first question, you know," said Miss Crawford, trying to
appear gay and unconcerned, "which every woman who plays herself is sure
to ask about another. But it is very foolish to ask questions about
any young ladies--about any three sisters just grown up; for one knows,
without being told, exactly what they are: all very accomplished and
pleasing, and one very pretty. There is a beauty in every family; it is
a regular thing. Two play on the pianoforte, and one on the harp; and
all sing, or would sing if they were taught, or sing all the better for
not being taught; or something like it."

"I know nothing of the Miss Owens," said Fanny calmly.

"You know nothing and you care less, as people say. Never did tone
express indifference plainer. Indeed, how can one care for those one has
never seen? Well, when your cousin comes back, he will find Mansfield
very quiet; all the noisy ones gone, your brother and mine and myself. I
do not like the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant now the time draws near. She
does not like my going."

Fanny felt obliged to speak. "You cannot doubt your being missed by
many," said she. "You will be very much missed."

Miss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if wanting to hear or see more,
and then laughingly said, "Oh yes! missed as every noisy evil is missed
when it is taken away; that is, there is a great difference felt. But I
am not fishing; don't compliment me. If I _am_ missed, it will appear.
I may be discovered by those who want to see me. I shall not be in any
doubtful, or distant, or unapproachable region."

Now Fanny could not bring herself to speak, and Miss Crawford was
disappointed; for she had hoped to hear some pleasant assurance of her
power from one who she thought must know, and her spirits were clouded
again.

"The Miss Owens," said she, soon afterwards; "suppose you were to have
one of the Miss Owens settled at Thornton Lacey; how should you like it?
Stranger things have happened. I dare say they are trying for it. And
they are quite in the right, for it would be a very pretty establishment
for them. I do not at all wonder or blame them. It is everybody's duty
to do as well for themselves as they can. Sir Thomas Bertram's son is
somebody; and now he is in their own line. Their father is a clergyman,
and their brother is a clergyman, and they are all clergymen together.
He is their lawful property; he fairly belongs to them. You don't speak,
Fanny; Miss Price, you don't speak. But honestly now, do not you rather
expect it than otherwise?"

"No," said Fanny stoutly, "I do not expect it at all."

"Not at all!" cried Miss Crawford with alacrity. "I wonder at that. But
I dare say you know exactly--I always imagine you are--perhaps you do
not think him likely to marry at all--or not at present."

"No, I do not," said Fanny softly, hoping she did not err either in the
belief or the acknowledgment of it.

Her companion looked at her keenly; and gathering greater spirit from
the blush soon produced from such a look, only said, "He is best off as
he is," and turned the subject.

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

completion: William and Henry depart and Fanny cries. Sir Thomas thinks she's crying for both of them but it's really only for William. Edmund soon leaves, too, to get ordained. Mansfield is suddenly very quiet. The day after the ball is really long and really boring. Fanny has never been at Mansfield without any of her cousins before. Lady Bertram is having empty nest syndrome and misses all of her kids. Lady Bertram and Sir Thomas agree that they're glad Fanny is still around. Fanny is enjoying the quiet and the peacefulness while Mary is bored out her mind. Mary is miserable staying with the Grants and is angry at Edmund for staying away for so long. So then she's also angry with herself for hanging around waiting for him. Mary starts getting jealous, too, when she hears that Edmund is staying with his friends, the Owens, who have single daughters. Finally, Mary can't take it any longer and goes to Mansfield to get some gossip. Fanny is less than helpful and doesn't give her any good dirt on the Owens. Mary asks Fanny to send her regards along to Edmund. Mary announces that she's leaving soon to visit other friends. Fanny lamely says she'll be missed but doesn't assure Mary that Edmund will miss her, which is what Mary actually wants to hear.


prompt:
Chapter: Miss Crawford's uneasiness was much lightened by this conversation, and
she walked home again in spirits which might have defied almost another
week of the same small party in the same bad weather, had they been put
to the proof; but as that very evening brought her brother down from
London again in quite, or more than quite, his usual cheerfulness, she
had nothing farther to try her own. His still refusing to tell her what
he had gone for was but the promotion of gaiety; a day before it might
have irritated, but now it was a pleasant joke--suspected only of
concealing something planned as a pleasant surprise to herself. And the
next day _did_ bring a surprise to her. Henry had said he should just
go and ask the Bertrams how they did, and be back in ten minutes, but
he was gone above an hour; and when his sister, who had been waiting for
him to walk with her in the garden, met him at last most impatiently in
the sweep, and cried out, "My dear Henry, where can you have been
all this time?" he had only to say that he had been sitting with Lady
Bertram and Fanny.

"Sitting with them an hour and a half!" exclaimed Mary.

But this was only the beginning of her surprise.

"Yes, Mary," said he, drawing her arm within his, and walking along
the sweep as if not knowing where he was: "I could not get away sooner;
Fanny looked so lovely! I am quite determined, Mary. My mind is entirely
made up. Will it astonish you? No: you must be aware that I am quite
determined to marry Fanny Price."

The surprise was now complete; for, in spite of whatever his
consciousness might suggest, a suspicion of his having any such views
had never entered his sister's imagination; and she looked so truly the
astonishment she felt, that he was obliged to repeat what he had said,
and more fully and more solemnly. The conviction of his determination
once admitted, it was not unwelcome. There was even pleasure with the
surprise. Mary was in a state of mind to rejoice in a connexion with the
Bertram family, and to be not displeased with her brother's marrying a
little beneath him.

"Yes, Mary," was Henry's concluding assurance. "I am fairly caught.
You know with what idle designs I began; but this is the end of them.
I have, I flatter myself, made no inconsiderable progress in her
affections; but my own are entirely fixed."

"Lucky, lucky girl!" cried Mary, as soon as she could speak; "what a
match for her! My dearest Henry, this must be my _first_ feeling; but
my _second_, which you shall have as sincerely, is, that I approve your
choice from my soul, and foresee your happiness as heartily as I wish
and desire it. You will have a sweet little wife; all gratitude and
devotion. Exactly what you deserve. What an amazing match for her! Mrs.
Norris often talks of her luck; what will she say now? The delight
of all the family, indeed! And she has some _true_ friends in it! How
_they_ will rejoice! But tell me all about it! Talk to me for ever. When
did you begin to think seriously about her?"

Nothing could be more impossible than to answer such a question, though
nothing could be more agreeable than to have it asked. "How the pleasing
plague had stolen on him" he could not say; and before he had expressed
the same sentiment with a little variation of words three times over,
his sister eagerly interrupted him with, "Ah, my dear Henry, and this
is what took you to London! This was your business! You chose to consult
the Admiral before you made up your mind."

But this he stoutly denied. He knew his uncle too well to consult him on
any matrimonial scheme. The Admiral hated marriage, and thought it never
pardonable in a young man of independent fortune.

"When Fanny is known to him," continued Henry, "he will doat on her.
She is exactly the woman to do away every prejudice of such a man as
the Admiral, for she he would describe, if indeed he has now delicacy
of language enough to embody his own ideas. But till it is absolutely
settled--settled beyond all interference, he shall know nothing of the
matter. No, Mary, you are quite mistaken. You have not discovered my
business yet."

"Well, well, I am satisfied. I know now to whom it must relate, and am
in no hurry for the rest. Fanny Price! wonderful, quite wonderful! That
Mansfield should have done so much for--that _you_ should have found
your fate in Mansfield! But you are quite right; you could not have
chosen better. There is not a better girl in the world, and you do not
want for fortune; and as to her connexions, they are more than good. The
Bertrams are undoubtedly some of the first people in this country. She
is niece to Sir Thomas Bertram; that will be enough for the world. But
go on, go on. Tell me more. What are your plans? Does she know her own
happiness?"

"No."

"What are you waiting for?"

"For--for very little more than opportunity. Mary, she is not like her
cousins; but I think I shall not ask in vain."

"Oh no! you cannot. Were you even less pleasing--supposing her not to
love you already (of which, however, I can have little doubt)--you would
be safe. The gentleness and gratitude of her disposition would secure
her all your own immediately. From my soul I do not think she would
marry you _without_ love; that is, if there is a girl in the world
capable of being uninfluenced by ambition, I can suppose it her; but ask
her to love you, and she will never have the heart to refuse."

As soon as her eagerness could rest in silence, he was as happy to tell
as she could be to listen; and a conversation followed almost as deeply
interesting to her as to himself, though he had in fact nothing to
relate but his own sensations, nothing to dwell on but Fanny's charms.
Fanny's beauty of face and figure, Fanny's graces of manner and goodness
of heart, were the exhaustless theme. The gentleness, modesty, and
sweetness of her character were warmly expatiated on; that sweetness
which makes so essential a part of every woman's worth in the judgment
of man, that though he sometimes loves where it is not, he can never
believe it absent. Her temper he had good reason to depend on and
to praise. He had often seen it tried. Was there one of the family,
excepting Edmund, who had not in some way or other continually exercised
her patience and forbearance? Her affections were evidently strong. To
see her with her brother! What could more delightfully prove that the
warmth of her heart was equal to its gentleness? What could be more
encouraging to a man who had her love in view? Then, her understanding
was beyond every suspicion, quick and clear; and her manners were the
mirror of her own modest and elegant mind. Nor was this all. Henry
Crawford had too much sense not to feel the worth of good principles
in a wife, though he was too little accustomed to serious reflection to
know them by their proper name; but when he talked of her having such a
steadiness and regularity of conduct, such a high notion of honour, and
such an observance of decorum as might warrant any man in the fullest
dependence on her faith and integrity, he expressed what was inspired by
the knowledge of her being well principled and religious.

"I could so wholly and absolutely confide in her," said he; "and _that_
is what I want."

Well might his sister, believing as she really did that his opinion of
Fanny Price was scarcely beyond her merits, rejoice in her prospects.

"The more I think of it," she cried, "the more am I convinced that you
are doing quite right; and though I should never have selected Fanny
Price as the girl most likely to attach you, I am now persuaded she is
the very one to make you happy. Your wicked project upon her peace turns
out a clever thought indeed. You will both find your good in it."

"It was bad, very bad in me against such a creature; but I did not know
her then; and she shall have no reason to lament the hour that first put
it into my head. I will make her very happy, Mary; happier than she has
ever yet been herself, or ever seen anybody else. I will not take her
from Northamptonshire. I shall let Everingham, and rent a place in this
neighbourhood; perhaps Stanwix Lodge. I shall let a seven years' lease
of Everingham. I am sure of an excellent tenant at half a word. I could
name three people now, who would give me my own terms and thank me."

"Ha!" cried Mary; "settle in Northamptonshire! That is pleasant! Then we
shall be all together."

When she had spoken it, she recollected herself, and wished it unsaid;
but there was no need of confusion; for her brother saw her only as the
supposed inmate of Mansfield parsonage, and replied but to invite her in
the kindest manner to his own house, and to claim the best right in her.

"You must give us more than half your time," said he. "I cannot admit
Mrs. Grant to have an equal claim with Fanny and myself, for we shall
both have a right in you. Fanny will be so truly your sister!"

Mary had only to be grateful and give general assurances; but she was
now very fully purposed to be the guest of neither brother nor sister
many months longer.

"You will divide your year between London and Northamptonshire?"

"Yes."

"That's right; and in London, of course, a house of your own: no longer
with the Admiral. My dearest Henry, the advantage to you of getting away
from the Admiral before your manners are hurt by the contagion of his,
before you have contracted any of his foolish opinions, or learned to
sit over your dinner as if it were the best blessing of life! _You_ are
not sensible of the gain, for your regard for him has blinded you; but,
in my estimation, your marrying early may be the saving of you. To have
seen you grow like the Admiral in word or deed, look or gesture, would
have broken my heart."

"Well, well, we do not think quite alike here. The Admiral has his
faults, but he is a very good man, and has been more than a father to
me. Few fathers would have let me have my own way half so much. You must
not prejudice Fanny against him. I must have them love one another."

Mary refrained from saying what she felt, that there could not be two
persons in existence whose characters and manners were less accordant:
time would discover it to him; but she could not help _this_ reflection
on the Admiral. "Henry, I think so highly of Fanny Price, that if I
could suppose the next Mrs. Crawford would have half the reason which
my poor ill-used aunt had to abhor the very name, I would prevent the
marriage, if possible; but I know you: I know that a wife you _loved_
would be the happiest of women, and that even when you ceased to
love, she would yet find in you the liberality and good-breeding of a
gentleman."

The impossibility of not doing everything in the world to make Fanny
Price happy, or of ceasing to love Fanny Price, was of course the
groundwork of his eloquent answer.

"Had you seen her this morning, Mary," he continued, "attending with
such ineffable sweetness and patience to all the demands of her aunt's
stupidity, working with her, and for her, her colour beautifully
heightened as she leant over the work, then returning to her seat to
finish a note which she was previously engaged in writing for that
stupid woman's service, and all this with such unpretending gentleness,
so much as if it were a matter of course that she was not to have a
moment at her own command, her hair arranged as neatly as it always is,
and one little curl falling forward as she wrote, which she now and then
shook back, and in the midst of all this, still speaking at intervals to
_me_, or listening, and as if she liked to listen, to what I said. Had
you seen her so, Mary, you would not have implied the possibility of her
power over my heart ever ceasing."

"My dearest Henry," cried Mary, stopping short, and smiling in his face,
"how glad I am to see you so much in love! It quite delights me. But
what will Mrs. Rushworth and Julia say?"

"I care neither what they say nor what they feel. They will now see what
sort of woman it is that can attach me, that can attach a man of sense.
I wish the discovery may do them any good. And they will now see their
cousin treated as she ought to be, and I wish they may be heartily
ashamed of their own abominable neglect and unkindness. They will be
angry," he added, after a moment's silence, and in a cooler tone; "Mrs.
Rushworth will be very angry. It will be a bitter pill to her; that is,
like other bitter pills, it will have two moments' ill flavour, and then
be swallowed and forgotten; for I am not such a coxcomb as to suppose
her feelings more lasting than other women's, though _I_ was the object
of them. Yes, Mary, my Fanny will feel a difference indeed: a daily,
hourly difference, in the behaviour of every being who approaches her;
and it will be the completion of my happiness to know that I am the doer
of it, that I am the person to give the consequence so justly her due.
Now she is dependent, helpless, friendless, neglected, forgotten."

"Nay, Henry, not by all; not forgotten by all; not friendless or
forgotten. Her cousin Edmund never forgets her."

"Edmund! True, I believe he is, generally speaking, kind to her, and
so is Sir Thomas in his way; but it is the way of a rich, superior,
long-worded, arbitrary uncle. What can Sir Thomas and Edmund together
do, what do they _do_ for her happiness, comfort, honour, and dignity in
the world, to what I _shall_ do?"

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

completion: Henry arrives back at the Grants' house in a really great mood. He won't tell Mary what he's been up to, though, and won't say why he was gone for so long. He tells Mary that he's already been over to Mansfield Park to visit with Fanny. Henry then announces that he has fallen in love with Fanny and plans to ask her to marry him. Mary's excited and tells Henry that he's made a great choice since Fanny is such a sweet girl. Henry tells Mary all about how and when he fell for Fanny and rambles on about all the great plans he has for their life together, and how Admiral Crawford will love Fanny, and on and on. Mary is excited and tells Henry that she's sure that Fanny will accept his proposal. Henry says that he regrets that he initially pursued Fanny as a joke, but he plans to make up for it now. He and Mary excitedly discuss Henry's future plans. Henry boldly declares that he plans to rescue Fanny from her horrible life at Mansfield Park and insists that he can do lots more for her and make her much happier than Sir Thomas and Edmund ever could.


prompt:
Chapter: Henry Crawford was at Mansfield Park again the next morning, and at an
earlier hour than common visiting warrants. The two ladies were together
in the breakfast-room, and, fortunately for him, Lady Bertram was on the
very point of quitting it as he entered. She was almost at the door, and
not chusing by any means to take so much trouble in vain, she still went
on, after a civil reception, a short sentence about being waited for,
and a "Let Sir Thomas know" to the servant.

Henry, overjoyed to have her go, bowed and watched her off, and without
losing another moment, turned instantly to Fanny, and, taking out some
letters, said, with a most animated look, "I must acknowledge myself
infinitely obliged to any creature who gives me such an opportunity
of seeing you alone: I have been wishing it more than you can have any
idea. Knowing as I do what your feelings as a sister are, I could hardly
have borne that any one in the house should share with you in the
first knowledge of the news I now bring. He is made. Your brother is a
lieutenant. I have the infinite satisfaction of congratulating you on
your brother's promotion. Here are the letters which announce it, this
moment come to hand. You will, perhaps, like to see them."

Fanny could not speak, but he did not want her to speak. To see the
expression of her eyes, the change of her complexion, the progress of
her feelings, their doubt, confusion, and felicity, was enough. She took
the letters as he gave them. The first was from the Admiral to inform
his nephew, in a few words, of his having succeeded in the object he had
undertaken, the promotion of young Price, and enclosing two more, one
from the Secretary of the First Lord to a friend, whom the Admiral had
set to work in the business, the other from that friend to himself,
by which it appeared that his lordship had the very great happiness of
attending to the recommendation of Sir Charles; that Sir Charles was
much delighted in having such an opportunity of proving his regard
for Admiral Crawford, and that the circumstance of Mr. William Price's
commission as Second Lieutenant of H.M. Sloop Thrush being made out was
spreading general joy through a wide circle of great people.

While her hand was trembling under these letters, her eye running from
one to the other, and her heart swelling with emotion, Crawford thus
continued, with unfeigned eagerness, to express his interest in the
event--

"I will not talk of my own happiness," said he, "great as it is, for I
think only of yours. Compared with you, who has a right to be happy? I
have almost grudged myself my own prior knowledge of what you ought to
have known before all the world. I have not lost a moment, however.
The post was late this morning, but there has not been since a moment's
delay. How impatient, how anxious, how wild I have been on the subject,
I will not attempt to describe; how severely mortified, how cruelly
disappointed, in not having it finished while I was in London! I was
kept there from day to day in the hope of it, for nothing less dear
to me than such an object would have detained me half the time from
Mansfield. But though my uncle entered into my wishes with all the
warmth I could desire, and exerted himself immediately, there were
difficulties from the absence of one friend, and the engagements of
another, which at last I could no longer bear to stay the end of, and
knowing in what good hands I left the cause, I came away on Monday,
trusting that many posts would not pass before I should be followed by
such very letters as these. My uncle, who is the very best man in
the world, has exerted himself, as I knew he would, after seeing your
brother. He was delighted with him. I would not allow myself yesterday
to say how delighted, or to repeat half that the Admiral said in his
praise. I deferred it all till his praise should be proved the praise of
a friend, as this day _does_ prove it. _Now_ I may say that even I could
not require William Price to excite a greater interest, or be followed
by warmer wishes and higher commendation, than were most voluntarily
bestowed by my uncle after the evening they had passed together."

"Has this been all _your_ doing, then?" cried Fanny. "Good heaven! how
very, very kind! Have you really--was it by _your_ desire? I beg your
pardon, but I am bewildered. Did Admiral Crawford apply? How was it? I
am stupefied."

Henry was most happy to make it more intelligible, by beginning at an
earlier stage, and explaining very particularly what he had done. His
last journey to London had been undertaken with no other view than that
of introducing her brother in Hill Street, and prevailing on the Admiral
to exert whatever interest he might have for getting him on. This had
been his business. He had communicated it to no creature: he had not
breathed a syllable of it even to Mary; while uncertain of the issue,
he could not have borne any participation of his feelings, but this had
been his business; and he spoke with such a glow of what his solicitude
had been, and used such strong expressions, was so abounding in the
_deepest_ _interest_, in _twofold_ _motives_, in _views_ _and_ _wishes_
_more_ _than_ _could_ _be_ _told_, that Fanny could not have remained
insensible of his drift, had she been able to attend; but her heart was
so full and her senses still so astonished, that she could listen but
imperfectly even to what he told her of William, and saying only when
he paused, "How kind! how very kind! Oh, Mr. Crawford, we are infinitely
obliged to you! Dearest, dearest William!" She jumped up and moved in
haste towards the door, crying out, "I will go to my uncle. My uncle
ought to know it as soon as possible." But this could not be suffered.
The opportunity was too fair, and his feelings too impatient. He was
after her immediately. "She must not go, she must allow him five minutes
longer," and he took her hand and led her back to her seat, and was in
the middle of his farther explanation, before she had suspected for what
she was detained. When she did understand it, however, and found herself
expected to believe that she had created sensations which his heart had
never known before, and that everything he had done for William was to
be placed to the account of his excessive and unequalled attachment
to her, she was exceedingly distressed, and for some moments unable
to speak. She considered it all as nonsense, as mere trifling and
gallantry, which meant only to deceive for the hour; she could not but
feel that it was treating her improperly and unworthily, and in such a
way as she had not deserved; but it was like himself, and entirely of a
piece with what she had seen before; and she would not allow herself to
shew half the displeasure she felt, because he had been conferring an
obligation, which no want of delicacy on his part could make a trifle
to her. While her heart was still bounding with joy and gratitude on
William's behalf, she could not be severely resentful of anything that
injured only herself; and after having twice drawn back her hand, and
twice attempted in vain to turn away from him, she got up, and said
only, with much agitation, "Don't, Mr. Crawford, pray don't! I beg you
would not. This is a sort of talking which is very unpleasant to me. I
must go away. I cannot bear it." But he was still talking on, describing
his affection, soliciting a return, and, finally, in words so plain as
to bear but one meaning even to her, offering himself, hand, fortune,
everything, to her acceptance. It was so; he had said it. Her
astonishment and confusion increased; and though still not knowing
how to suppose him serious, she could hardly stand. He pressed for an
answer.

"No, no, no!" she cried, hiding her face. "This is all nonsense. Do not
distress me. I can hear no more of this. Your kindness to William makes
me more obliged to you than words can express; but I do not want, I
cannot bear, I must not listen to such--No, no, don't think of me. But
you are _not_ thinking of me. I know it is all nothing."

She had burst away from him, and at that moment Sir Thomas was heard
speaking to a servant in his way towards the room they were in. It was
no time for farther assurances or entreaty, though to part with her at
a moment when her modesty alone seemed, to his sanguine and preassured
mind, to stand in the way of the happiness he sought, was a cruel
necessity. She rushed out at an opposite door from the one her uncle
was approaching, and was walking up and down the East room in the
utmost confusion of contrary feeling, before Sir Thomas's politeness
or apologies were over, or he had reached the beginning of the joyful
intelligence which his visitor came to communicate.

She was feeling, thinking, trembling about everything; agitated, happy,
miserable, infinitely obliged, absolutely angry. It was all beyond
belief! He was inexcusable, incomprehensible! But such were his habits
that he could do nothing without a mixture of evil. He had previously
made her the happiest of human beings, and now he had insulted--she knew
not what to say, how to class, or how to regard it. She would not have
him be serious, and yet what could excuse the use of such words and
offers, if they meant but to trifle?

But William was a lieutenant. _That_ was a fact beyond a doubt, and
without an alloy. She would think of it for ever and forget all the
rest. Mr. Crawford would certainly never address her so again: he must
have seen how unwelcome it was to her; and in that case, how gratefully
she could esteem him for his friendship to William!

She would not stir farther from the East room than the head of the great
staircase, till she had satisfied herself of Mr. Crawford's having left
the house; but when convinced of his being gone, she was eager to go
down and be with her uncle, and have all the happiness of his joy
as well as her own, and all the benefit of his information or his
conjectures as to what would now be William's destination. Sir Thomas
was as joyful as she could desire, and very kind and communicative; and
she had so comfortable a talk with him about William as to make her
feel as if nothing had occurred to vex her, till she found, towards the
close, that Mr. Crawford was engaged to return and dine there that
very day. This was a most unwelcome hearing, for though he might think
nothing of what had passed, it would be quite distressing to her to see
him again so soon.

She tried to get the better of it; tried very hard, as the dinner hour
approached, to feel and appear as usual; but it was quite impossible for
her not to look most shy and uncomfortable when their visitor entered
the room. She could not have supposed it in the power of any concurrence
of circumstances to give her so many painful sensations on the first day
of hearing of William's promotion.

Mr. Crawford was not only in the room--he was soon close to her. He
had a note to deliver from his sister. Fanny could not look at him, but
there was no consciousness of past folly in his voice. She opened her
note immediately, glad to have anything to do, and happy, as she read
it, to feel that the fidgetings of her aunt Norris, who was also to dine
there, screened her a little from view.

"My dear Fanny,--for so I may now always call you, to the infinite
relief of a tongue that has been stumbling at _Miss_ _Price_ for at
least the last six weeks--I cannot let my brother go without sending you
a few lines of general congratulation, and giving my most joyful consent
and approval. Go on, my dear Fanny, and without fear; there can be no
difficulties worth naming. I chuse to suppose that the assurance of my
consent will be something; so you may smile upon him with your sweetest
smiles this afternoon, and send him back to me even happier than he
goes.--Yours affectionately, M. C."

These were not expressions to do Fanny any good; for though she read
in too much haste and confusion to form the clearest judgment of Miss
Crawford's meaning, it was evident that she meant to compliment her on
her brother's attachment, and even to _appear_ to believe it serious.
She did not know what to do, or what to think. There was wretchedness in
the idea of its being serious; there was perplexity and agitation every
way. She was distressed whenever Mr. Crawford spoke to her, and he spoke
to her much too often; and she was afraid there was a something in his
voice and manner in addressing her very different from what they were
when he talked to the others. Her comfort in that day's dinner was
quite destroyed: she could hardly eat anything; and when Sir Thomas
good-humouredly observed that joy had taken away her appetite, she
was ready to sink with shame, from the dread of Mr. Crawford's
interpretation; for though nothing could have tempted her to turn
her eyes to the right hand, where he sat, she felt that _his_ were
immediately directed towards her.

She was more silent than ever. She would hardly join even when William
was the subject, for his commission came all from the right hand too,
and there was pain in the connexion.

She thought Lady Bertram sat longer than ever, and began to be in
despair of ever getting away; but at last they were in the drawing-room,
and she was able to think as she would, while her aunts finished the
subject of William's appointment in their own style.

Mrs. Norris seemed as much delighted with the saving it would be to
Sir Thomas as with any part of it. "_Now_ William would be able to keep
himself, which would make a vast difference to his uncle, for it was
unknown how much he had cost his uncle; and, indeed, it would make some
difference in _her_ presents too. She was very glad that she had given
William what she did at parting, very glad, indeed, that it had been in
her power, without material inconvenience, just at that time to give him
something rather considerable; that is, for _her_, with _her_ limited
means, for now it would all be useful in helping to fit up his cabin.
She knew he must be at some expense, that he would have many things to
buy, though to be sure his father and mother would be able to put him in
the way of getting everything very cheap; but she was very glad she had
contributed her mite towards it."

"I am glad you gave him something considerable," said Lady Bertram, with
most unsuspicious calmness, "for _I_ gave him only 10 pounds."

"Indeed!" cried Mrs. Norris, reddening. "Upon my word, he must have gone
off with his pockets well lined, and at no expense for his journey to
London either!"

"Sir Thomas told me 10 pounds would be enough."

Mrs. Norris, being not at all inclined to question its sufficiency,
began to take the matter in another point.

"It is amazing," said she, "how much young people cost their friends,
what with bringing them up and putting them out in the world! They
little think how much it comes to, or what their parents, or their
uncles and aunts, pay for them in the course of the year. Now, here are
my sister Price's children; take them all together, I dare say nobody
would believe what a sum they cost Sir Thomas every year, to say nothing
of what _I_ do for them."

"Very true, sister, as you say. But, poor things! they cannot help
it; and you know it makes very little difference to Sir Thomas. Fanny,
William must not forget my shawl if he goes to the East Indies; and I
shall give him a commission for anything else that is worth having. I
wish he may go to the East Indies, that I may have my shawl. I think I
will have two shawls, Fanny."

Fanny, meanwhile, speaking only when she could not help it, was very
earnestly trying to understand what Mr. and Miss Crawford were at. There
was everything in the world _against_ their being serious but his words
and manner. Everything natural, probable, reasonable, was against it;
all their habits and ways of thinking, and all her own demerits. How
could _she_ have excited serious attachment in a man who had seen so
many, and been admired by so many, and flirted with so many, infinitely
her superiors; who seemed so little open to serious impressions, even
where pains had been taken to please him; who thought so slightly, so
carelessly, so unfeelingly on all such points; who was everything to
everybody, and seemed to find no one essential to him? And farther,
how could it be supposed that his sister, with all her high and worldly
notions of matrimony, would be forwarding anything of a serious nature
in such a quarter? Nothing could be more unnatural in either. Fanny
was ashamed of her own doubts. Everything might be possible rather than
serious attachment, or serious approbation of it toward her. She had
quite convinced herself of this before Sir Thomas and Mr. Crawford
joined them. The difficulty was in maintaining the conviction quite so
absolutely after Mr. Crawford was in the room; for once or twice a
look seemed forced on her which she did not know how to class among the
common meaning; in any other man, at least, she would have said that
it meant something very earnest, very pointed. But she still tried to
believe it no more than what he might often have expressed towards her
cousins and fifty other women.

She thought he was wishing to speak to her unheard by the rest. She
fancied he was trying for it the whole evening at intervals, whenever
Sir Thomas was out of the room, or at all engaged with Mrs. Norris, and
she carefully refused him every opportunity.

At last--it seemed an at last to Fanny's nervousness, though not
remarkably late--he began to talk of going away; but the comfort of the
sound was impaired by his turning to her the next moment, and saying,
"Have you nothing to send to Mary? No answer to her note? She will be
disappointed if she receives nothing from you. Pray write to her, if it
be only a line."

"Oh yes! certainly," cried Fanny, rising in haste, the haste of
embarrassment and of wanting to get away--"I will write directly."

She went accordingly to the table, where she was in the habit of writing
for her aunt, and prepared her materials without knowing what in the
world to say. She had read Miss Crawford's note only once, and how to
reply to anything so imperfectly understood was most distressing.
Quite unpractised in such sort of note-writing, had there been time for
scruples and fears as to style she would have felt them in abundance:
but something must be instantly written; and with only one decided
feeling, that of wishing not to appear to think anything really
intended, she wrote thus, in great trembling both of spirits and hand--

"I am very much obliged to you, my dear Miss Crawford, for your kind
congratulations, as far as they relate to my dearest William. The rest
of your note I know means nothing; but I am so unequal to anything of
the sort, that I hope you will excuse my begging you to take no farther
notice. I have seen too much of Mr. Crawford not to understand his
manners; if he understood me as well, he would, I dare say, behave
differently. I do not know what I write, but it would be a great favour
of you never to mention the subject again. With thanks for the honour of
your note, I remain, dear Miss Crawford, etc., etc."

The conclusion was scarcely intelligible from increasing fright, for
she found that Mr. Crawford, under pretence of receiving the note, was
coming towards her.

"You cannot think I mean to hurry you," said he, in an undervoice,
perceiving the amazing trepidation with which she made up the note, "you
cannot think I have any such object. Do not hurry yourself, I entreat."

"Oh! I thank you; I have quite done, just done; it will be ready in a
moment; I am very much obliged to you; if you will be so good as to give
_that_ to Miss Crawford."

The note was held out, and must be taken; and as she instantly and with
averted eyes walked towards the fireplace, where sat the others, he had
nothing to do but to go in good earnest.

Fanny thought she had never known a day of greater agitation, both of
pain and pleasure; but happily the pleasure was not of a sort to die
with the day; for every day would restore the knowledge of William's
advancement, whereas the pain, she hoped, would return no more. She had
no doubt that her note must appear excessively ill-written, that
the language would disgrace a child, for her distress had allowed no
arrangement; but at least it would assure them both of her being neither
imposed on nor gratified by Mr. Crawford's attentions.

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

completion: Henry finally reveals what he was so happy about the other day: he convinced his uncle to help him get William a promotion. So William is now a Lieutenant. Henry rushes to tell Fanny and she's beyond thrilled for William. Fanny is shocked at the role Henry had in all of it, though, and doesn't know whether to be alarmed or thankful. But Fanny starts to finally get that Henry actually has a thing for her. Fanny tries to make a quick getaway but Henry detains her so that he can declare his love for her. Fanny thinks he's just making fun of her and the whole thing makes her very uncomfortable. She gets very upset and runs away from Henry. She refuses to think that he's actually being serious and she just tries to focus on William. Fanny goes to hide in her room until Henry leaves. Sir Thomas is excited about William and reveals that he's invited Henry over for dinner. Henry delivers a note to Fanny from Mary. Mary congratulates Fanny on snagging Henry and tells Fanny to not worry so much and just accept that Henry wants to marry her and be happy. Fanny is totally unhappy about this. Dinner is really awkward. Mrs. Norris tries to insist that she always liked William... now that he's promoted. Fanny is still pondering what's up with Henry and can't understand how he fell for her, or if he's even being sincere, and why on earth he's proposing. She feels his past conduct makes his current actions less than believable. Henry keeps chatting with Fanny as though nothing is wrong and asks if she wants to write a note back to Mary. Fanny writes a very abrupt note about how she can't possibly love Mr. Crawford and how this whole thing is a just a big mistake. Henry leaves, still being sweet and charming, determined to win Fanny over. Fanny is upset but tries to console herself with the fact that surely Henry will leave her alone now.