prompt:
Chapter: How is the consternation of the party to be described? To the greater
number it was a moment of absolute horror. Sir Thomas in the house! All
felt the instantaneous conviction. Not a hope of imposition or mistake
was harboured anywhere. Julia's looks were an evidence of the fact that
made it indisputable; and after the first starts and exclamations, not a
word was spoken for half a minute: each with an altered countenance was
looking at some other, and almost each was feeling it a stroke the most
unwelcome, most ill-timed, most appalling! Mr. Yates might consider
it only as a vexatious interruption for the evening, and Mr. Rushworth
might imagine it a blessing; but every other heart was sinking under
some degree of self-condemnation or undefined alarm, every other heart
was suggesting, "What will become of us? what is to be done now?" It
was a terrible pause; and terrible to every ear were the corroborating
sounds of opening doors and passing footsteps.

Julia was the first to move and speak again. Jealousy and bitterness
had been suspended: selfishness was lost in the common cause; but at the
moment of her appearance, Frederick was listening with looks of devotion
to Agatha's narrative, and pressing her hand to his heart; and as soon
as she could notice this, and see that, in spite of the shock of her
words, he still kept his station and retained her sister's hand, her
wounded heart swelled again with injury, and looking as red as she had
been white before, she turned out of the room, saying, "_I_ need not be
afraid of appearing before him."

Her going roused the rest; and at the same moment the two brothers
stepped forward, feeling the necessity of doing something. A very few
words between them were sufficient. The case admitted no difference of
opinion: they must go to the drawing-room directly. Maria joined them
with the same intent, just then the stoutest of the three; for the
very circumstance which had driven Julia away was to her the sweetest
support. Henry Crawford's retaining her hand at such a moment, a moment
of such peculiar proof and importance, was worth ages of doubt and
anxiety. She hailed it as an earnest of the most serious determination,
and was equal even to encounter her father. They walked off, utterly
heedless of Mr. Rushworth's repeated question of, "Shall I go too? Had
not I better go too? Will not it be right for me to go too?" but they
were no sooner through the door than Henry Crawford undertook to answer
the anxious inquiry, and, encouraging him by all means to pay his
respects to Sir Thomas without delay, sent him after the others with
delighted haste.

Fanny was left with only the Crawfords and Mr. Yates. She had been quite
overlooked by her cousins; and as her own opinion of her claims on Sir
Thomas's affection was much too humble to give her any idea of classing
herself with his children, she was glad to remain behind and gain a
little breathing-time. Her agitation and alarm exceeded all that was
endured by the rest, by the right of a disposition which not even
innocence could keep from suffering. She was nearly fainting: all her
former habitual dread of her uncle was returning, and with it compassion
for him and for almost every one of the party on the development before
him, with solicitude on Edmund's account indescribable. She had found
a seat, where in excessive trembling she was enduring all these fearful
thoughts, while the other three, no longer under any restraint, were
giving vent to their feelings of vexation, lamenting over such an
unlooked-for premature arrival as a most untoward event, and without
mercy wishing poor Sir Thomas had been twice as long on his passage, or
were still in Antigua.

The Crawfords were more warm on the subject than Mr. Yates, from better
understanding the family, and judging more clearly of the mischief that
must ensue. The ruin of the play was to them a certainty: they felt
the total destruction of the scheme to be inevitably at hand; while Mr.
Yates considered it only as a temporary interruption, a disaster for the
evening, and could even suggest the possibility of the rehearsal being
renewed after tea, when the bustle of receiving Sir Thomas were over,
and he might be at leisure to be amused by it. The Crawfords laughed
at the idea; and having soon agreed on the propriety of their walking
quietly home and leaving the family to themselves, proposed Mr. Yates's
accompanying them and spending the evening at the Parsonage. But Mr.
Yates, having never been with those who thought much of parental claims,
or family confidence, could not perceive that anything of the kind was
necessary; and therefore, thanking them, said, "he preferred remaining
where he was, that he might pay his respects to the old gentleman
handsomely since he _was_ come; and besides, he did not think it would
be fair by the others to have everybody run away."

Fanny was just beginning to collect herself, and to feel that if she
staid longer behind it might seem disrespectful, when this point was
settled, and being commissioned with the brother and sister's apology,
saw them preparing to go as she quitted the room herself to perform the
dreadful duty of appearing before her uncle.

Too soon did she find herself at the drawing-room door; and after
pausing a moment for what she knew would not come, for a courage which
the outside of no door had ever supplied to her, she turned the lock in
desperation, and the lights of the drawing-room, and all the collected
family, were before her. As she entered, her own name caught her ear.
Sir Thomas was at that moment looking round him, and saying, "But where
is Fanny? Why do not I see my little Fanny?"--and on perceiving her,
came forward with a kindness which astonished and penetrated her,
calling her his dear Fanny, kissing her affectionately, and observing
with decided pleasure how much she was grown! Fanny knew not how to
feel, nor where to look. She was quite oppressed. He had never been so
kind, so _very_ kind to her in his life. His manner seemed changed, his
voice was quick from the agitation of joy; and all that had been awful
in his dignity seemed lost in tenderness. He led her nearer the light
and looked at her again--inquired particularly after her health, and
then, correcting himself, observed that he need not inquire, for
her appearance spoke sufficiently on that point. A fine blush having
succeeded the previous paleness of her face, he was justified in his
belief of her equal improvement in health and beauty. He inquired next
after her family, especially William: and his kindness altogether was
such as made her reproach herself for loving him so little, and thinking
his return a misfortune; and when, on having courage to lift her eyes to
his face, she saw that he was grown thinner, and had the burnt, fagged,
worn look of fatigue and a hot climate, every tender feeling was
increased, and she was miserable in considering how much unsuspected
vexation was probably ready to burst on him.

Sir Thomas was indeed the life of the party, who at his suggestion
now seated themselves round the fire. He had the best right to be the
talker; and the delight of his sensations in being again in his own
house, in the centre of his family, after such a separation, made him
communicative and chatty in a very unusual degree; and he was ready to
give every information as to his voyage, and answer every question
of his two sons almost before it was put. His business in Antigua had
latterly been prosperously rapid, and he came directly from Liverpool,
having had an opportunity of making his passage thither in a private
vessel, instead of waiting for the packet; and all the little
particulars of his proceedings and events, his arrivals and departures,
were most promptly delivered, as he sat by Lady Bertram and looked with
heartfelt satisfaction on the faces around him--interrupting himself
more than once, however, to remark on his good fortune in finding them
all at home--coming unexpectedly as he did--all collected together
exactly as he could have wished, but dared not depend on. Mr. Rushworth
was not forgotten: a most friendly reception and warmth of hand-shaking
had already met him, and with pointed attention he was now included in
the objects most intimately connected with Mansfield. There was nothing
disagreeable in Mr. Rushworth's appearance, and Sir Thomas was liking
him already.

By not one of the circle was he listened to with such unbroken,
unalloyed enjoyment as by his wife, who was really extremely happy to
see him, and whose feelings were so warmed by his sudden arrival as to
place her nearer agitation than she had been for the last twenty years.
She had been _almost_ fluttered for a few minutes, and still remained so
sensibly animated as to put away her work, move Pug from her side, and
give all her attention and all the rest of her sofa to her husband. She
had no anxieties for anybody to cloud _her_ pleasure: her own time had
been irreproachably spent during his absence: she had done a great
deal of carpet-work, and made many yards of fringe; and she would have
answered as freely for the good conduct and useful pursuits of all
the young people as for her own. It was so agreeable to her to see
him again, and hear him talk, to have her ear amused and her whole
comprehension filled by his narratives, that she began particularly
to feel how dreadfully she must have missed him, and how impossible it
would have been for her to bear a lengthened absence.

Mrs. Norris was by no means to be compared in happiness to her
sister. Not that _she_ was incommoded by many fears of Sir Thomas's
disapprobation when the present state of his house should be known, for
her judgment had been so blinded that, except by the instinctive caution
with which she had whisked away Mr. Rushworth's pink satin cloak as her
brother-in-law entered, she could hardly be said to shew any sign of
alarm; but she was vexed by the _manner_ of his return. It had left her
nothing to do. Instead of being sent for out of the room, and seeing
him first, and having to spread the happy news through the house, Sir
Thomas, with a very reasonable dependence, perhaps, on the nerves of his
wife and children, had sought no confidant but the butler, and had been
following him almost instantaneously into the drawing-room. Mrs. Norris
felt herself defrauded of an office on which she had always depended,
whether his arrival or his death were to be the thing unfolded; and was
now trying to be in a bustle without having anything to bustle about,
and labouring to be important where nothing was wanted but tranquillity
and silence. Would Sir Thomas have consented to eat, she might have gone
to the housekeeper with troublesome directions, and insulted the footmen
with injunctions of despatch; but Sir Thomas resolutely declined all
dinner: he would take nothing, nothing till tea came--he would rather
wait for tea. Still Mrs. Norris was at intervals urging something
different; and in the most interesting moment of his passage to England,
when the alarm of a French privateer was at the height, she burst
through his recital with the proposal of soup. "Sure, my dear Sir
Thomas, a basin of soup would be a much better thing for you than tea.
Do have a basin of soup."

Sir Thomas could not be provoked. "Still the same anxiety for
everybody's comfort, my dear Mrs. Norris," was his answer. "But indeed I
would rather have nothing but tea."

"Well, then, Lady Bertram, suppose you speak for tea directly; suppose
you hurry Baddeley a little; he seems behindhand to-night." She carried
this point, and Sir Thomas's narrative proceeded.

At length there was a pause. His immediate communications were
exhausted, and it seemed enough to be looking joyfully around him, now
at one, now at another of the beloved circle; but the pause was not
long: in the elation of her spirits Lady Bertram became talkative, and
what were the sensations of her children upon hearing her say, "How
do you think the young people have been amusing themselves lately, Sir
Thomas? They have been acting. We have been all alive with acting."

"Indeed! and what have you been acting?"

"Oh! they'll tell you all about it."

"The _all_ will soon be told," cried Tom hastily, and with affected
unconcern; "but it is not worth while to bore my father with it now. You
will hear enough of it to-morrow, sir. We have just been trying, by way
of doing something, and amusing my mother, just within the last week,
to get up a few scenes, a mere trifle. We have had such incessant rains
almost since October began, that we have been nearly confined to the
house for days together. I have hardly taken out a gun since the 3rd.
Tolerable sport the first three days, but there has been no attempting
anything since. The first day I went over Mansfield Wood, and Edmund
took the copses beyond Easton, and we brought home six brace between
us, and might each have killed six times as many, but we respect your
pheasants, sir, I assure you, as much as you could desire. I do not
think you will find your woods by any means worse stocked than they
were. _I_ never saw Mansfield Wood so full of pheasants in my life
as this year. I hope you will take a day's sport there yourself, sir,
soon."

For the present the danger was over, and Fanny's sick feelings subsided;
but when tea was soon afterwards brought in, and Sir Thomas, getting up,
said that he found that he could not be any longer in the house without
just looking into his own dear room, every agitation was returning. He
was gone before anything had been said to prepare him for the change he
must find there; and a pause of alarm followed his disappearance. Edmund
was the first to speak--

"Something must be done," said he.

"It is time to think of our visitors," said Maria, still feeling her
hand pressed to Henry Crawford's heart, and caring little for anything
else. "Where did you leave Miss Crawford, Fanny?"

Fanny told of their departure, and delivered their message.

"Then poor Yates is all alone," cried Tom. "I will go and fetch him. He
will be no bad assistant when it all comes out."

To the theatre he went, and reached it just in time to witness the first
meeting of his father and his friend. Sir Thomas had been a good deal
surprised to find candles burning in his room; and on casting his eye
round it, to see other symptoms of recent habitation and a general air
of confusion in the furniture. The removal of the bookcase from before
the billiard-room door struck him especially, but he had scarcely more
than time to feel astonished at all this, before there were sounds from
the billiard-room to astonish him still farther. Some one was talking
there in a very loud accent; he did not know the voice--more than
talking--almost hallooing. He stepped to the door, rejoicing at that
moment in having the means of immediate communication, and, opening it,
found himself on the stage of a theatre, and opposed to a ranting young
man, who appeared likely to knock him down backwards. At the very moment
of Yates perceiving Sir Thomas, and giving perhaps the very best start
he had ever given in the whole course of his rehearsals, Tom Bertram
entered at the other end of the room; and never had he found greater
difficulty in keeping his countenance. His father's looks of solemnity
and amazement on this his first appearance on any stage, and the gradual
metamorphosis of the impassioned Baron Wildenheim into the well-bred and
easy Mr. Yates, making his bow and apology to Sir Thomas Bertram, was
such an exhibition, such a piece of true acting, as he would not have
lost upon any account. It would be the last--in all probability--the
last scene on that stage; but he was sure there could not be a finer.
The house would close with the greatest eclat.

There was little time, however, for the indulgence of any images of
merriment. It was necessary for him to step forward, too, and assist
the introduction, and with many awkward sensations he did his best. Sir
Thomas received Mr. Yates with all the appearance of cordiality which
was due to his own character, but was really as far from pleased
with the necessity of the acquaintance as with the manner of its
commencement. Mr. Yates's family and connexions were sufficiently known
to him to render his introduction as the "particular friend," another of
the hundred particular friends of his son, exceedingly unwelcome; and it
needed all the felicity of being again at home, and all the forbearance
it could supply, to save Sir Thomas from anger on finding himself thus
bewildered in his own house, making part of a ridiculous exhibition in
the midst of theatrical nonsense, and forced in so untoward a moment to
admit the acquaintance of a young man whom he felt sure of disapproving,
and whose easy indifference and volubility in the course of the first
five minutes seemed to mark him the most at home of the two.

Tom understood his father's thoughts, and heartily wishing he might be
always as well disposed to give them but partial expression, began to
see, more clearly than he had ever done before, that there might be some
ground of offence, that there might be some reason for the glance his
father gave towards the ceiling and stucco of the room; and that when he
inquired with mild gravity after the fate of the billiard-table, he was
not proceeding beyond a very allowable curiosity. A few minutes were
enough for such unsatisfactory sensations on each side; and Sir
Thomas having exerted himself so far as to speak a few words of
calm approbation in reply to an eager appeal of Mr. Yates, as to the
happiness of the arrangement, the three gentlemen returned to the
drawing-room together, Sir Thomas with an increase of gravity which was
not lost on all.

"I come from your theatre," said he composedly, as he sat down; "I found
myself in it rather unexpectedly. Its vicinity to my own room--but in
every respect, indeed, it took me by surprise, as I had not the smallest
suspicion of your acting having assumed so serious a character. It
appears a neat job, however, as far as I could judge by candlelight,
and does my friend Christopher Jackson credit." And then he would
have changed the subject, and sipped his coffee in peace over domestic
matters of a calmer hue; but Mr. Yates, without discernment to catch Sir
Thomas's meaning, or diffidence, or delicacy, or discretion enough to
allow him to lead the discourse while he mingled among the others with
the least obtrusiveness himself, would keep him on the topic of the
theatre, would torment him with questions and remarks relative to it,
and finally would make him hear the whole history of his disappointment
at Ecclesford. Sir Thomas listened most politely, but found much to
offend his ideas of decorum, and confirm his ill-opinion of Mr. Yates's
habits of thinking, from the beginning to the end of the story; and when
it was over, could give him no other assurance of sympathy than what a
slight bow conveyed.

"This was, in fact, the origin of _our_ acting," said Tom, after
a moment's thought. "My friend Yates brought the infection from
Ecclesford, and it spread--as those things always spread, you know,
sir--the faster, probably, from _your_ having so often encouraged the
sort of thing in us formerly. It was like treading old ground again."

Mr. Yates took the subject from his friend as soon as possible, and
immediately gave Sir Thomas an account of what they had done and were
doing: told him of the gradual increase of their views, the happy
conclusion of their first difficulties, and present promising state of
affairs; relating everything with so blind an interest as made him not
only totally unconscious of the uneasy movements of many of his
friends as they sat, the change of countenance, the fidget, the hem! of
unquietness, but prevented him even from seeing the expression of the
face on which his own eyes were fixed--from seeing Sir Thomas's dark
brow contract as he looked with inquiring earnestness at his daughters
and Edmund, dwelling particularly on the latter, and speaking a
language, a remonstrance, a reproof, which _he_ felt at his heart. Not
less acutely was it felt by Fanny, who had edged back her chair behind
her aunt's end of the sofa, and, screened from notice herself, saw all
that was passing before her. Such a look of reproach at Edmund from his
father she could never have expected to witness; and to feel that it
was in any degree deserved was an aggravation indeed. Sir Thomas's
look implied, "On your judgment, Edmund, I depended; what have you
been about?" She knelt in spirit to her uncle, and her bosom swelled to
utter, "Oh, not to _him_! Look so to all the others, but not to _him_!"

Mr. Yates was still talking. "To own the truth, Sir Thomas, we were in
the middle of a rehearsal when you arrived this evening. We were going
through the three first acts, and not unsuccessfully upon the whole. Our
company is now so dispersed, from the Crawfords being gone home, that
nothing more can be done to-night; but if you will give us the honour of
your company to-morrow evening, I should not be afraid of the result. We
bespeak your indulgence, you understand, as young performers; we bespeak
your indulgence."

"My indulgence shall be given, sir," replied Sir Thomas gravely, "but
without any other rehearsal." And with a relenting smile, he added, "I
come home to be happy and indulgent." Then turning away towards any
or all of the rest, he tranquilly said, "Mr. and Miss Crawford were
mentioned in my last letters from Mansfield. Do you find them agreeable
acquaintance?"

Tom was the only one at all ready with an answer, but he being entirely
without particular regard for either, without jealousy either in love
or acting, could speak very handsomely of both. "Mr. Crawford was a
most pleasant, gentleman-like man; his sister a sweet, pretty, elegant,
lively girl."

Mr. Rushworth could be silent no longer. "I do not say he is not
gentleman-like, considering; but you should tell your father he is not
above five feet eight, or he will be expecting a well-looking man."

Sir Thomas did not quite understand this, and looked with some surprise
at the speaker.

"If I must say what I think," continued Mr. Rushworth, "in my opinion it
is very disagreeable to be always rehearsing. It is having too much of a
good thing. I am not so fond of acting as I was at first. I think we are
a great deal better employed, sitting comfortably here among ourselves,
and doing nothing."

Sir Thomas looked again, and then replied with an approving smile, "I am
happy to find our sentiments on this subject so much the same. It gives
me sincere satisfaction. That I should be cautious and quick-sighted,
and feel many scruples which my children do _not_ feel, is perfectly
natural; and equally so that my value for domestic tranquillity, for a
home which shuts out noisy pleasures, should much exceed theirs. But at
your time of life to feel all this, is a most favourable circumstance
for yourself, and for everybody connected with you; and I am sensible of
the importance of having an ally of such weight."

Sir Thomas meant to be giving Mr. Rushworth's opinion in better words
than he could find himself. He was aware that he must not expect a
genius in Mr. Rushworth; but as a well-judging, steady young man, with
better notions than his elocution would do justice to, he intended to
value him very highly. It was impossible for many of the others not to
smile. Mr. Rushworth hardly knew what to do with so much meaning; but by
looking, as he really felt, most exceedingly pleased with Sir Thomas's
good opinion, and saying scarcely anything, he did his best towards
preserving that good opinion a little longer.

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

completion: Everyone is shocked and horrified. If Sir Thomas was expecting a welcome home party, he's in for a bad surprise. Mr. Yates thinks someone is out to get him since this is the second play he's been involved in that's gotten canceled last minute. He's cursed, clearly. The Bertram kids rush out to greet their dad. Maria is thrilled that Henry stayed near her when the news of her dad's return broke and is convinced that Henry will propose soon so she can safely dump Rushworth. Fanny hangs back since she isn't a Bertram kid and since her uncle scares her. The Crawfords decide to make a run for it and Mr. Yates wanders off. Fanny finally goes to see her uncle and discovers that he's actually been asking for her. Sir Thomas seems very different - he's downright joyful and is unusually affectionate with his family. He's super nice to Fanny, which confuses her since he's usually more reserved. Sir Thomas tells everyone about his long-running overseas adventures. He also meets Mr. Rushworth for the first time and thinks that his daughter's suitor is cool. Mrs. Norris is a bit put out by Sir Thomas's arrival since she wasn't given an important role in it. Lady Bertram finally spills the beans about the acting. Sir Thomas seems interested but not really upset. Tom quickly deflects any questions and makes it sound like they've just been reading some plays together, no big deal. He then starts talking about hunting to distract his dad. But then Sir Thomas goes off to look in on his billiard room and his office, which are now Theater Club headquarters. Everyone freaks out. Fanny tells everyone that the Crawfords have left but that Mr. Yates is still there. Tom runs off to intercept his dad but he's too late. Sir Thomas stumbles in on Yates rehearsing by himself. Sir Thomas is civil to Yates but he's obviously displeased by the whole thing. Sir Thomas comes back and announces that he's seen the theater. It's clear that he's not happy. Well, clear to everyone but Mr. Yates, who proceeds to tell Sir Thomas about the Theater Club in great detail. The Bertram kids want to kill him. Sir Thomas glares at his kids during all of this and he's particularly disappointed in Edmund, who was supposed to be the moral one. Sir Thomas then announces he wants to relax after his journey and lets the theater thing drop. He asks about the Crawfords and Mr. Rushworth exclaims that he thinks Henry is not so great. Sir Thomas is confused. Rushworth then explains that he thinks the theater is dumb and tries to link that to why he hates Henry but he's having trouble getting his point out. Sir Thomas jumps in and notes that the there are much better things to be doing than acting. Rushworth is still ok in Sir Thomas's book since he's keeping his mouth shut mostly.


prompt:
Chapter: Edmund's first object the next morning was to see his father alone, and
give him a fair statement of the whole acting scheme, defending his own
share in it as far only as he could then, in a soberer moment, feel his
motives to deserve, and acknowledging, with perfect ingenuousness, that
his concession had been attended with such partial good as to make his
judgment in it very doubtful. He was anxious, while vindicating himself,
to say nothing unkind of the others: but there was only one amongst
them whose conduct he could mention without some necessity of defence
or palliation. "We have all been more or less to blame," said he, "every
one of us, excepting Fanny. Fanny is the only one who has judged rightly
throughout; who has been consistent. _Her_ feelings have been steadily
against it from first to last. She never ceased to think of what was due
to you. You will find Fanny everything you could wish."

Sir Thomas saw all the impropriety of such a scheme among such a party,
and at such a time, as strongly as his son had ever supposed he must; he
felt it too much, indeed, for many words; and having shaken hands with
Edmund, meant to try to lose the disagreeable impression, and forget how
much he had been forgotten himself as soon as he could, after the house
had been cleared of every object enforcing the remembrance, and restored
to its proper state. He did not enter into any remonstrance with his
other children: he was more willing to believe they felt their error
than to run the risk of investigation. The reproof of an immediate
conclusion of everything, the sweep of every preparation, would be
sufficient.

There was one person, however, in the house, whom he could not leave
to learn his sentiments merely through his conduct. He could not help
giving Mrs. Norris a hint of his having hoped that her advice might
have been interposed to prevent what her judgment must certainly have
disapproved. The young people had been very inconsiderate in forming the
plan; they ought to have been capable of a better decision themselves;
but they were young; and, excepting Edmund, he believed, of unsteady
characters; and with greater surprise, therefore, he must regard her
acquiescence in their wrong measures, her countenance of their unsafe
amusements, than that such measures and such amusements should have
been suggested. Mrs. Norris was a little confounded and as nearly
being silenced as ever she had been in her life; for she was ashamed to
confess having never seen any of the impropriety which was so glaring
to Sir Thomas, and would not have admitted that her influence was
insufficient--that she might have talked in vain. Her only resource was
to get out of the subject as fast as possible, and turn the current
of Sir Thomas's ideas into a happier channel. She had a great deal to
insinuate in her own praise as to _general_ attention to the interest
and comfort of his family, much exertion and many sacrifices to glance
at in the form of hurried walks and sudden removals from her own
fireside, and many excellent hints of distrust and economy to Lady
Bertram and Edmund to detail, whereby a most considerable saving had
always arisen, and more than one bad servant been detected. But her
chief strength lay in Sotherton. Her greatest support and glory was
in having formed the connexion with the Rushworths. _There_ she
was impregnable. She took to herself all the credit of bringing Mr.
Rushworth's admiration of Maria to any effect. "If I had not been
active," said she, "and made a point of being introduced to his mother,
and then prevailed on my sister to pay the first visit, I am as certain
as I sit here that nothing would have come of it; for Mr. Rushworth
is the sort of amiable modest young man who wants a great deal of
encouragement, and there were girls enough on the catch for him if we
had been idle. But I left no stone unturned. I was ready to move heaven
and earth to persuade my sister, and at last I did persuade her. You
know the distance to Sotherton; it was in the middle of winter, and the
roads almost impassable, but I did persuade her."

"I know how great, how justly great, your influence is with Lady Bertram
and her children, and am the more concerned that it should not have
been."

"My dear Sir Thomas, if you had seen the state of the roads _that_ day!
I thought we should never have got through them, though we had the four
horses of course; and poor old coachman would attend us, out of his
great love and kindness, though he was hardly able to sit the box on
account of the rheumatism which I had been doctoring him for ever since
Michaelmas. I cured him at last; but he was very bad all the winter--and
this was such a day, I could not help going to him up in his room before
we set off to advise him not to venture: he was putting on his wig; so
I said, 'Coachman, you had much better not go; your Lady and I shall be
very safe; you know how steady Stephen is, and Charles has been upon the
leaders so often now, that I am sure there is no fear.' But, however, I
soon found it would not do; he was bent upon going, and as I hate to be
worrying and officious, I said no more; but my heart quite ached for him
at every jolt, and when we got into the rough lanes about Stoke, where,
what with frost and snow upon beds of stones, it was worse than anything
you can imagine, I was quite in an agony about him. And then the poor
horses too! To see them straining away! You know how I always feel for
the horses. And when we got to the bottom of Sandcroft Hill, what do you
think I did? You will laugh at me; but I got out and walked up. I did
indeed. It might not be saving them much, but it was something, and I
could not bear to sit at my ease and be dragged up at the expense of
those noble animals. I caught a dreadful cold, but _that_ I did not
regard. My object was accomplished in the visit."

"I hope we shall always think the acquaintance worth any trouble that
might be taken to establish it. There is nothing very striking in Mr.
Rushworth's manners, but I was pleased last night with what appeared to
be his opinion on one subject: his decided preference of a quiet family
party to the bustle and confusion of acting. He seemed to feel exactly
as one could wish."

"Yes, indeed, and the more you know of him the better you will like him.
He is not a shining character, but he has a thousand good qualities; and
is so disposed to look up to you, that I am quite laughed at about it,
for everybody considers it as my doing. 'Upon my word, Mrs. Norris,'
said Mrs. Grant the other day, 'if Mr. Rushworth were a son of your own,
he could not hold Sir Thomas in greater respect.'"

Sir Thomas gave up the point, foiled by her evasions, disarmed by her
flattery; and was obliged to rest satisfied with the conviction that
where the present pleasure of those she loved was at stake, her kindness
did sometimes overpower her judgment.

It was a busy morning with him. Conversation with any of them occupied
but a small part of it. He had to reinstate himself in all the wonted
concerns of his Mansfield life: to see his steward and his bailiff; to
examine and compute, and, in the intervals of business, to walk into
his stables and his gardens, and nearest plantations; but active and
methodical, he had not only done all this before he resumed his seat as
master of the house at dinner, he had also set the carpenter to work in
pulling down what had been so lately put up in the billiard-room,
and given the scene-painter his dismissal long enough to justify the
pleasing belief of his being then at least as far off as Northampton.
The scene-painter was gone, having spoilt only the floor of one room,
ruined all the coachman's sponges, and made five of the under-servants
idle and dissatisfied; and Sir Thomas was in hopes that another day or
two would suffice to wipe away every outward memento of what had been,
even to the destruction of every unbound copy of Lovers' Vows in the
house, for he was burning all that met his eye.

Mr. Yates was beginning now to understand Sir Thomas's intentions,
though as far as ever from understanding their source. He and his friend
had been out with their guns the chief of the morning, and Tom had taken
the opportunity of explaining, with proper apologies for his father's
particularity, what was to be expected. Mr. Yates felt it as acutely as
might be supposed. To be a second time disappointed in the same way was
an instance of very severe ill-luck; and his indignation was such,
that had it not been for delicacy towards his friend, and his friend's
youngest sister, he believed he should certainly attack the baronet
on the absurdity of his proceedings, and argue him into a little more
rationality. He believed this very stoutly while he was in Mansfield
Wood, and all the way home; but there was a something in Sir Thomas,
when they sat round the same table, which made Mr. Yates think it
wiser to let him pursue his own way, and feel the folly of it without
opposition. He had known many disagreeable fathers before, and often
been struck with the inconveniences they occasioned, but never, in
the whole course of his life, had he seen one of that class so
unintelligibly moral, so infamously tyrannical as Sir Thomas. He was
not a man to be endured but for his children's sake, and he might be
thankful to his fair daughter Julia that Mr. Yates did yet mean to stay
a few days longer under his roof.

The evening passed with external smoothness, though almost every
mind was ruffled; and the music which Sir Thomas called for from his
daughters helped to conceal the want of real harmony. Maria was in a
good deal of agitation. It was of the utmost consequence to her that
Crawford should now lose no time in declaring himself, and she was
disturbed that even a day should be gone by without seeming to advance
that point. She had been expecting to see him the whole morning, and
all the evening, too, was still expecting him. Mr. Rushworth had set off
early with the great news for Sotherton; and she had fondly hoped for
such an immediate _eclaircissement_ as might save him the trouble of
ever coming back again. But they had seen no one from the Parsonage,
not a creature, and had heard no tidings beyond a friendly note of
congratulation and inquiry from Mrs. Grant to Lady Bertram. It was the
first day for many, many weeks, in which the families had been wholly
divided. Four-and-twenty hours had never passed before, since August
began, without bringing them together in some way or other. It was a
sad, anxious day; and the morrow, though differing in the sort of evil,
did by no means bring less. A few moments of feverish enjoyment were
followed by hours of acute suffering. Henry Crawford was again in the
house: he walked up with Dr. Grant, who was anxious to pay his respects
to Sir Thomas, and at rather an early hour they were ushered into the
breakfast-room, where were most of the family. Sir Thomas soon appeared,
and Maria saw with delight and agitation the introduction of the man she
loved to her father. Her sensations were indefinable, and so were they
a few minutes afterwards upon hearing Henry Crawford, who had a chair
between herself and Tom, ask the latter in an undervoice whether
there were any plans for resuming the play after the present happy
interruption (with a courteous glance at Sir Thomas), because, in that
case, he should make a point of returning to Mansfield at any time
required by the party: he was going away immediately, being to meet his
uncle at Bath without delay; but if there were any prospect of a renewal
of Lovers' Vows, he should hold himself positively engaged, he should
break through every other claim, he should absolutely condition with his
uncle for attending them whenever he might be wanted. The play should
not be lost by _his_ absence.

"From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be," said he; "I will
attend you from any place in England, at an hour's notice."

It was well at that moment that Tom had to speak, and not his sister. He
could immediately say with easy fluency, "I am sorry you are going;
but as to our play, _that_ is all over--entirely at an end" (looking
significantly at his father). "The painter was sent off yesterday, and
very little will remain of the theatre to-morrow. I knew how _that_
would be from the first. It is early for Bath. You will find nobody
there."

"It is about my uncle's usual time."

"When do you think of going?"

"I may, perhaps, get as far as Banbury to-day."

"Whose stables do you use at Bath?" was the next question; and while
this branch of the subject was under discussion, Maria, who wanted
neither pride nor resolution, was preparing to encounter her share of it
with tolerable calmness.

To her he soon turned, repeating much of what he had already said, with
only a softened air and stronger expressions of regret. But what availed
his expressions or his air? He was going, and, if not voluntarily going,
voluntarily intending to stay away; for, excepting what might be due
to his uncle, his engagements were all self-imposed. He might talk of
necessity, but she knew his independence. The hand which had so pressed
hers to his heart! the hand and the heart were alike motionless and
passive now! Her spirit supported her, but the agony of her mind was
severe. She had not long to endure what arose from listening to language
which his actions contradicted, or to bury the tumult of her feelings
under the restraint of society; for general civilities soon called
his notice from her, and the farewell visit, as it then became openly
acknowledged, was a very short one. He was gone--he had touched her
hand for the last time, he had made his parting bow, and she might seek
directly all that solitude could do for her. Henry Crawford was gone,
gone from the house, and within two hours afterwards from the parish;
and so ended all the hopes his selfish vanity had raised in Maria and
Julia Bertram.

Julia could rejoice that he was gone. His presence was beginning to be
odious to her; and if Maria gained him not, she was now cool enough to
dispense with any other revenge. She did not want exposure to be added
to desertion. Henry Crawford gone, she could even pity her sister.

With a purer spirit did Fanny rejoice in the intelligence. She heard it
at dinner, and felt it a blessing. By all the others it was mentioned
with regret; and his merits honoured with due gradation of feeling--from
the sincerity of Edmund's too partial regard, to the unconcern of his
mother speaking entirely by rote. Mrs. Norris began to look about her,
and wonder that his falling in love with Julia had come to nothing; and
could almost fear that she had been remiss herself in forwarding it; but
with so many to care for, how was it possible for even _her_ activity to
keep pace with her wishes?

Another day or two, and Mr. Yates was gone likewise. In _his_ departure
Sir Thomas felt the chief interest: wanting to be alone with his family,
the presence of a stranger superior to Mr. Yates must have been irksome;
but of him, trifling and confident, idle and expensive, it was every way
vexatious. In himself he was wearisome, but as the friend of Tom and
the admirer of Julia he became offensive. Sir Thomas had been quite
indifferent to Mr. Crawford's going or staying: but his good wishes
for Mr. Yates's having a pleasant journey, as he walked with him to the
hall-door, were given with genuine satisfaction. Mr. Yates had staid to
see the destruction of every theatrical preparation at Mansfield, the
removal of everything appertaining to the play: he left the house in all
the soberness of its general character; and Sir Thomas hoped, in seeing
him out of it, to be rid of the worst object connected with the scheme,
and the last that must be inevitably reminding him of its existence.

Mrs. Norris contrived to remove one article from his sight that might
have distressed him. The curtain, over which she had presided with such
talent and such success, went off with her to her cottage, where she
happened to be particularly in want of green baize.

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

completion: Edmund goes to apologize to his dad for his involvement in the Theater Club. He does try to vindicate, or defend, his own actions as still super moral, though. Edmund also insists that Fanny is totally blameless in the whole thing. Sir Thomas forgives Edmund and tries to forget all about the theater hullabaloo. He'd rather believe that his kids learned a lesson and won't do it again than find out the truth about it all. Sir Thomas is not happy with Mrs. Norris, though, since she was supposed to be the adult chaperone. Mrs. Norris goes into a super long spiel defending herself that gets increasingly ridiculous as she goes on. Sir Thomas finally gives up since she shows no signs of shutting up any time soon. Sir Thomas has all the theater sets torn down and burns all the copies of the play. Mr. Yates thinks that Sir Thomas is the most evil person ever since he clearly hates the theater. Maria is starting to get worried about Henry since he hasn't said anything to her dad. Then Maria overhears Henry talking with Tom. Henry's leaving town and has no plans to return any time soon. Henry then tells Maria that he has to leave but would stay if he could. Maria doesn't buy it. Maria is horrified. But she tries to recover herself and act like there's nothing wrong. Julia is glad he's leaving since she's angry with him by now and just wants him gone. Fanny's also glad he's leaving, but Mrs. Norris is confused that things didn't work out with Henry and Julia. Mr. Yates soon leaves as well in order to escape the theater-hating Philistine otherwise known as Sir Thomas. Sir Thomas says good riddance to all these people.


prompt:
Chapter: Sir Thomas's return made a striking change in the ways of the family,
independent of Lovers' Vows. Under his government, Mansfield was an
altered place. Some members of their society sent away, and the spirits
of many others saddened--it was all sameness and gloom compared with
the past--a sombre family party rarely enlivened. There was little
intercourse with the Parsonage. Sir Thomas, drawing back from intimacies
in general, was particularly disinclined, at this time, for any
engagements but in one quarter. The Rushworths were the only addition to
his own domestic circle which he could solicit.

Edmund did not wonder that such should be his father's feelings, nor
could he regret anything but the exclusion of the Grants. "But they," he
observed to Fanny, "have a claim. They seem to belong to us; they seem
to be part of ourselves. I could wish my father were more sensible of
their very great attention to my mother and sisters while he was away. I
am afraid they may feel themselves neglected. But the truth is, that my
father hardly knows them. They had not been here a twelvemonth when he
left England. If he knew them better, he would value their society as it
deserves; for they are in fact exactly the sort of people he would
like. We are sometimes a little in want of animation among ourselves: my
sisters seem out of spirits, and Tom is certainly not at his ease. Dr.
and Mrs. Grant would enliven us, and make our evenings pass away with
more enjoyment even to my father."

"Do you think so?" said Fanny: "in my opinion, my uncle would not like
_any_ addition. I think he values the very quietness you speak of, and
that the repose of his own family circle is all he wants. And it does
not appear to me that we are more serious than we used to be--I mean
before my uncle went abroad. As well as I can recollect, it was always
much the same. There was never much laughing in his presence; or, if
there is any difference, it is not more, I think, than such an absence
has a tendency to produce at first. There must be a sort of shyness; but
I cannot recollect that our evenings formerly were ever merry, except
when my uncle was in town. No young people's are, I suppose, when those
they look up to are at home".

"I believe you are right, Fanny," was his reply, after a short
consideration. "I believe our evenings are rather returned to what they
were, than assuming a new character. The novelty was in their being
lively. Yet, how strong the impression that only a few weeks will give!
I have been feeling as if we had never lived so before."

"I suppose I am graver than other people," said Fanny. "The evenings do
not appear long to me. I love to hear my uncle talk of the West Indies.
I could listen to him for an hour together. It entertains _me_ more than
many other things have done; but then I am unlike other people, I dare
say."

"Why should you dare say _that_?" (smiling). "Do you want to be told
that you are only unlike other people in being more wise and discreet?
But when did you, or anybody, ever get a compliment from me, Fanny? Go
to my father if you want to be complimented. He will satisfy you. Ask
your uncle what he thinks, and you will hear compliments enough: and
though they may be chiefly on your person, you must put up with it, and
trust to his seeing as much beauty of mind in time."

Such language was so new to Fanny that it quite embarrassed her.

"Your uncle thinks you very pretty, dear Fanny--and that is the long and
the short of the matter. Anybody but myself would have made something
more of it, and anybody but you would resent that you had not been
thought very pretty before; but the truth is, that your uncle never
did admire you till now--and now he does. Your complexion is so
improved!--and you have gained so much countenance!--and your
figure--nay, Fanny, do not turn away about it--it is but an uncle. If
you cannot bear an uncle's admiration, what is to become of you? You
must really begin to harden yourself to the idea of being worth looking
at. You must try not to mind growing up into a pretty woman."

"Oh! don't talk so, don't talk so," cried Fanny, distressed by more
feelings than he was aware of; but seeing that she was distressed, he
had done with the subject, and only added more seriously--

"Your uncle is disposed to be pleased with you in every respect; and I
only wish you would talk to him more. You are one of those who are too
silent in the evening circle."

"But I do talk to him more than I used. I am sure I do. Did not you hear
me ask him about the slave-trade last night?"

"I did--and was in hopes the question would be followed up by others. It
would have pleased your uncle to be inquired of farther."

"And I longed to do it--but there was such a dead silence! And while
my cousins were sitting by without speaking a word, or seeming at all
interested in the subject, I did not like--I thought it would appear as
if I wanted to set myself off at their expense, by shewing a curiosity
and pleasure in his information which he must wish his own daughters to
feel."

"Miss Crawford was very right in what she said of you the other day:
that you seemed almost as fearful of notice and praise as other women
were of neglect. We were talking of you at the Parsonage, and those were
her words. She has great discernment. I know nobody who distinguishes
characters better. For so young a woman it is remarkable! She certainly
understands _you_ better than you are understood by the greater part of
those who have known you so long; and with regard to some others, I can
perceive, from occasional lively hints, the unguarded expressions of
the moment, that she could define _many_ as accurately, did not delicacy
forbid it. I wonder what she thinks of my father! She must admire him
as a fine-looking man, with most gentlemanlike, dignified, consistent
manners; but perhaps, having seen him so seldom, his reserve may be
a little repulsive. Could they be much together, I feel sure of their
liking each other. He would enjoy her liveliness and she has talents to
value his powers. I wish they met more frequently! I hope she does not
suppose there is any dislike on his side."

"She must know herself too secure of the regard of all the rest of you,"
said Fanny, with half a sigh, "to have any such apprehension. And Sir
Thomas's wishing just at first to be only with his family, is so very
natural, that she can argue nothing from that. After a little while, I
dare say, we shall be meeting again in the same sort of way, allowing
for the difference of the time of year."

"This is the first October that she has passed in the country since her
infancy. I do not call Tunbridge or Cheltenham the country; and November
is a still more serious month, and I can see that Mrs. Grant is very
anxious for her not finding Mansfield dull as winter comes on."

Fanny could have said a great deal, but it was safer to say nothing, and
leave untouched all Miss Crawford's resources--her accomplishments, her
spirits, her importance, her friends, lest it should betray her into
any observations seemingly unhandsome. Miss Crawford's kind opinion of
herself deserved at least a grateful forbearance, and she began to talk
of something else.

"To-morrow, I think, my uncle dines at Sotherton, and you and Mr.
Bertram too. We shall be quite a small party at home. I hope my uncle
may continue to like Mr. Rushworth."

"That is impossible, Fanny. He must like him less after to-morrow's
visit, for we shall be five hours in his company. I should dread
the stupidity of the day, if there were not a much greater evil to
follow--the impression it must leave on Sir Thomas. He cannot much
longer deceive himself. I am sorry for them all, and would give
something that Rushworth and Maria had never met."

In this quarter, indeed, disappointment was impending over Sir Thomas.
Not all his good-will for Mr. Rushworth, not all Mr. Rushworth's
deference for him, could prevent him from soon discerning some part of
the truth--that Mr. Rushworth was an inferior young man, as ignorant
in business as in books, with opinions in general unfixed, and without
seeming much aware of it himself.

He had expected a very different son-in-law; and beginning to feel
grave on Maria's account, tried to understand _her_ feelings. Little
observation there was necessary to tell him that indifference was the
most favourable state they could be in. Her behaviour to Mr. Rushworth
was careless and cold. She could not, did not like him. Sir Thomas
resolved to speak seriously to her. Advantageous as would be the
alliance, and long standing and public as was the engagement, her
happiness must not be sacrificed to it. Mr. Rushworth had, perhaps, been
accepted on too short an acquaintance, and, on knowing him better, she
was repenting.

With solemn kindness Sir Thomas addressed her: told her his fears,
inquired into her wishes, entreated her to be open and sincere, and
assured her that every inconvenience should be braved, and the connexion
entirely given up, if she felt herself unhappy in the prospect of it. He
would act for her and release her. Maria had a moment's struggle as she
listened, and only a moment's: when her father ceased, she was able to
give her answer immediately, decidedly, and with no apparent agitation.
She thanked him for his great attention, his paternal kindness, but he
was quite mistaken in supposing she had the smallest desire of breaking
through her engagement, or was sensible of any change of opinion or
inclination since her forming it. She had the highest esteem for Mr.
Rushworth's character and disposition, and could not have a doubt of her
happiness with him.

Sir Thomas was satisfied; too glad to be satisfied, perhaps, to urge the
matter quite so far as his judgment might have dictated to others. It
was an alliance which he could not have relinquished without pain;
and thus he reasoned. Mr. Rushworth was young enough to improve. Mr.
Rushworth must and would improve in good society; and if Maria could now
speak so securely of her happiness with him, speaking certainly without
the prejudice, the blindness of love, she ought to be believed. Her
feelings, probably, were not acute; he had never supposed them to be
so; but her comforts might not be less on that account; and if she could
dispense with seeing her husband a leading, shining character, there
would certainly be everything else in her favour. A well-disposed young
woman, who did not marry for love, was in general but the more attached
to her own family; and the nearness of Sotherton to Mansfield
must naturally hold out the greatest temptation, and would, in all
probability, be a continual supply of the most amiable and innocent
enjoyments. Such and such-like were the reasonings of Sir Thomas,
happy to escape the embarrassing evils of a rupture, the wonder,
the reflections, the reproach that must attend it; happy to secure a
marriage which would bring him such an addition of respectability
and influence, and very happy to think anything of his daughter's
disposition that was most favourable for the purpose.

To her the conference closed as satisfactorily as to him. She was in a
state of mind to be glad that she had secured her fate beyond recall:
that she had pledged herself anew to Sotherton; that she was safe from
the possibility of giving Crawford the triumph of governing her actions,
and destroying her prospects; and retired in proud resolve, determined
only to behave more cautiously to Mr. Rushworth in future, that her
father might not be again suspecting her.

Had Sir Thomas applied to his daughter within the first three or four
days after Henry Crawford's leaving Mansfield, before her feelings were
at all tranquillised, before she had given up every hope of him, or
absolutely resolved on enduring his rival, her answer might have been
different; but after another three or four days, when there was no
return, no letter, no message, no symptom of a softened heart, no hope
of advantage from separation, her mind became cool enough to seek all
the comfort that pride and self revenge could give.

Henry Crawford had destroyed her happiness, but he should not know that
he had done it; he should not destroy her credit, her appearance, her
prosperity, too. He should not have to think of her as pining in the
retirement of Mansfield for _him_, rejecting Sotherton and London,
independence and splendour, for _his_ sake. Independence was more
needful than ever; the want of it at Mansfield more sensibly felt. She
was less and less able to endure the restraint which her father imposed.
The liberty which his absence had given was now become absolutely
necessary. She must escape from him and Mansfield as soon as possible,
and find consolation in fortune and consequence, bustle and the world,
for a wounded spirit. Her mind was quite determined, and varied not.

To such feelings delay, even the delay of much preparation, would have
been an evil, and Mr. Rushworth could hardly be more impatient for the
marriage than herself. In all the important preparations of the mind
she was complete: being prepared for matrimony by an hatred of home,
restraint, and tranquillity; by the misery of disappointed affection,
and contempt of the man she was to marry. The rest might wait. The
preparations of new carriages and furniture might wait for London and
spring, when her own taste could have fairer play.

The principals being all agreed in this respect, it soon appeared that a
very few weeks would be sufficient for such arrangements as must precede
the wedding.

Mrs. Rushworth was quite ready to retire, and make way for the fortunate
young woman whom her dear son had selected; and very early in November
removed herself, her maid, her footman, and her chariot, with true
dowager propriety, to Bath, there to parade over the wonders of
Sotherton in her evening parties; enjoying them as thoroughly, perhaps,
in the animation of a card-table, as she had ever done on the spot; and
before the middle of the same month the ceremony had taken place which
gave Sotherton another mistress.

It was a very proper wedding. The bride was elegantly dressed; the two
bridesmaids were duly inferior; her father gave her away; her mother
stood with salts in her hand, expecting to be agitated; her aunt tried
to cry; and the service was impressively read by Dr. Grant. Nothing
could be objected to when it came under the discussion of the
neighbourhood, except that the carriage which conveyed the bride and
bridegroom and Julia from the church-door to Sotherton was the same
chaise which Mr. Rushworth had used for a twelvemonth before. In
everything else the etiquette of the day might stand the strictest
investigation.

It was done, and they were gone. Sir Thomas felt as an anxious father
must feel, and was indeed experiencing much of the agitation which his
wife had been apprehensive of for herself, but had fortunately escaped.
Mrs. Norris, most happy to assist in the duties of the day, by spending
it at the Park to support her sister's spirits, and drinking the health
of Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth in a supernumerary glass or two, was all
joyous delight; for she had made the match; she had done everything;
and no one would have supposed, from her confident triumph, that she
had ever heard of conjugal infelicity in her life, or could have the
smallest insight into the disposition of the niece who had been brought
up under her eye.

The plan of the young couple was to proceed, after a few days, to
Brighton, and take a house there for some weeks. Every public place was
new to Maria, and Brighton is almost as gay in winter as in summer. When
the novelty of amusement there was over, it would be time for the wider
range of London.

Julia was to go with them to Brighton. Since rivalry between the sisters
had ceased, they had been gradually recovering much of their former good
understanding; and were at least sufficiently friends to make each of
them exceedingly glad to be with the other at such a time. Some other
companion than Mr. Rushworth was of the first consequence to his lady;
and Julia was quite as eager for novelty and pleasure as Maria, though
she might not have struggled through so much to obtain them, and could
better bear a subordinate situation.

Their departure made another material change at Mansfield, a chasm
which required some time to fill up. The family circle became greatly
contracted; and though the Miss Bertrams had latterly added little to
its gaiety, they could not but be missed. Even their mother missed them;
and how much more their tenderhearted cousin, who wandered about
the house, and thought of them, and felt for them, with a degree of
affectionate regret which they had never done much to deserve!

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

completion: Everyone at Mansfield Park is in a bad mood and things aren't fun anymore now that Sir Thomas is back in the house. Edmund complains to Fanny about the Grants not coming over with Mary as much anymore, since they don't really know Sir Thomas. Fanny says that things are back to the way they used to be - boring and lame. Edmund agrees and says that all the fun was unusual for Mansfield Park. Fanny says that she's having fun now because she likes hearing about Sir Thomas's adventures in the West Indies. Edmund compliments Fanny and tells her that his dad thinks she's gotten much prettier recently. Fanny is embarrassed. Edmund notes that Mary said that Fanny was afraid of being noticed. He then rambles on about how super awesome Mary is. Fanny keeps her mouth shut during all this. The two then discuss Mr. Rushworth and decide that Sir Thomas will soon grow tired of him since Rushworth is a bit of a moron. This is true: Sir Thomas is growing increasingly displeased with Rushworth and notices that Maria doesn't really seem fond of him. So he has a chat with Maria and offers to get her out of her engagement if she wants. But Maria refuses and insists she wants to marry Rushworth. What's the deal here? Well, Maria has two motives: she wants to escape her dad and Mansfield, a place she finds restrictive and boring. She also wants to stick it to Henry and show that she can do just fine without him. Plus, Rushworth will keep her safe from being swept away by her love for Henry again. Once she's married she'll be stuck, after all. Sir Thomas is glad 'cause his daughter will be rich and breaking an engagement is awkward. So in early November, Maria gets married. She and Julia then take off with Rushworth for a vacation in Brighton, a sea-side resort town. Julia and Maria were getting along better after Henry left. Mansfield became even more boring since all the fun people are gone. Only Edmund, Fanny, and Mary are still around full-time.


prompt:
Chapter: Fanny's consequence increased on the departure of her cousins. Becoming,
as she then did, the only young woman in the drawing-room, the only
occupier of that interesting division of a family in which she had
hitherto held so humble a third, it was impossible for her not to be
more looked at, more thought of and attended to, than she had ever been
before; and "Where is Fanny?" became no uncommon question, even without
her being wanted for any one's convenience.

Not only at home did her value increase, but at the Parsonage too. In
that house, which she had hardly entered twice a year since Mr. Norris's
death, she became a welcome, an invited guest, and in the gloom and dirt
of a November day, most acceptable to Mary Crawford. Her visits there,
beginning by chance, were continued by solicitation. Mrs. Grant,
really eager to get any change for her sister, could, by the easiest
self-deceit, persuade herself that she was doing the kindest thing by
Fanny, and giving her the most important opportunities of improvement in
pressing her frequent calls.

Fanny, having been sent into the village on some errand by her aunt
Norris, was overtaken by a heavy shower close to the Parsonage; and
being descried from one of the windows endeavouring to find shelter
under the branches and lingering leaves of an oak just beyond their
premises, was forced, though not without some modest reluctance on her
part, to come in. A civil servant she had withstood; but when Dr. Grant
himself went out with an umbrella, there was nothing to be done but to
be very much ashamed, and to get into the house as fast as possible; and
to poor Miss Crawford, who had just been contemplating the dismal rain
in a very desponding state of mind, sighing over the ruin of all her
plan of exercise for that morning, and of every chance of seeing a
single creature beyond themselves for the next twenty-four hours, the
sound of a little bustle at the front door, and the sight of Miss Price
dripping with wet in the vestibule, was delightful. The value of an
event on a wet day in the country was most forcibly brought before her.
She was all alive again directly, and among the most active in being
useful to Fanny, in detecting her to be wetter than she would at first
allow, and providing her with dry clothes; and Fanny, after being
obliged to submit to all this attention, and to being assisted and
waited on by mistresses and maids, being also obliged, on returning
downstairs, to be fixed in their drawing-room for an hour while the rain
continued, the blessing of something fresh to see and think of was thus
extended to Miss Crawford, and might carry on her spirits to the period
of dressing and dinner.

The two sisters were so kind to her, and so pleasant, that Fanny might
have enjoyed her visit could she have believed herself not in the way,
and could she have foreseen that the weather would certainly clear at
the end of the hour, and save her from the shame of having Dr. Grant's
carriage and horses out to take her home, with which she was threatened.
As to anxiety for any alarm that her absence in such weather might
occasion at home, she had nothing to suffer on that score; for as her
being out was known only to her two aunts, she was perfectly aware that
none would be felt, and that in whatever cottage aunt Norris might chuse
to establish her during the rain, her being in such cottage would be
indubitable to aunt Bertram.

It was beginning to look brighter, when Fanny, observing a harp in the
room, asked some questions about it, which soon led to an acknowledgment
of her wishing very much to hear it, and a confession, which could
hardly be believed, of her having never yet heard it since its being
in Mansfield. To Fanny herself it appeared a very simple and natural
circumstance. She had scarcely ever been at the Parsonage since the
instrument's arrival, there had been no reason that she should; but Miss
Crawford, calling to mind an early expressed wish on the subject, was
concerned at her own neglect; and "Shall I play to you now?" and "What
will you have?" were questions immediately following with the readiest
good-humour.

She played accordingly; happy to have a new listener, and a listener who
seemed so much obliged, so full of wonder at the performance, and who
shewed herself not wanting in taste. She played till Fanny's eyes,
straying to the window on the weather's being evidently fair, spoke what
she felt must be done.

"Another quarter of an hour," said Miss Crawford, "and we shall see how
it will be. Do not run away the first moment of its holding up. Those
clouds look alarming."

"But they are passed over," said Fanny. "I have been watching them. This
weather is all from the south."

"South or north, I know a black cloud when I see it; and you must not
set forward while it is so threatening. And besides, I want to play
something more to you--a very pretty piece--and your cousin Edmund's
prime favourite. You must stay and hear your cousin's favourite."

Fanny felt that she must; and though she had not waited for that
sentence to be thinking of Edmund, such a memento made her particularly
awake to his idea, and she fancied him sitting in that room again
and again, perhaps in the very spot where she sat now, listening with
constant delight to the favourite air, played, as it appeared to her,
with superior tone and expression; and though pleased with it herself,
and glad to like whatever was liked by him, she was more sincerely
impatient to go away at the conclusion of it than she had been before;
and on this being evident, she was so kindly asked to call again, to
take them in her walk whenever she could, to come and hear more of the
harp, that she felt it necessary to be done, if no objection arose at
home.

Such was the origin of the sort of intimacy which took place between
them within the first fortnight after the Miss Bertrams' going away--an
intimacy resulting principally from Miss Crawford's desire of something
new, and which had little reality in Fanny's feelings. Fanny went to her
every two or three days: it seemed a kind of fascination: she could not
be easy without going, and yet it was without loving her, without ever
thinking like her, without any sense of obligation for being sought
after now when nobody else was to be had; and deriving no higher
pleasure from her conversation than occasional amusement, and _that_
often at the expense of her judgment, when it was raised by pleasantry
on people or subjects which she wished to be respected. She went,
however, and they sauntered about together many an half-hour in Mrs.
Grant's shrubbery, the weather being unusually mild for the time of
year, and venturing sometimes even to sit down on one of the benches now
comparatively unsheltered, remaining there perhaps till, in the midst
of some tender ejaculation of Fanny's on the sweets of so protracted
an autumn, they were forced, by the sudden swell of a cold gust shaking
down the last few yellow leaves about them, to jump up and walk for
warmth.

"This is pretty, very pretty," said Fanny, looking around her as
they were thus sitting together one day; "every time I come into this
shrubbery I am more struck with its growth and beauty. Three years ago,
this was nothing but a rough hedgerow along the upper side of the field,
never thought of as anything, or capable of becoming anything; and now
it is converted into a walk, and it would be difficult to say whether
most valuable as a convenience or an ornament; and perhaps, in another
three years, we may be forgetting--almost forgetting what it was before.
How wonderful, how very wonderful the operations of time, and the
changes of the human mind!" And following the latter train of thought,
she soon afterwards added: "If any one faculty of our nature may be
called _more_ wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory. There
seems something more speakingly incomprehensible in the powers,
the failures, the inequalities of memory, than in any other of our
intelligences. The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, so
obedient; at others, so bewildered and so weak; and at others again, so
tyrannic, so beyond control! We are, to be sure, a miracle every way;
but our powers of recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly past
finding out."

Miss Crawford, untouched and inattentive, had nothing to say; and
Fanny, perceiving it, brought back her own mind to what she thought must
interest.

"It may seem impertinent in _me_ to praise, but I must admire the taste
Mrs. Grant has shewn in all this. There is such a quiet simplicity in
the plan of the walk! Not too much attempted!"

"Yes," replied Miss Crawford carelessly, "it does very well for a
place of this sort. One does not think of extent _here_; and between
ourselves, till I came to Mansfield, I had not imagined a country parson
ever aspired to a shrubbery, or anything of the kind."

"I am so glad to see the evergreens thrive!" said Fanny, in reply. "My
uncle's gardener always says the soil here is better than his own, and
so it appears from the growth of the laurels and evergreens in general.
The evergreen! How beautiful, how welcome, how wonderful the evergreen!
When one thinks of it, how astonishing a variety of nature! In some
countries we know the tree that sheds its leaf is the variety, but that
does not make it less amazing that the same soil and the same sun should
nurture plants differing in the first rule and law of their existence.
You will think me rhapsodising; but when I am out of doors, especially
when I am sitting out of doors, I am very apt to get into this sort of
wondering strain. One cannot fix one's eyes on the commonest natural
production without finding food for a rambling fancy."

"To say the truth," replied Miss Crawford, "I am something like the
famous Doge at the court of Lewis XIV.; and may declare that I see no
wonder in this shrubbery equal to seeing myself in it. If anybody had
told me a year ago that this place would be my home, that I should be
spending month after month here, as I have done, I certainly should
not have believed them. I have now been here nearly five months; and,
moreover, the quietest five months I ever passed."

"_Too_ quiet for you, I believe."

"I should have thought so _theoretically_ myself, but," and her eyes
brightened as she spoke, "take it all and all, I never spent so happy a
summer. But then," with a more thoughtful air and lowered voice, "there
is no saying what it may lead to."

Fanny's heart beat quick, and she felt quite unequal to surmising
or soliciting anything more. Miss Crawford, however, with renewed
animation, soon went on--

"I am conscious of being far better reconciled to a country residence
than I had ever expected to be. I can even suppose it pleasant to
spend _half_ the year in the country, under certain circumstances,
very pleasant. An elegant, moderate-sized house in the centre of family
connexions; continual engagements among them; commanding the first
society in the neighbourhood; looked up to, perhaps, as leading it even
more than those of larger fortune, and turning from the cheerful round
of such amusements to nothing worse than a _tete-a-tete_ with the person
one feels most agreeable in the world. There is nothing frightful in
such a picture, is there, Miss Price? One need not envy the new Mrs.
Rushworth with such a home as _that_."

"Envy Mrs. Rushworth!" was all that Fanny attempted to say. "Come, come,
it would be very un-handsome in us to be severe on Mrs. Rushworth, for I
look forward to our owing her a great many gay, brilliant, happy hours.
I expect we shall be all very much at Sotherton another year. Such
a match as Miss Bertram has made is a public blessing; for the first
pleasures of Mr. Rushworth's wife must be to fill her house, and give
the best balls in the country."

Fanny was silent, and Miss Crawford relapsed into thoughtfulness, till
suddenly looking up at the end of a few minutes, she exclaimed, "Ah!
here he is." It was not Mr. Rushworth, however, but Edmund, who then
appeared walking towards them with Mrs. Grant. "My sister and Mr.
Bertram. I am so glad your eldest cousin is gone, that he may be Mr.
Bertram again. There is something in the sound of Mr. _Edmund_ Bertram
so formal, so pitiful, so younger-brother-like, that I detest it."

"How differently we feel!" cried Fanny. "To me, the sound of _Mr._
Bertram is so cold and nothing-meaning, so entirely without warmth or
character! It just stands for a gentleman, and that's all. But there is
nobleness in the name of Edmund. It is a name of heroism and renown; of
kings, princes, and knights; and seems to breathe the spirit of chivalry
and warm affections."

"I grant you the name is good in itself, and _Lord_ Edmund or _Sir_
Edmund sound delightfully; but sink it under the chill, the annihilation
of a Mr., and Mr. Edmund is no more than Mr. John or Mr. Thomas. Well,
shall we join and disappoint them of half their lecture upon sitting
down out of doors at this time of year, by being up before they can
begin?"

Edmund met them with particular pleasure. It was the first time of his
seeing them together since the beginning of that better acquaintance
which he had been hearing of with great satisfaction. A friendship
between two so very dear to him was exactly what he could have wished:
and to the credit of the lover's understanding, be it stated, that he
did not by any means consider Fanny as the only, or even as the greater
gainer by such a friendship.

"Well," said Miss Crawford, "and do you not scold us for our imprudence?
What do you think we have been sitting down for but to be talked to
about it, and entreated and supplicated never to do so again?"

"Perhaps I might have scolded," said Edmund, "if either of you had been
sitting down alone; but while you do wrong together, I can overlook a
great deal."

"They cannot have been sitting long," cried Mrs. Grant, "for when I went
up for my shawl I saw them from the staircase window, and then they were
walking."

"And really," added Edmund, "the day is so mild, that your sitting down
for a few minutes can be hardly thought imprudent. Our weather must
not always be judged by the calendar. We may sometimes take greater
liberties in November than in May."

"Upon my word," cried Miss Crawford, "you are two of the most
disappointing and unfeeling kind friends I ever met with! There is no
giving you a moment's uneasiness. You do not know how much we have been
suffering, nor what chills we have felt! But I have long thought Mr.
Bertram one of the worst subjects to work on, in any little manoeuvre
against common sense, that a woman could be plagued with. I had very
little hope of _him_ from the first; but you, Mrs. Grant, my sister, my
own sister, I think I had a right to alarm you a little."

"Do not flatter yourself, my dearest Mary. You have not the smallest
chance of moving me. I have my alarms, but they are quite in a different
quarter; and if I could have altered the weather, you would have had a
good sharp east wind blowing on you the whole time--for here are some of
my plants which Robert _will_ leave out because the nights are so mild,
and I know the end of it will be, that we shall have a sudden change of
weather, a hard frost setting in all at once, taking everybody (at least
Robert) by surprise, and I shall lose every one; and what is worse, cook
has just been telling me that the turkey, which I particularly wished
not to be dressed till Sunday, because I know how much more Dr. Grant
would enjoy it on Sunday after the fatigues of the day, will not keep
beyond to-morrow. These are something like grievances, and make me think
the weather most unseasonably close."

"The sweets of housekeeping in a country village!" said Miss Crawford
archly. "Commend me to the nurseryman and the poulterer."

"My dear child, commend Dr. Grant to the deanery of Westminster or St.
Paul's, and I should be as glad of your nurseryman and poulterer as you
could be. But we have no such people in Mansfield. What would you have
me do?"

"Oh! you can do nothing but what you do already: be plagued very often,
and never lose your temper."

"Thank you; but there is no escaping these little vexations, Mary, live
where we may; and when you are settled in town and I come to see you, I
dare say I shall find you with yours, in spite of the nurseryman and
the poulterer, perhaps on their very account. Their remoteness and
unpunctuality, or their exorbitant charges and frauds, will be drawing
forth bitter lamentations."

"I mean to be too rich to lament or to feel anything of the sort.
A large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of. It
certainly may secure all the myrtle and turkey part of it."

"You intend to be very rich?" said Edmund, with a look which, to Fanny's
eye, had a great deal of serious meaning.

"To be sure. Do not you? Do not we all?"

"I cannot intend anything which it must be so completely beyond my power
to command. Miss Crawford may chuse her degree of wealth. She has only
to fix on her number of thousands a year, and there can be no doubt of
their coming. My intentions are only not to be poor."

"By moderation and economy, and bringing down your wants to your income,
and all that. I understand you--and a very proper plan it is for a
person at your time of life, with such limited means and indifferent
connexions. What can _you_ want but a decent maintenance? You have
not much time before you; and your relations are in no situation to do
anything for you, or to mortify you by the contrast of their own wealth
and consequence. Be honest and poor, by all means--but I shall not envy
you; I do not much think I shall even respect you. I have a much greater
respect for those that are honest and rich."

"Your degree of respect for honesty, rich or poor, is precisely what
I have no manner of concern with. I do not mean to be poor. Poverty
is exactly what I have determined against. Honesty, in the something
between, in the middle state of worldly circumstances, is all that I am
anxious for your not looking down on."

"But I do look down upon it, if it might have been higher. I must
look down upon anything contented with obscurity when it might rise to
distinction."

"But how may it rise? How may my honesty at least rise to any
distinction?"

This was not so very easy a question to answer, and occasioned an "Oh!"
of some length from the fair lady before she could add, "You ought to be
in parliament, or you should have gone into the army ten years ago."

"_That_ is not much to the purpose now; and as to my being in
parliament, I believe I must wait till there is an especial assembly for
the representation of younger sons who have little to live on. No, Miss
Crawford," he added, in a more serious tone, "there _are_ distinctions
which I should be miserable if I thought myself without any
chance--absolutely without chance or possibility of obtaining--but they
are of a different character."

A look of consciousness as he spoke, and what seemed a consciousness
of manner on Miss Crawford's side as she made some laughing answer,
was sorrowfull food for Fanny's observation; and finding herself quite
unable to attend as she ought to Mrs. Grant, by whose side she was now
following the others, she had nearly resolved on going home immediately,
and only waited for courage to say so, when the sound of the great clock
at Mansfield Park, striking three, made her feel that she had
really been much longer absent than usual, and brought the previous
self-inquiry of whether she should take leave or not just then, and how,
to a very speedy issue. With undoubting decision she directly began her
adieus; and Edmund began at the same time to recollect that his mother
had been inquiring for her, and that he had walked down to the Parsonage
on purpose to bring her back.

Fanny's hurry increased; and without in the least expecting Edmund's
attendance, she would have hastened away alone; but the general pace was
quickened, and they all accompanied her into the house, through which it
was necessary to pass. Dr. Grant was in the vestibule, and as they stopt
to speak to him she found, from Edmund's manner, that he _did_ mean to
go with her. He too was taking leave. She could not but be thankful. In
the moment of parting, Edmund was invited by Dr. Grant to eat his mutton
with him the next day; and Fanny had barely time for an unpleasant
feeling on the occasion, when Mrs. Grant, with sudden recollection,
turned to her and asked for the pleasure of her company too. This was
so new an attention, so perfectly new a circumstance in the events of
Fanny's life, that she was all surprise and embarrassment; and while
stammering out her great obligation, and her "but she did not suppose it
would be in her power," was looking at Edmund for his opinion and help.
But Edmund, delighted with her having such an happiness offered, and
ascertaining with half a look, and half a sentence, that she had no
objection but on her aunt's account, could not imagine that his mother
would make any difficulty of sparing her, and therefore gave his decided
open advice that the invitation should be accepted; and though Fanny
would not venture, even on his encouragement, to such a flight of
audacious independence, it was soon settled, that if nothing were heard
to the contrary, Mrs. Grant might expect her.

"And you know what your dinner will be," said Mrs. Grant, smiling--"the
turkey, and I assure you a very fine one; for, my dear," turning to her
husband, "cook insists upon the turkey's being dressed to-morrow."

"Very well, very well," cried Dr. Grant, "all the better; I am glad
to hear you have anything so good in the house. But Miss Price and Mr.
Edmund Bertram, I dare say, would take their chance. We none of us want
to hear the bill of fare. A friendly meeting, and not a fine dinner,
is all we have in view. A turkey, or a goose, or a leg of mutton, or
whatever you and your cook chuse to give us."

The two cousins walked home together; and, except in the immediate
discussion of this engagement, which Edmund spoke of with the warmest
satisfaction, as so particularly desirable for her in the intimacy which
he saw with so much pleasure established, it was a silent walk; for
having finished that subject, he grew thoughtful and indisposed for any
other.

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

completion: Fanny suddenly becomes more important in the household since Maria and Julia are no longer around. The Grants start inviting her over to the Parsonage more often, too. This all started when Fanny got caught in the rain one day near the Parsonage and Dr. Grant insisted she come inside to wait out the storm. Mary was thrilled to see her since she had been super bored. Mrs. Grant and Mary are nice to Fanny, but Fanny's worried that she's in the way so she becomes extra awkward. Mary then offers to play her harp for Fanny, who has never heard it. Fanny keeps trying to leave but Mary basically holds her hostage and keeps playing the harp for her. After this Fanny and Mary start hanging out more often. Fanny still doesn't like Mary much, though. Fanny and Mary are walking outside and Fanny starts talking about how much she loves nature and how fascinating memory is. She finds people's memories mysterious and interesting. Mary is totally uninterested in this conversation. Mary confesses that she could really care less about nature and landscaping, and that she finds people more interesting. Fanny notes that Mary must be bored here, but Mary says she's had a very happy summer and hints that she has hopes for a future with Edmund. Mary says that she'd be happy to spend half the year in the country with the right person for company and then laughs about the new Mrs. Rushworth's situation. Fanny is alarmed and Mary says that she can't be too hard on Maria because she expects to be invited to Maria's big, fancy house for some rocking parties in the future. Fanny silently disapproves of this. Mary then says that she's glad Tom is gone so that Edmund can be Mr. Bertram now. Historical Context Lesson! The eldest boy and girl always got to be referred to as Mr. and Miss Last-Name, while the younger kids were Mr. and Miss First-Name. It cut down on confusion. Since Tom is gone, his younger brother goes from being Mr. Edmund to Mr. Bertram. Mary likes the name Mr. Bertram better since it implies the eldest son, but Fanny likes Edmund better since it's a romantic sounding name. Mrs. Grant and Edmund come up and talk with Mary and Fanny. The group discuss the Grants' landscaping and their house. Mary notes how many annoyances Mrs. Grant has to put up with in her country home, but Mrs. Grant adds that every home has its annoyances. Mary says that having a large income can solve a lot of problems and Edmund is alarmed that Mary values money so much. Mary then notes that she can't respect people who are content with a lower social station when they could do better, which is a jibe clearly aimed at Edmund. But then Edmund hints at his feelings for Mary and they seem to reach another understanding, or at least an impasse. Fanny is uncomfortable and hurries to leave. Edmund walks her home. Before they go, though, Mrs. Grant invites them over for dinner and Dr. Grant seconds the invitation.