prompt:
Chapter: The day at Sotherton, with all its imperfections, afforded the Miss
Bertrams much more agreeable feelings than were derived from the letters
from Antigua, which soon afterwards reached Mansfield. It was much
pleasanter to think of Henry Crawford than of their father; and to think
of their father in England again within a certain period, which these
letters obliged them to do, was a most unwelcome exercise.

November was the black month fixed for his return. Sir Thomas wrote of
it with as much decision as experience and anxiety could authorise. His
business was so nearly concluded as to justify him in proposing to take
his passage in the September packet, and he consequently looked forward
with the hope of being with his beloved family again early in November.

Maria was more to be pitied than Julia; for to her the father brought a
husband, and the return of the friend most solicitous for her happiness
would unite her to the lover, on whom she had chosen that happiness
should depend. It was a gloomy prospect, and all she could do was to
throw a mist over it, and hope when the mist cleared away she should
see something else. It would hardly be _early_ in November, there
were generally delays, a bad passage or _something_; that favouring
_something_ which everybody who shuts their eyes while they look, or
their understandings while they reason, feels the comfort of. It would
probably be the middle of November at least; the middle of November
was three months off. Three months comprised thirteen weeks. Much might
happen in thirteen weeks.

Sir Thomas would have been deeply mortified by a suspicion of half that
his daughters felt on the subject of his return, and would hardly have
found consolation in a knowledge of the interest it excited in the
breast of another young lady. Miss Crawford, on walking up with her
brother to spend the evening at Mansfield Park, heard the good news; and
though seeming to have no concern in the affair beyond politeness, and
to have vented all her feelings in a quiet congratulation, heard it with
an attention not so easily satisfied. Mrs. Norris gave the particulars
of the letters, and the subject was dropt; but after tea, as Miss
Crawford was standing at an open window with Edmund and Fanny looking
out on a twilight scene, while the Miss Bertrams, Mr. Rushworth,
and Henry Crawford were all busy with candles at the pianoforte, she
suddenly revived it by turning round towards the group, and saying, "How
happy Mr. Rushworth looks! He is thinking of November."

Edmund looked round at Mr. Rushworth too, but had nothing to say.

"Your father's return will be a very interesting event."

"It will, indeed, after such an absence; an absence not only long, but
including so many dangers."

"It will be the forerunner also of other interesting events: your
sister's marriage, and your taking orders."

"Yes."

"Don't be affronted," said she, laughing, "but it does put me in mind of
some of the old heathen heroes, who, after performing great exploits in
a foreign land, offered sacrifices to the gods on their safe return."

"There is no sacrifice in the case," replied Edmund, with a serious
smile, and glancing at the pianoforte again; "it is entirely her own
doing."

"Oh yes I know it is. I was merely joking. She has done no more than
what every young woman would do; and I have no doubt of her being
extremely happy. My other sacrifice, of course, you do not understand."

"My taking orders, I assure you, is quite as voluntary as Maria's
marrying."

"It is fortunate that your inclination and your father's convenience
should accord so well. There is a very good living kept for you, I
understand, hereabouts."

"Which you suppose has biassed me?"

"But _that_ I am sure it has not," cried Fanny.

"Thank you for your good word, Fanny, but it is more than I would affirm
myself. On the contrary, the knowing that there was such a provision for
me probably did bias me. Nor can I think it wrong that it should. There
was no natural disinclination to be overcome, and I see no reason why
a man should make a worse clergyman for knowing that he will have a
competence early in life. I was in safe hands. I hope I should not have
been influenced myself in a wrong way, and I am sure my father was too
conscientious to have allowed it. I have no doubt that I was biased, but
I think it was blamelessly."

"It is the same sort of thing," said Fanny, after a short pause, "as for
the son of an admiral to go into the navy, or the son of a general to be
in the army, and nobody sees anything wrong in that. Nobody wonders that
they should prefer the line where their friends can serve them best, or
suspects them to be less in earnest in it than they appear."

"No, my dear Miss Price, and for reasons good. The profession, either
navy or army, is its own justification. It has everything in its favour:
heroism, danger, bustle, fashion. Soldiers and sailors are always
acceptable in society. Nobody can wonder that men are soldiers and
sailors."

"But the motives of a man who takes orders with the certainty of
preferment may be fairly suspected, you think?" said Edmund. "To be
justified in your eyes, he must do it in the most complete uncertainty
of any provision."

"What! take orders without a living! No; that is madness indeed;
absolute madness."

"Shall I ask you how the church is to be filled, if a man is neither to
take orders with a living nor without? No; for you certainly would not
know what to say. But I must beg some advantage to the clergyman from
your own argument. As he cannot be influenced by those feelings which
you rank highly as temptation and reward to the soldier and sailor in
their choice of a profession, as heroism, and noise, and fashion, are
all against him, he ought to be less liable to the suspicion of wanting
sincerity or good intentions in the choice of his."

"Oh! no doubt he is very sincere in preferring an income ready made,
to the trouble of working for one; and has the best intentions of doing
nothing all the rest of his days but eat, drink, and grow fat. It is
indolence, Mr. Bertram, indeed. Indolence and love of ease; a want of
all laudable ambition, of taste for good company, or of inclination
to take the trouble of being agreeable, which make men clergymen.
A clergyman has nothing to do but be slovenly and selfish--read the
newspaper, watch the weather, and quarrel with his wife. His curate does
all the work, and the business of his own life is to dine."

"There are such clergymen, no doubt, but I think they are not so common
as to justify Miss Crawford in esteeming it their general character. I
suspect that in this comprehensive and (may I say) commonplace censure,
you are not judging from yourself, but from prejudiced persons, whose
opinions you have been in the habit of hearing. It is impossible that
your own observation can have given you much knowledge of the clergy.
You can have been personally acquainted with very few of a set of men
you condemn so conclusively. You are speaking what you have been told at
your uncle's table."

"I speak what appears to me the general opinion; and where an opinion
is general, it is usually correct. Though _I_ have not seen much of
the domestic lives of clergymen, it is seen by too many to leave any
deficiency of information."

"Where any one body of educated men, of whatever denomination, are
condemned indiscriminately, there must be a deficiency of information,
or (smiling) of something else. Your uncle, and his brother admirals,
perhaps knew little of clergymen beyond the chaplains whom, good or bad,
they were always wishing away."

"Poor William! He has met with great kindness from the chaplain of the
Antwerp," was a tender apostrophe of Fanny's, very much to the purpose
of her own feelings if not of the conversation.

"I have been so little addicted to take my opinions from my uncle,"
said Miss Crawford, "that I can hardly suppose--and since you push me so
hard, I must observe, that I am not entirely without the means of seeing
what clergymen are, being at this present time the guest of my own
brother, Dr. Grant. And though Dr. Grant is most kind and obliging to
me, and though he is really a gentleman, and, I dare say, a good scholar
and clever, and often preaches good sermons, and is very respectable,
_I_ see him to be an indolent, selfish _bon_ _vivant_, who must have
his palate consulted in everything; who will not stir a finger for the
convenience of any one; and who, moreover, if the cook makes a blunder,
is out of humour with his excellent wife. To own the truth, Henry and
I were partly driven out this very evening by a disappointment about a
green goose, which he could not get the better of. My poor sister was
forced to stay and bear it."

"I do not wonder at your disapprobation, upon my word. It is a great
defect of temper, made worse by a very faulty habit of self-indulgence;
and to see your sister suffering from it must be exceedingly painful to
such feelings as yours. Fanny, it goes against us. We cannot attempt to
defend Dr. Grant."

"No," replied Fanny, "but we need not give up his profession for all
that; because, whatever profession Dr. Grant had chosen, he would have
taken a--not a good temper into it; and as he must, either in the navy
or army, have had a great many more people under his command than he
has now, I think more would have been made unhappy by him as a sailor or
soldier than as a clergyman. Besides, I cannot but suppose that whatever
there may be to wish otherwise in Dr. Grant would have been in a greater
danger of becoming worse in a more active and worldly profession, where
he would have had less time and obligation--where he might have escaped
that knowledge of himself, the _frequency_, at least, of that knowledge
which it is impossible he should escape as he is now. A man--a sensible
man like Dr. Grant, cannot be in the habit of teaching others their duty
every week, cannot go to church twice every Sunday, and preach such very
good sermons in so good a manner as he does, without being the better
for it himself. It must make him think; and I have no doubt that he
oftener endeavours to restrain himself than he would if he had been
anything but a clergyman."

"We cannot prove to the contrary, to be sure; but I wish you a better
fate, Miss Price, than to be the wife of a man whose amiableness
depends upon his own sermons; for though he may preach himself into a
good-humour every Sunday, it will be bad enough to have him quarrelling
about green geese from Monday morning till Saturday night."

"I think the man who could often quarrel with Fanny," said Edmund
affectionately, "must be beyond the reach of any sermons."

Fanny turned farther into the window; and Miss Crawford had only time
to say, in a pleasant manner, "I fancy Miss Price has been more used to
deserve praise than to hear it"; when, being earnestly invited by the
Miss Bertrams to join in a glee, she tripped off to the instrument,
leaving Edmund looking after her in an ecstasy of admiration of all her
many virtues, from her obliging manners down to her light and graceful
tread.

"There goes good-humour, I am sure," said he presently. "There goes a
temper which would never give pain! How well she walks! and how readily
she falls in with the inclination of others! joining them the moment she
is asked. What a pity," he added, after an instant's reflection, "that
she should have been in such hands!"

Fanny agreed to it, and had the pleasure of seeing him continue at the
window with her, in spite of the expected glee; and of having his eyes
soon turned, like hers, towards the scene without, where all that was
solemn, and soothing, and lovely, appeared in the brilliancy of an
unclouded night, and the contrast of the deep shade of the woods. Fanny
spoke her feelings. "Here's harmony!" said she; "here's repose! Here's
what may leave all painting and all music behind, and what poetry only
can attempt to describe! Here's what may tranquillise every care, and
lift the heart to rapture! When I look out on such a night as this, I
feel as if there could be neither wickedness nor sorrow in the world;
and there certainly would be less of both if the sublimity of Nature
were more attended to, and people were carried more out of themselves by
contemplating such a scene."

"I like to hear your enthusiasm, Fanny. It is a lovely night, and they
are much to be pitied who have not been taught to feel, in some degree,
as you do; who have not, at least, been given a taste for Nature in
early life. They lose a great deal."

"_You_ taught me to think and feel on the subject, cousin."

"I had a very apt scholar. There's Arcturus looking very bright."

"Yes, and the Bear. I wish I could see Cassiopeia."

"We must go out on the lawn for that. Should you be afraid?"

"Not in the least. It is a great while since we have had any
star-gazing."

"Yes; I do not know how it has happened." The glee began. "We will stay
till this is finished, Fanny," said he, turning his back on the window;
and as it advanced, she had the mortification of seeing him advance too,
moving forward by gentle degrees towards the instrument, and when it
ceased, he was close by the singers, among the most urgent in requesting
to hear the glee again.

Fanny sighed alone at the window till scolded away by Mrs. Norris's
threats of catching cold.

Sir Thomas was to return in November, and his eldest son had duties to
call him earlier home. The approach of September brought tidings of Mr.
Bertram, first in a letter to the gamekeeper and then in a letter
to Edmund; and by the end of August he arrived himself, to be gay,
agreeable, and gallant again as occasion served, or Miss Crawford
demanded; to tell of races and Weymouth, and parties and friends, to
which she might have listened six weeks before with some interest, and
altogether to give her the fullest conviction, by the power of actual
comparison, of her preferring his younger brother.

It was very vexatious, and she was heartily sorry for it; but so it was;
and so far from now meaning to marry the elder, she did not even want
to attract him beyond what the simplest claims of conscious beauty
required: his lengthened absence from Mansfield, without anything but
pleasure in view, and his own will to consult, made it perfectly clear
that he did not care about her; and his indifference was so much more
than equalled by her own, that were he now to step forth the owner of
Mansfield Park, the Sir Thomas complete, which he was to be in time, she
did not believe she could accept him.

The season and duties which brought Mr. Bertram back to Mansfield took
Mr. Crawford into Norfolk. Everingham could not do without him in the
beginning of September. He went for a fortnight--a fortnight of such
dullness to the Miss Bertrams as ought to have put them both on their
guard, and made even Julia admit, in her jealousy of her sister, the
absolute necessity of distrusting his attentions, and wishing him not
to return; and a fortnight of sufficient leisure, in the intervals of
shooting and sleeping, to have convinced the gentleman that he ought
to keep longer away, had he been more in the habit of examining his own
motives, and of reflecting to what the indulgence of his idle vanity was
tending; but, thoughtless and selfish from prosperity and bad example,
he would not look beyond the present moment. The sisters, handsome,
clever, and encouraging, were an amusement to his sated mind; and
finding nothing in Norfolk to equal the social pleasures of Mansfield,
he gladly returned to it at the time appointed, and was welcomed thither
quite as gladly by those whom he came to trifle with further.

Maria, with only Mr. Rushworth to attend to her, and doomed to the
repeated details of his day's sport, good or bad, his boast of his dogs,
his jealousy of his neighbours, his doubts of their qualifications,
and his zeal after poachers, subjects which will not find their way to
female feelings without some talent on one side or some attachment on
the other, had missed Mr. Crawford grievously; and Julia, unengaged and
unemployed, felt all the right of missing him much more. Each sister
believed herself the favourite. Julia might be justified in so doing by
the hints of Mrs. Grant, inclined to credit what she wished, and Maria
by the hints of Mr. Crawford himself. Everything returned into the same
channel as before his absence; his manners being to each so animated and
agreeable as to lose no ground with either, and just stopping short of
the consistence, the steadiness, the solicitude, and the warmth which
might excite general notice.

Fanny was the only one of the party who found anything to dislike; but
since the day at Sotherton, she could never see Mr. Crawford with either
sister without observation, and seldom without wonder or censure; and
had her confidence in her own judgment been equal to her exercise of it
in every other respect, had she been sure that she was seeing clearly,
and judging candidly, she would probably have made some important
communications to her usual confidant. As it was, however, she only
hazarded a hint, and the hint was lost. "I am rather surprised," said
she, "that Mr. Crawford should come back again so soon, after being here
so long before, full seven weeks; for I had understood he was so
very fond of change and moving about, that I thought something would
certainly occur, when he was once gone, to take him elsewhere. He is
used to much gayer places than Mansfield."

"It is to his credit," was Edmund's answer; "and I dare say it gives his
sister pleasure. She does not like his unsettled habits."

"What a favourite he is with my cousins!"

"Yes, his manners to women are such as must please. Mrs. Grant, I
believe, suspects him of a preference for Julia; I have never seen much
symptom of it, but I wish it may be so. He has no faults but what a
serious attachment would remove."

"If Miss Bertram were not engaged," said Fanny cautiously, "I could
sometimes almost think that he admired her more than Julia."

"Which is, perhaps, more in favour of his liking Julia best, than you,
Fanny, may be aware; for I believe it often happens that a man, before
he has quite made up his own mind, will distinguish the sister or
intimate friend of the woman he is really thinking of more than the
woman herself. Crawford has too much sense to stay here if he found
himself in any danger from Maria; and I am not at all afraid for her,
after such a proof as she has given that her feelings are not strong."

Fanny supposed she must have been mistaken, and meant to think
differently in future; but with all that submission to Edmund could
do, and all the help of the coinciding looks and hints which she
occasionally noticed in some of the others, and which seemed to say that
Julia was Mr. Crawford's choice, she knew not always what to think. She
was privy, one evening, to the hopes of her aunt Norris on the subject,
as well as to her feelings, and the feelings of Mrs. Rushworth, on a
point of some similarity, and could not help wondering as she listened;
and glad would she have been not to be obliged to listen, for it was
while all the other young people were dancing, and she sitting,
most unwillingly, among the chaperons at the fire, longing for the
re-entrance of her elder cousin, on whom all her own hopes of a partner
then depended. It was Fanny's first ball, though without the preparation
or splendour of many a young lady's first ball, being the thought only
of the afternoon, built on the late acquisition of a violin player in
the servants' hall, and the possibility of raising five couple with
the help of Mrs. Grant and a new intimate friend of Mr. Bertram's just
arrived on a visit. It had, however, been a very happy one to Fanny
through four dances, and she was quite grieved to be losing even a
quarter of an hour. While waiting and wishing, looking now at
the dancers and now at the door, this dialogue between the two
above-mentioned ladies was forced on her--

"I think, ma'am," said Mrs. Norris, her eyes directed towards Mr.
Rushworth and Maria, who were partners for the second time, "we shall
see some happy faces again now."

"Yes, ma'am, indeed," replied the other, with a stately simper, "there
will be some satisfaction in looking on _now_, and I think it was rather
a pity they should have been obliged to part. Young folks in their
situation should be excused complying with the common forms. I wonder my
son did not propose it."

"I dare say he did, ma'am. Mr. Rushworth is never remiss. But dear Maria
has such a strict sense of propriety, so much of that true delicacy
which one seldom meets with nowadays, Mrs. Rushworth--that wish of
avoiding particularity! Dear ma'am, only look at her face at this
moment; how different from what it was the two last dances!"

Miss Bertram did indeed look happy, her eyes were sparkling with
pleasure, and she was speaking with great animation, for Julia and her
partner, Mr. Crawford, were close to her; they were all in a cluster
together. How she had looked before, Fanny could not recollect, for she
had been dancing with Edmund herself, and had not thought about her.

Mrs. Norris continued, "It is quite delightful, ma'am, to see young
people so properly happy, so well suited, and so much the thing! I
cannot but think of dear Sir Thomas's delight. And what do you say,
ma'am, to the chance of another match? Mr. Rushworth has set a good
example, and such things are very catching."

Mrs. Rushworth, who saw nothing but her son, was quite at a loss.

"The couple above, ma'am. Do you see no symptoms there?"

"Oh dear! Miss Julia and Mr. Crawford. Yes, indeed, a very pretty match.
What is his property?"

"Four thousand a year."

"Very well. Those who have not more must be satisfied with what they
have. Four thousand a year is a pretty estate, and he seems a very
genteel, steady young man, so I hope Miss Julia will be very happy."

"It is not a settled thing, ma'am, yet. We only speak of it among
friends. But I have very little doubt it _will_ be. He is growing
extremely particular in his attentions."

Fanny could listen no farther. Listening and wondering were all
suspended for a time, for Mr. Bertram was in the room again; and though
feeling it would be a great honour to be asked by him, she thought it
must happen. He came towards their little circle; but instead of asking
her to dance, drew a chair near her, and gave her an account of the
present state of a sick horse, and the opinion of the groom, from
whom he had just parted. Fanny found that it was not to be, and in the
modesty of her nature immediately felt that she had been unreasonable
in expecting it. When he had told of his horse, he took a newspaper from
the table, and looking over it, said in a languid way, "If you want to
dance, Fanny, I will stand up with you." With more than equal civility
the offer was declined; she did not wish to dance. "I am glad of it,"
said he, in a much brisker tone, and throwing down the newspaper again,
"for I am tired to death. I only wonder how the good people can keep
it up so long. They had need be _all_ in love, to find any amusement in
such folly; and so they are, I fancy. If you look at them you may see
they are so many couple of lovers--all but Yates and Mrs. Grant--and,
between ourselves, she, poor woman, must want a lover as much as any one
of them. A desperate dull life hers must be with the doctor," making
a sly face as he spoke towards the chair of the latter, who proving,
however, to be close at his elbow, made so instantaneous a change of
expression and subject necessary, as Fanny, in spite of everything,
could hardly help laughing at. "A strange business this in America, Dr.
Grant! What is your opinion? I always come to you to know what I am to
think of public matters."

"My dear Tom," cried his aunt soon afterwards, "as you are not dancing,
I dare say you will have no objection to join us in a rubber; shall
you?" Then leaving her seat, and coming to him to enforce the proposal,
added in a whisper, "We want to make a table for Mrs. Rushworth, you
know. Your mother is quite anxious about it, but cannot very well spare
time to sit down herself, because of her fringe. Now, you and I and Dr.
Grant will just do; and though _we_ play but half-crowns, you know, you
may bet half-guineas with _him_."

"I should be most happy," replied he aloud, and jumping up with
alacrity, "it would give me the greatest pleasure; but that I am
this moment going to dance." Come, Fanny, taking her hand, "do not be
dawdling any longer, or the dance will be over."

Fanny was led off very willingly, though it was impossible for her to
feel much gratitude towards her cousin, or distinguish, as he certainly
did, between the selfishness of another person and his own.

"A pretty modest request upon my word," he indignantly exclaimed as they
walked away. "To want to nail me to a card-table for the next two hours
with herself and Dr. Grant, who are always quarrelling, and that poking
old woman, who knows no more of whist than of algebra. I wish my good
aunt would be a little less busy! And to ask me in such a way too!
without ceremony, before them all, so as to leave me no possibility
of refusing. _That_ is what I dislike most particularly. It raises my
spleen more than anything, to have the pretence of being asked, of
being given a choice, and at the same time addressed in such a way as
to oblige one to do the very thing, whatever it be! If I had not luckily
thought of standing up with you I could not have got out of it. It is
a great deal too bad. But when my aunt has got a fancy in her head,
nothing can stop her."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Edmund smiled and shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fanny seemed nearer being right than Edmund had supposed. The business
of finding a play that would suit everybody proved to be no trifle; and
the carpenter had received his orders and taken his measurements, had
suggested and removed at least two sets of difficulties, and having made
the necessity of an enlargement of plan and expense fully evident, was
already at work, while a play was still to seek. Other preparations
were also in hand. An enormous roll of green baize had arrived from
Northampton, and been cut out by Mrs. Norris (with a saving by her good
management of full three-quarters of a yard), and was actually forming
into a curtain by the housemaids, and still the play was wanting; and
as two or three days passed away in this manner, Edmund began almost to
hope that none might ever be found.

There were, in fact, so many things to be attended to, so many people
to be pleased, so many best characters required, and, above all, such a
need that the play should be at once both tragedy and comedy, that there
did seem as little chance of a decision as anything pursued by youth and
zeal could hold out.

On the tragic side were the Miss Bertrams, Henry Crawford, and Mr.
Yates; on the comic, Tom Bertram, not _quite_ alone, because it was
evident that Mary Crawford's wishes, though politely kept back, inclined
the same way: but his determinateness and his power seemed to make
allies unnecessary; and, independent of this great irreconcilable
difference, they wanted a piece containing very few characters in the
whole, but every character first-rate, and three principal women. All
the best plays were run over in vain. Neither Hamlet, nor Macbeth, nor
Othello, nor Douglas, nor The Gamester, presented anything that could
satisfy even the tragedians; and The Rivals, The School for Scandal,
Wheel of Fortune, Heir at Law, and a long et cetera, were successively
dismissed with yet warmer objections. No piece could be proposed that
did not supply somebody with a difficulty, and on one side or the other
it was a continual repetition of, "Oh no, _that_ will never do! Let us
have no ranting tragedies. Too many characters. Not a tolerable
woman's part in the play. Anything but _that_, my dear Tom. It would be
impossible to fill it up. One could not expect anybody to take such a
part. Nothing but buffoonery from beginning to end. _That_ might do,
perhaps, but for the low parts. If I _must_ give my opinion, I have
always thought it the most insipid play in the English language. _I_ do
not wish to make objections; I shall be happy to be of any use, but I
think we could not chuse worse."

Fanny looked on and listened, not unamused to observe the selfishness
which, more or less disguised, seemed to govern them all, and wondering
how it would end. For her own gratification she could have wished that
something might be acted, for she had never seen even half a play, but
everything of higher consequence was against it.

"This will never do," said Tom Bertram at last. "We are wasting time
most abominably. Something must be fixed on. No matter what, so that
something is chosen. We must not be so nice. A few characters too many
must not frighten us. We must _double_ them. We must descend a little.
If a part is insignificant, the greater our credit in making anything of
it. From this moment I make no difficulties. I take any part you chuse
to give me, so as it be comic. Let it but be comic, I condition for
nothing more."

For about the fifth time he then proposed the Heir at Law, doubting only
whether to prefer Lord Duberley or Dr. Pangloss for himself; and very
earnestly, but very unsuccessfully, trying to persuade the others that
there were some fine tragic parts in the rest of the dramatis personae.

The pause which followed this fruitless effort was ended by the same
speaker, who, taking up one of the many volumes of plays that lay on the
table, and turning it over, suddenly exclaimed--"Lovers' Vows! And why
should not Lovers' Vows do for _us_ as well as for the Ravenshaws? How
came it never to be thought of before? It strikes me as if it would do
exactly. What say you all? Here are two capital tragic parts for Yates
and Crawford, and here is the rhyming Butler for me, if nobody else
wants it; a trifling part, but the sort of thing I should not dislike,
and, as I said before, I am determined to take anything and do my best.
And as for the rest, they may be filled up by anybody. It is only Count
Cassel and Anhalt."

The suggestion was generally welcome. Everybody was growing weary of
indecision, and the first idea with everybody was, that nothing had been
proposed before so likely to suit them all. Mr. Yates was particularly
pleased: he had been sighing and longing to do the Baron at Ecclesford,
had grudged every rant of Lord Ravenshaw's, and been forced to re-rant
it all in his own room. The storm through Baron Wildenheim was the
height of his theatrical ambition; and with the advantage of knowing
half the scenes by heart already, he did now, with the greatest
alacrity, offer his services for the part. To do him justice, however,
he did not resolve to appropriate it; for remembering that there was
some very good ranting-ground in Frederick, he professed an equal
willingness for that. Henry Crawford was ready to take either. Whichever
Mr. Yates did not chuse would perfectly satisfy him, and a short parley
of compliment ensued. Miss Bertram, feeling all the interest of an
Agatha in the question, took on her to decide it, by observing to Mr.
Yates that this was a point in which height and figure ought to
be considered, and that _his_ being the tallest, seemed to fit him
peculiarly for the Baron. She was acknowledged to be quite right, and
the two parts being accepted accordingly, she was certain of the proper
Frederick. Three of the characters were now cast, besides Mr. Rushworth,
who was always answered for by Maria as willing to do anything; when
Julia, meaning, like her sister, to be Agatha, began to be scrupulous on
Miss Crawford's account.

"This is not behaving well by the absent," said she. "Here are not women
enough. Amelia and Agatha may do for Maria and me, but here is nothing
for your sister, Mr. Crawford."

Mr. Crawford desired _that_ might not be thought of: he was very sure
his sister had no wish of acting but as she might be useful, and that
she would not allow herself to be considered in the present case. But
this was immediately opposed by Tom Bertram, who asserted the part of
Amelia to be in every respect the property of Miss Crawford, if she
would accept it. "It falls as naturally, as necessarily to her,"
said he, "as Agatha does to one or other of my sisters. It can be no
sacrifice on their side, for it is highly comic."

A short silence followed. Each sister looked anxious; for each felt the
best claim to Agatha, and was hoping to have it pressed on her by the
rest. Henry Crawford, who meanwhile had taken up the play, and with
seeming carelessness was turning over the first act, soon settled the
business.

"I must entreat Miss _Julia_ Bertram," said he, "not to engage in the
part of Agatha, or it will be the ruin of all my solemnity. You must
not, indeed you must not" (turning to her). "I could not stand your
countenance dressed up in woe and paleness. The many laughs we have had
together would infallibly come across me, and Frederick and his knapsack
would be obliged to run away."

Pleasantly, courteously, it was spoken; but the manner was lost in the
matter to Julia's feelings. She saw a glance at Maria which confirmed
the injury to herself: it was a scheme, a trick; she was slighted, Maria
was preferred; the smile of triumph which Maria was trying to suppress
shewed how well it was understood; and before Julia could command
herself enough to speak, her brother gave his weight against her too,
by saying, "Oh yes! Maria must be Agatha. Maria will be the best Agatha.
Though Julia fancies she prefers tragedy, I would not trust her in it.
There is nothing of tragedy about her. She has not the look of it. Her
features are not tragic features, and she walks too quick, and speaks
too quick, and would not keep her countenance. She had better do the old
countrywoman: the Cottager's wife; you had, indeed, Julia. Cottager's
wife is a very pretty part, I assure you. The old lady relieves the
high-flown benevolence of her husband with a good deal of spirit. You
shall be Cottager's wife."

"Cottager's wife!" cried Mr. Yates. "What are you talking of? The most
trivial, paltry, insignificant part; the merest commonplace; not a
tolerable speech in the whole. Your sister do that! It is an insult
to propose it. At Ecclesford the governess was to have done it. We
all agreed that it could not be offered to anybody else. A little more
justice, Mr. Manager, if you please. You do not deserve the office, if
you cannot appreciate the talents of your company a little better."

"Why, as to _that_, my good friend, till I and my company have really
acted there must be some guesswork; but I mean no disparagement to
Julia. We cannot have two Agathas, and we must have one Cottager's
wife; and I am sure I set her the example of moderation myself in being
satisfied with the old Butler. If the part is trifling she will have
more credit in making something of it; and if she is so desperately bent
against everything humorous, let her take Cottager's speeches instead of
Cottager's wife's, and so change the parts all through; _he_ is solemn
and pathetic enough, I am sure. It could make no difference in the play,
and as for Cottager himself, when he has got his wife's speeches, _I_
would undertake him with all my heart."

"With all your partiality for Cottager's wife," said Henry Crawford, "it
will be impossible to make anything of it fit for your sister, and we
must not suffer her good-nature to be imposed on. We must not _allow_
her to accept the part. She must not be left to her own complaisance.
Her talents will be wanted in Amelia. Amelia is a character more
difficult to be well represented than even Agatha. I consider Amelia
is the most difficult character in the whole piece. It requires great
powers, great nicety, to give her playfulness and simplicity without
extravagance. I have seen good actresses fail in the part. Simplicity,
indeed, is beyond the reach of almost every actress by profession.
It requires a delicacy of feeling which they have not. It requires a
gentlewoman--a Julia Bertram. You _will_ undertake it, I hope?" turning
to her with a look of anxious entreaty, which softened her a little; but
while she hesitated what to say, her brother again interposed with Miss
Crawford's better claim.

"No, no, Julia must not be Amelia. It is not at all the part for her.
She would not like it. She would not do well. She is too tall and
robust. Amelia should be a small, light, girlish, skipping figure. It is
fit for Miss Crawford, and Miss Crawford only. She looks the part, and I
am persuaded will do it admirably."

Without attending to this, Henry Crawford continued his supplication.
"You must oblige us," said he, "indeed you must. When you have studied
the character, I am sure you will feel it suit you. Tragedy may be your
choice, but it will certainly appear that comedy chuses _you_. You
will be to visit me in prison with a basket of provisions; you will
not refuse to visit me in prison? I think I see you coming in with your
basket."

The influence of his voice was felt. Julia wavered; but was he only
trying to soothe and pacify her, and make her overlook the previous
affront? She distrusted him. The slight had been most determined. He
was, perhaps, but at treacherous play with her. She looked suspiciously
at her sister; Maria's countenance was to decide it: if she were vexed
and alarmed--but Maria looked all serenity and satisfaction, and Julia
well knew that on this ground Maria could not be happy but at her
expense. With hasty indignation, therefore, and a tremulous voice, she
said to him, "You do not seem afraid of not keeping your countenance
when I come in with a basket of provisions--though one might have
supposed--but it is only as Agatha that I was to be so overpowering!"
She stopped--Henry Crawford looked rather foolish, and as if he did not
know what to say. Tom Bertram began again--

"Miss Crawford must be Amelia. She will be an excellent Amelia."

"Do not be afraid of _my_ wanting the character," cried Julia, with
angry quickness: "I am _not_ to be Agatha, and I am sure I will do
nothing else; and as to Amelia, it is of all parts in the world the
most disgusting to me. I quite detest her. An odious, little, pert,
unnatural, impudent girl. I have always protested against comedy, and
this is comedy in its worst form." And so saying, she walked hastily
out of the room, leaving awkward feelings to more than one, but exciting
small compassion in any except Fanny, who had been a quiet auditor of
the whole, and who could not think of her as under the agitations of
_jealousy_ without great pity.

A short silence succeeded her leaving them; but her brother soon
returned to business and Lovers' Vows, and was eagerly looking over
the play, with Mr. Yates's help, to ascertain what scenery would be
necessary--while Maria and Henry Crawford conversed together in an
under-voice, and the declaration with which she began of, "I am sure I
would give up the part to Julia most willingly, but that though I shall
probably do it very ill, I feel persuaded _she_ would do it worse," was
doubtless receiving all the compliments it called for.

When this had lasted some time, the division of the party was completed
by Tom Bertram and Mr. Yates walking off together to consult farther in
the room now beginning to be called _the_ _Theatre_, and Miss Bertram's
resolving to go down to the Parsonage herself with the offer of Amelia
to Miss Crawford; and Fanny remained alone.

The first use she made of her solitude was to take up the volume which
had been left on the table, and begin to acquaint herself with the play
of which she had heard so much. Her curiosity was all awake, and she ran
through it with an eagerness which was suspended only by intervals of
astonishment, that it could be chosen in the present instance, that it
could be proposed and accepted in a private theatre! Agatha and Amelia
appeared to her in their different ways so totally improper for home
representation--the situation of one, and the language of the other,
so unfit to be expressed by any woman of modesty, that she could hardly
suppose her cousins could be aware of what they were engaging in; and
longed to have them roused as soon as possible by the remonstrance which
Edmund would certainly make.

Miss Crawford accepted the part very readily; and soon after Miss
Bertram's return from the Parsonage, Mr. Rushworth arrived, and another
character was consequently cast. He had the offer of Count Cassel
and Anhalt, and at first did not know which to chuse, and wanted Miss
Bertram to direct him; but upon being made to understand the different
style of the characters, and which was which, and recollecting that he
had once seen the play in London, and had thought Anhalt a very stupid
fellow, he soon decided for the Count. Miss Bertram approved the
decision, for the less he had to learn the better; and though she could
not sympathise in his wish that the Count and Agatha might be to act
together, nor wait very patiently while he was slowly turning over the
leaves with the hope of still discovering such a scene, she very kindly
took his part in hand, and curtailed every speech that admitted being
shortened; besides pointing out the necessity of his being very much
dressed, and chusing his colours. Mr. Rushworth liked the idea of his
finery very well, though affecting to despise it; and was too much
engaged with what his own appearance would be to think of the others,
or draw any of those conclusions, or feel any of that displeasure which
Maria had been half prepared for.

Thus much was settled before Edmund, who had been out all the morning,
knew anything of the matter; but when he entered the drawing-room before
dinner, the buzz of discussion was high between Tom, Maria, and Mr.
Yates; and Mr. Rushworth stepped forward with great alacrity to tell him
the agreeable news.

"We have got a play," said he. "It is to be Lovers' Vows; and I am to be
Count Cassel, and am to come in first with a blue dress and a pink satin
cloak, and afterwards am to have another fine fancy suit, by way of a
shooting-dress. I do not know how I shall like it."

Fanny's eyes followed Edmund, and her heart beat for him as she heard
this speech, and saw his look, and felt what his sensations must be.

"Lovers' Vows!" in a tone of the greatest amazement, was his only reply
to Mr. Rushworth, and he turned towards his brother and sisters as if
hardly doubting a contradiction.

"Yes," cried Mr. Yates. "After all our debatings and difficulties, we
find there is nothing that will suit us altogether so well, nothing so
unexceptionable, as Lovers' Vows. The wonder is that it should not have
been thought of before. My stupidity was abominable, for here we have
all the advantage of what I saw at Ecclesford; and it is so useful to
have anything of a model! We have cast almost every part."

"But what do you do for women?" said Edmund gravely, and looking at
Maria.

Maria blushed in spite of herself as she answered, "I take the part
which Lady Ravenshaw was to have done, and" (with a bolder eye) "Miss
Crawford is to be Amelia."

"I should not have thought it the sort of play to be so easily filled
up, with _us_," replied Edmund, turning away to the fire, where sat
his mother, aunt, and Fanny, and seating himself with a look of great
vexation.

Mr. Rushworth followed him to say, "I come in three times, and have
two-and-forty speeches. That's something, is not it? But I do not much
like the idea of being so fine. I shall hardly know myself in a blue
dress and a pink satin cloak."

Edmund could not answer him. In a few minutes Mr. Bertram was called
out of the room to satisfy some doubts of the carpenter; and being
accompanied by Mr. Yates, and followed soon afterwards by Mr. Rushworth,
Edmund almost immediately took the opportunity of saying, "I cannot,
before Mr. Yates, speak what I feel as to this play, without reflecting
on his friends at Ecclesford; but I must now, my dear Maria, tell _you_,
that I think it exceedingly unfit for private representation, and that I
hope you will give it up. I cannot but suppose you _will_ when you have
read it carefully over. Read only the first act aloud to either your
mother or aunt, and see how you can approve it. It will not be necessary
to send you to your _father's_ judgment, I am convinced."

"We see things very differently," cried Maria. "I am perfectly
acquainted with the play, I assure you; and with a very few omissions,
and so forth, which will be made, of course, I can see nothing
objectionable in it; and _I_ am not the _only_ young woman you find who
thinks it very fit for private representation."

"I am sorry for it," was his answer; "but in this matter it is _you_ who
are to lead. _You_ must set the example. If others have blundered, it
is your place to put them right, and shew them what true delicacy is.
In all points of decorum _your_ conduct must be law to the rest of the
party."

This picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved better
to lead than Maria; and with far more good-humour she answered, "I am
much obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very well, I am sure: but I still
think you see things too strongly; and I really cannot undertake to
harangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind. _There_ would be the
greatest indecorum, I think."

"Do you imagine that I could have such an idea in my head? No; let your
conduct be the only harangue. Say that, on examining the part, you feel
yourself unequal to it; that you find it requiring more exertion and
confidence than you can be supposed to have. Say this with firmness, and
it will be quite enough. All who can distinguish will understand your
motive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as it
ought."

"Do not act anything improper, my dear," said Lady Bertram. "Sir Thomas
would not like it.--Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my dinner.--To be
sure, Julia is dressed by this time."

"I am convinced, madam," said Edmund, preventing Fanny, "that Sir Thomas
would not like it."

"There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?"

"If I were to decline the part," said Maria, with renewed zeal, "Julia
would certainly take it."

"What!" cried Edmund, "if she knew your reasons!"

"Oh! she might think the difference between us--the difference in our
situations--that _she_ need not be so scrupulous as _I_ might feel
necessary. I am sure she would argue so. No; you must excuse me; I
cannot retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be so
disappointed, Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we
shall never act anything."

"I was just going to say the very same thing," said Mrs. Norris.
"If every play is to be objected to, you will act nothing, and the
preparations will be all so much money thrown away, and I am sure _that_
would be a discredit to us all. I do not know the play; but, as Maria
says, if there is anything a little too warm (and it is so with most of
them) it can be easily left out. We must not be over-precise, Edmund. As
Mr. Rushworth is to act too, there can be no harm. I only wish Tom had
known his own mind when the carpenters began, for there was the loss
of half a day's work about those side-doors. The curtain will be a good
job, however. The maids do their work very well, and I think we shall be
able to send back some dozens of the rings. There is no occasion to put
them so very close together. I _am_ of some use, I hope, in preventing
waste and making the most of things. There should always be one
steady head to superintend so many young ones. I forgot to tell Tom of
something that happened to me this very day. I had been looking about me
in the poultry-yard, and was just coming out, when who should I see but
Dick Jackson making up to the servants' hall-door with two bits of deal
board in his hand, bringing them to father, you may be sure; mother had
chanced to send him of a message to father, and then father had bid
him bring up them two bits of board, for he could not no how do without
them. I knew what all this meant, for the servants' dinner-bell
was ringing at the very moment over our heads; and as I hate such
encroaching people (the Jacksons are very encroaching, I have always
said so: just the sort of people to get all they can), I said to the boy
directly (a great lubberly fellow of ten years old, you know, who ought
to be ashamed of himself), '_I'll_ take the boards to your father, Dick,
so get you home again as fast as you can.' The boy looked very silly,
and turned away without offering a word, for I believe I might speak
pretty sharp; and I dare say it will cure him of coming marauding about
the house for one while. I hate such greediness--so good as your father
is to the family, employing the man all the year round!"

Nobody was at the trouble of an answer; the others soon returned; and
Edmund found that to have endeavoured to set them right must be his only
satisfaction.

Dinner passed heavily. Mrs. Norris related again her triumph over Dick
Jackson, but neither play nor preparation were otherwise much talked
of, for Edmund's disapprobation was felt even by his brother, though
he would not have owned it. Maria, wanting Henry Crawford's animating
support, thought the subject better avoided. Mr. Yates, who was trying
to make himself agreeable to Julia, found her gloom less impenetrable on
any topic than that of his regret at her secession from their company;
and Mr. Rushworth, having only his own part and his own dress in his
head, had soon talked away all that could be said of either.

But the concerns of the theatre were suspended only for an hour or two:
there was still a great deal to be settled; and the spirits of evening
giving fresh courage, Tom, Maria, and Mr. Yates, soon after their being
reassembled in the drawing-room, seated themselves in committee at a
separate table, with the play open before them, and were just getting
deep in the subject when a most welcome interruption was given by the
entrance of Mr. and Miss Crawford, who, late and dark and dirty as it
was, could not help coming, and were received with the most grateful
joy.

"Well, how do you go on?" and "What have you settled?" and "Oh! we
can do nothing without you," followed the first salutations; and Henry
Crawford was soon seated with the other three at the table, while his
sister made her way to Lady Bertram, and with pleasant attention was
complimenting _her_. "I must really congratulate your ladyship," said
she, "on the play being chosen; for though you have borne it with
exemplary patience, I am sure you must be sick of all our noise and
difficulties. The actors may be glad, but the bystanders must be
infinitely more thankful for a decision; and I do sincerely give you
joy, madam, as well as Mrs. Norris, and everybody else who is in the
same predicament," glancing half fearfully, half slyly, beyond Fanny to
Edmund.

She was very civilly answered by Lady Bertram, but Edmund said nothing.
His being only a bystander was not disclaimed. After continuing in chat
with the party round the fire a few minutes, Miss Crawford returned
to the party round the table; and standing by them, seemed to
interest herself in their arrangements till, as if struck by a sudden
recollection, she exclaimed, "My good friends, you are most composedly
at work upon these cottages and alehouses, inside and out; but pray let
me know my fate in the meanwhile. Who is to be Anhalt? What gentleman
among you am I to have the pleasure of making love to?"

For a moment no one spoke; and then many spoke together to tell the same
melancholy truth, that they had not yet got any Anhalt. "Mr. Rushworth
was to be Count Cassel, but no one had yet undertaken Anhalt."

"I had my choice of the parts," said Mr. Rushworth; "but I thought I
should like the Count best, though I do not much relish the finery I am
to have."

"You chose very wisely, I am sure," replied Miss Crawford, with a
brightened look; "Anhalt is a heavy part."

"_The_ _Count_ has two-and-forty speeches," returned Mr. Rushworth,
"which is no trifle."

"I am not at all surprised," said Miss Crawford, after a short pause,
"at this want of an Anhalt. Amelia deserves no better. Such a forward
young lady may well frighten the men."

"I should be but too happy in taking the part, if it were possible,"
cried Tom; "but, unluckily, the Butler and Anhalt are in together. I
will not entirely give it up, however; I will try what can be done--I
will look it over again."

"Your _brother_ should take the part," said Mr. Yates, in a low voice.
"Do not you think he would?"

"_I_ shall not ask him," replied Tom, in a cold, determined manner.

Miss Crawford talked of something else, and soon afterwards rejoined the
party at the fire.

"They do not want me at all," said she, seating herself. "I only puzzle
them, and oblige them to make civil speeches. Mr. Edmund Bertram, as
you do not act yourself, you will be a disinterested adviser; and,
therefore, I apply to _you_. What shall we do for an Anhalt? Is it
practicable for any of the others to double it? What is your advice?"

"My advice," said he calmly, "is that you change the play."

"_I_ should have no objection," she replied; "for though I should not
particularly dislike the part of Amelia if well supported, that is, if
everything went well, I shall be sorry to be an inconvenience; but
as they do not chuse to hear your advice at _that_ _table_" (looking
round), "it certainly will not be taken."

Edmund said no more.

"If _any_ part could tempt _you_ to act, I suppose it would be Anhalt,"
observed the lady archly, after a short pause; "for he is a clergyman,
you know."

"_That_ circumstance would by no means tempt me," he replied, "for I
should be sorry to make the character ridiculous by bad acting. It
must be very difficult to keep Anhalt from appearing a formal, solemn
lecturer; and the man who chuses the profession itself is, perhaps, one
of the last who would wish to represent it on the stage."

Miss Crawford was silenced, and with some feelings of resentment and
mortification, moved her chair considerably nearer the tea-table, and
gave all her attention to Mrs. Norris, who was presiding there.

"Fanny," cried Tom Bertram, from the other table, where the conference
was eagerly carrying on, and the conversation incessant, "we want your
services."

Fanny was up in a moment, expecting some errand; for the habit of
employing her in that way was not yet overcome, in spite of all that
Edmund could do.

"Oh! we do not want to disturb you from your seat. We do not want your
_present_ services. We shall only want you in our play. You must be
Cottager's wife."

"Me!" cried Fanny, sitting down again with a most frightened look.
"Indeed you must excuse me. I could not act anything if you were to give
me the world. No, indeed, I cannot act."

"Indeed, but you must, for we cannot excuse you. It need not frighten
you: it is a nothing of a part, a mere nothing, not above half a dozen
speeches altogether, and it will not much signify if nobody hears a word
you say; so you may be as creep-mouse as you like, but we must have you
to look at."

"If you are afraid of half a dozen speeches," cried Mr. Rushworth, "what
would you do with such a part as mine? I have forty-two to learn."

"It is not that I am afraid of learning by heart," said Fanny, shocked
to find herself at that moment the only speaker in the room, and to feel
that almost every eye was upon her; "but I really cannot act."

"Yes, yes, you can act well enough for _us_. Learn your part, and we
will teach you all the rest. You have only two scenes, and as I shall
be Cottager, I'll put you in and push you about, and you will do it very
well, I'll answer for it."

"No, indeed, Mr. Bertram, you must excuse me. You cannot have an idea.
It would be absolutely impossible for me. If I were to undertake it, I
should only disappoint you."

"Phoo! Phoo! Do not be so shamefaced. You'll do it very well. Every
allowance will be made for you. We do not expect perfection. You must
get a brown gown, and a white apron, and a mob cap, and we must make
you a few wrinkles, and a little of the crowsfoot at the corner of your
eyes, and you will be a very proper, little old woman."

"You must excuse me, indeed you must excuse me," cried Fanny, growing
more and more red from excessive agitation, and looking distressfully
at Edmund, who was kindly observing her; but unwilling to exasperate
his brother by interference, gave her only an encouraging smile. Her
entreaty had no effect on Tom: he only said again what he had said
before; and it was not merely Tom, for the requisition was now backed by
Maria, and Mr. Crawford, and Mr. Yates, with an urgency which differed
from his but in being more gentle or more ceremonious, and which
altogether was quite overpowering to Fanny; and before she could breathe
after it, Mrs. Norris completed the whole by thus addressing her in a
whisper at once angry and audible--"What a piece of work here is about
nothing: I am quite ashamed of you, Fanny, to make such a difficulty of
obliging your cousins in a trifle of this sort--so kind as they are to
you! Take the part with a good grace, and let us hear no more of the
matter, I entreat."

"Do not urge her, madam," said Edmund. "It is not fair to urge her
in this manner. You see she does not like to act. Let her chuse for
herself, as well as the rest of us. Her judgment may be quite as safely
trusted. Do not urge her any more."

"I am not going to urge her," replied Mrs. Norris sharply; "but I shall
think her a very obstinate, ungrateful girl, if she does not do what her
aunt and cousins wish her--very ungrateful, indeed, considering who and
what she is."

Edmund was too angry to speak; but Miss Crawford, looking for a moment
with astonished eyes at Mrs. Norris, and then at Fanny, whose tears were
beginning to shew themselves, immediately said, with some keenness, "I
do not like my situation: this _place_ is too hot for me," and moved
away her chair to the opposite side of the table, close to Fanny, saying
to her, in a kind, low whisper, as she placed herself, "Never mind,
my dear Miss Price, this is a cross evening: everybody is cross and
teasing, but do not let us mind them"; and with pointed attention
continued to talk to her and endeavour to raise her spirits, in spite of
being out of spirits herself. By a look at her brother she prevented any
farther entreaty from the theatrical board, and the really good feelings
by which she was almost purely governed were rapidly restoring her to
all the little she had lost in Edmund's favour.

Fanny did not love Miss Crawford; but she felt very much obliged to her
for her present kindness; and when, from taking notice of her work,
and wishing _she_ could work as well, and begging for the pattern, and
supposing Fanny was now preparing for her _appearance_, as of course she
would come out when her cousin was married, Miss Crawford proceeded to
inquire if she had heard lately from her brother at sea, and said that
she had quite a curiosity to see him, and imagined him a very fine young
man, and advised Fanny to get his picture drawn before he went to sea
again--she could not help admitting it to be very agreeable flattery, or
help listening, and answering with more animation than she had intended.

The consultation upon the play still went on, and Miss Crawford's
attention was first called from Fanny by Tom Bertram's telling her,
with infinite regret, that he found it absolutely impossible for him to
undertake the part of Anhalt in addition to the Butler: he had been most
anxiously trying to make it out to be feasible, but it would not do;
he must give it up. "But there will not be the smallest difficulty in
filling it," he added. "We have but to speak the word; we may pick and
chuse. I could name, at this moment, at least six young men within six
miles of us, who are wild to be admitted into our company, and there are
one or two that would not disgrace us: I should not be afraid to trust
either of the Olivers or Charles Maddox. Tom Oliver is a very clever
fellow, and Charles Maddox is as gentlemanlike a man as you will see
anywhere, so I will take my horse early to-morrow morning and ride over
to Stoke, and settle with one of them."

While he spoke, Maria was looking apprehensively round at Edmund in full
expectation that he must oppose such an enlargement of the plan as this:
so contrary to all their first protestations; but Edmund said nothing.
After a moment's thought, Miss Crawford calmly replied, "As far as I
am concerned, I can have no objection to anything that you all think
eligible. Have I ever seen either of the gentlemen? Yes, Mr. Charles
Maddox dined at my sister's one day, did not he, Henry? A quiet-looking
young man. I remember him. Let _him_ be applied to, if you please, for
it will be less unpleasant to me than to have a perfect stranger."

Charles Maddox was to be the man. Tom repeated his resolution of going
to him early on the morrow; and though Julia, who had scarcely opened
her lips before, observed, in a sarcastic manner, and with a glance
first at Maria and then at Edmund, that "the Mansfield theatricals would
enliven the whole neighbourhood exceedingly," Edmund still held his
peace, and shewed his feelings only by a determined gravity.

"I am not very sanguine as to our play," said Miss Crawford, in an
undervoice to Fanny, after some consideration; "and I can tell Mr.
Maddox that I shall shorten some of _his_ speeches, and a great many of
_my_ _own_, before we rehearse together. It will be very disagreeable,
and by no means what I expected."

It was not in Miss Crawford's power to talk Fanny into any real
forgetfulness of what had passed. When the evening was over, she went to
bed full of it, her nerves still agitated by the shock of such an attack
from her cousin Tom, so public and so persevered in, and her spirits
sinking under her aunt's unkind reflection and reproach. To be called
into notice in such a manner, to hear that it was but the prelude to
something so infinitely worse, to be told that she must do what was
so impossible as to act; and then to have the charge of obstinacy and
ingratitude follow it, enforced with such a hint at the dependence
of her situation, had been too distressing at the time to make the
remembrance when she was alone much less so, especially with the
superadded dread of what the morrow might produce in continuation of the
subject. Miss Crawford had protected her only for the time; and if
she were applied to again among themselves with all the authoritative
urgency that Tom and Maria were capable of, and Edmund perhaps away,
what should she do? She fell asleep before she could answer the
question, and found it quite as puzzling when she awoke the next
morning. The little white attic, which had continued her sleeping-room
ever since her first entering the family, proving incompetent to suggest
any reply, she had recourse, as soon as she was dressed, to another
apartment more spacious and more meet for walking about in and thinking,
and of which she had now for some time been almost equally mistress. It
had been their school-room; so called till the Miss Bertrams would not
allow it to be called so any longer, and inhabited as such to a later
period. There Miss Lee had lived, and there they had read and written,
and talked and laughed, till within the last three years, when she had
quitted them. The room had then become useless, and for some time was
quite deserted, except by Fanny, when she visited her plants, or wanted
one of the books, which she was still glad to keep there, from the
deficiency of space and accommodation in her little chamber above: but
gradually, as her value for the comforts of it increased, she had added
to her possessions, and spent more of her time there; and having nothing
to oppose her, had so naturally and so artlessly worked herself into it,
that it was now generally admitted to be hers. The East room, as it had
been called ever since Maria Bertram was sixteen, was now considered
Fanny's, almost as decidedly as the white attic: the smallness of the
one making the use of the other so evidently reasonable that the Miss
Bertrams, with every superiority in their own apartments which their own
sense of superiority could demand, were entirely approving it; and Mrs.
Norris, having stipulated for there never being a fire in it on Fanny's
account, was tolerably resigned to her having the use of what nobody
else wanted, though the terms in which she sometimes spoke of the
indulgence seemed to imply that it was the best room in the house.

The aspect was so favourable that even without a fire it was habitable
in many an early spring and late autumn morning to such a willing mind
as Fanny's; and while there was a gleam of sunshine she hoped not to be
driven from it entirely, even when winter came. The comfort of it in
her hours of leisure was extreme. She could go there after anything
unpleasant below, and find immediate consolation in some pursuit, or
some train of thought at hand. Her plants, her books--of which she had
been a collector from the first hour of her commanding a shilling--her
writing-desk, and her works of charity and ingenuity, were all within
her reach; or if indisposed for employment, if nothing but musing would
do, she could scarcely see an object in that room which had not an
interesting remembrance connected with it. Everything was a friend, or
bore her thoughts to a friend; and though there had been sometimes much
of suffering to her; though her motives had often been misunderstood,
her feelings disregarded, and her comprehension undervalued; though she
had known the pains of tyranny, of ridicule, and neglect, yet almost
every recurrence of either had led to something consolatory: her aunt
Bertram had spoken for her, or Miss Lee had been encouraging, or, what
was yet more frequent or more dear, Edmund had been her champion and her
friend: he had supported her cause or explained her meaning, he had told
her not to cry, or had given her some proof of affection which made
her tears delightful; and the whole was now so blended together, so
harmonised by distance, that every former affliction had its charm. The
room was most dear to her, and she would not have changed its furniture
for the handsomest in the house, though what had been originally plain
had suffered all the ill-usage of children; and its greatest elegancies
and ornaments were a faded footstool of Julia's work, too ill done
for the drawing-room, three transparencies, made in a rage for
transparencies, for the three lower panes of one window, where Tintern
Abbey held its station between a cave in Italy and a moonlight lake in
Cumberland, a collection of family profiles, thought unworthy of being
anywhere else, over the mantelpiece, and by their side, and pinned
against the wall, a small sketch of a ship sent four years ago from the
Mediterranean by William, with H.M.S. Antwerp at the bottom, in letters
as tall as the mainmast.

To this nest of comforts Fanny now walked down to try its influence on
an agitated, doubting spirit, to see if by looking at Edmund's profile
she could catch any of his counsel, or by giving air to her geraniums
she might inhale a breeze of mental strength herself. But she had more
than fears of her own perseverance to remove: she had begun to feel
undecided as to what she _ought_ _to_ _do_; and as she walked round the
room her doubts were increasing. Was she _right_ in refusing what was
so warmly asked, so strongly wished for--what might be so essential to a
scheme on which some of those to whom she owed the greatest complaisance
had set their hearts? Was it not ill-nature, selfishness, and a fear of
exposing herself? And would Edmund's judgment, would his persuasion of
Sir Thomas's disapprobation of the whole, be enough to justify her in a
determined denial in spite of all the rest? It would be so horrible to
her to act that she was inclined to suspect the truth and purity of her
own scruples; and as she looked around her, the claims of her cousins
to being obliged were strengthened by the sight of present upon present
that she had received from them. The table between the windows was
covered with work-boxes and netting-boxes which had been given her at
different times, principally by Tom; and she grew bewildered as to the
amount of the debt which all these kind remembrances produced. A tap at
the door roused her in the midst of this attempt to find her way to her
duty, and her gentle "Come in" was answered by the appearance of one,
before whom all her doubts were wont to be laid. Her eyes brightened at
the sight of Edmund.

"Can I speak with you, Fanny, for a few minutes?" said he.

"Yes, certainly."

"I want to consult. I want your opinion."

"My opinion!" she cried, shrinking from such a compliment, highly as it
gratified her.

"Yes, your advice and opinion. I do not know what to do. This acting
scheme gets worse and worse, you see. They have chosen almost as bad a
play as they could, and now, to complete the business, are going to ask
the help of a young man very slightly known to any of us. This is the
end of all the privacy and propriety which was talked about at first.
I know no harm of Charles Maddox; but the excessive intimacy which
must spring from his being admitted among us in this manner is highly
objectionable, the _more_ than intimacy--the familiarity. I cannot
think of it with any patience; and it does appear to me an evil of such
magnitude as must, _if_ _possible_, be prevented. Do not you see it in
the same light?"

"Yes; but what can be done? Your brother is so determined."

"There is but _one_ thing to be done, Fanny. I must take Anhalt myself.
I am well aware that nothing else will quiet Tom."

Fanny could not answer him.

"It is not at all what I like," he continued. "No man can like being
driven into the _appearance_ of such inconsistency. After being known to
oppose the scheme from the beginning, there is absurdity in the face of
my joining them _now_, when they are exceeding their first plan in every
respect; but I can think of no other alternative. Can you, Fanny?"

"No," said Fanny slowly, "not immediately, but--"

"But what? I see your judgment is not with me. Think it a little over.
Perhaps you are not so much aware as I am of the mischief that _may_, of
the unpleasantness that _must_ arise from a young man's being received
in this manner: domesticated among us; authorised to come at all hours,
and placed suddenly on a footing which must do away all restraints. To
think only of the licence which every rehearsal must tend to create. It
is all very bad! Put yourself in Miss Crawford's place, Fanny. Consider
what it would be to act Amelia with a stranger. She has a right to be
felt for, because she evidently feels for herself. I heard enough of
what she said to you last night to understand her unwillingness to be
acting with a stranger; and as she probably engaged in the part with
different expectations--perhaps without considering the subject enough
to know what was likely to be--it would be ungenerous, it would be
really wrong to expose her to it. Her feelings ought to be respected.
Does it not strike you so, Fanny? You hesitate."

"I am sorry for Miss Crawford; but I am more sorry to see you drawn in
to do what you had resolved against, and what you are known to think
will be disagreeable to my uncle. It will be such a triumph to the
others!"

"They will not have much cause of triumph when they see how infamously I
act. But, however, triumph there certainly will be, and I must brave it.
But if I can be the means of restraining the publicity of the business,
of limiting the exhibition, of concentrating our folly, I shall be
well repaid. As I am now, I have no influence, I can do nothing: I have
offended them, and they will not hear me; but when I have put them in
good-humour by this concession, I am not without hopes of persuading
them to confine the representation within a much smaller circle than
they are now in the high road for. This will be a material gain. My
object is to confine it to Mrs. Rushworth and the Grants. Will not this
be worth gaining?"

"Yes, it will be a great point."

"But still it has not your approbation. Can you mention any other
measure by which I have a chance of doing equal good?"

"No, I cannot think of anything else."

"Give me your approbation, then, Fanny. I am not comfortable without
it."

"Oh, cousin!"

"If you are against me, I ought to distrust myself, and yet--But it is
absolutely impossible to let Tom go on in this way, riding about the
country in quest of anybody who can be persuaded to act--no matter whom:
the look of a gentleman is to be enough. I thought _you_ would have
entered more into Miss Crawford's feelings."

"No doubt she will be very glad. It must be a great relief to her," said
Fanny, trying for greater warmth of manner.

"She never appeared more amiable than in her behaviour to you last
night. It gave her a very strong claim on my goodwill."

"She _was_ very kind, indeed, and I am glad to have her spared"...

She could not finish the generous effusion. Her conscience stopt her in
the middle, but Edmund was satisfied.

"I shall walk down immediately after breakfast," said he, "and am sure
of giving pleasure there. And now, dear Fanny, I will not interrupt you
any longer. You want to be reading. But I could not be easy till I had
spoken to you, and come to a decision. Sleeping or waking, my head has
been full of this matter all night. It is an evil, but I am certainly
making it less than it might be. If Tom is up, I shall go to him
directly and get it over, and when we meet at breakfast we shall be all
in high good-humour at the prospect of acting the fool together with
such unanimity. _You_, in the meanwhile, will be taking a trip into
China, I suppose. How does Lord Macartney go on?"--opening a volume on
the table and then taking up some others. "And here are Crabbe's Tales,
and the Idler, at hand to relieve you, if you tire of your great book. I
admire your little establishment exceedingly; and as soon as I am
gone, you will empty your head of all this nonsense of acting, and sit
comfortably down to your table. But do not stay here to be cold."

He went; but there was no reading, no China, no composure for Fanny. He
had told her the most extraordinary, the most inconceivable, the most
unwelcome news; and she could think of nothing else. To be acting! After
all his objections--objections so just and so public! After all that she
had heard him say, and seen him look, and known him to be feeling. Could
it be possible? Edmund so inconsistent! Was he not deceiving himself?
Was he not wrong? Alas! it was all Miss Crawford's doing. She had seen
her influence in every speech, and was miserable. The doubts and alarms
as to her own conduct, which had previously distressed her, and
which had all slept while she listened to him, were become of little
consequence now. This deeper anxiety swallowed them up. Things should
take their course; she cared not how it ended. Her cousins might attack,
but could hardly tease her. She was beyond their reach; and if at last
obliged to yield--no matter--it was all misery now.

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

completion: Chapter Twelve and Chapter Thirteen   Letters from Antigua tell of the return of Sir Thomas in November and both of his daughters prefer to not think about it. Miss Crawford mentions the subject one evening at Mansfield Park and supposes that when this happens Miss Bertram will marry and Edmund will be taking his orders. Edmund agrees and she compares his father to '"the old heathen heroes, who after performing great exploits in a foreign land, offered sacrifices to the gods on their safe return"'. Edmund replies with a serious smile and says there is no sacrifice and glances at his sister as he says, '"it is entirely of her own doing"'. He adds that his taking orders is as voluntary as Maria marrying. Miss Crawford criticizes the clergy again and he suggests this is received opinion from her uncle, the Admiral. She counters this by pointing out she is staying with Dr Grant, who she describes as kind but '"an indolent selfish bon vivant"'. She is invited to sing with the others and Edmund and Fanny are alone at the window. She talks about nature's harmony and say how he taught her to think and feel in this way. He refers to the stars and they agree to go on the lawn and gaze at them. The singing starts, though, and he says he will wait till it is over. He moves slowly towards the singers and requests to hear them again when they finish. Mrs Norris scolds Fanny away from the window with the threat she will catch cold. In Chapter Twelve, Tom returns and Miss Crawford does not want to attract him anymore and he is as indifferent. In September, Mr Crawford leaves for Norfolk but comes back again gladly and does not look beyond the present moment. Both of the Bertram sisters think they are his favorite. Julia does so because of hints from Mrs Grant, and Maria because of hints from Mr Crawford. Fanny is the only one to find anything to dislike in his return and implies her worries to Edmund. However, these hints are lost on him. Around this time, she attends her first ball, of five couples, and Tom comes over and talks to her and asks her to dance. In Chapter Thirteen, Mr Yates is described as also being present and is a friend of Tom. He had been involved in acting in a play, but he did not have the chance to perform. His stories interest the group, though. Tom says they should '"raise a little theatre at Mansfield"'. The sisters are taken with the idea, and Edmund questions it. When Tom raises it again, Edmund warns that it shows a lack of feeling on their father's account and reminds him Maria's situation '"is a very delicate one"'. Tom says he is taking it too seriously, and it is only for '"a little amusement"'. Edmund is sure their father would not want his grown up daughters acting and warns against the cost of it too. He refuses to take part. Tom leaves the room and Fanny comforts Edmund as she is in full agreement with him. The next day Edmund is unable to dissuade his sisters and when Henry comes and says he hopes his sister will be involved, Edmund is silenced.