Chapter: 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.

 Fanny goes to bed but is still really upset over how her evening had gone. The next morning Fanny goes to her room, which used to be the school room. Fanny had claimed it and used it as a place to keep her books and keepsakes since her attic bedroom was too small to fit her treasures. We get a lot more details about the conditions Fanny has lived in since arriving at Mansfield. She has a lot in common with Harry Potter at the Dursley house, actually. For one, Harry has to sleep in a broom closet while Fanny has to stay in a tiny attic. Fanny is having a moral dilemma. She isn't sure if she should act or not. It would make everyone else happy but she thinks its wrong and really doesn't want to do it. Since she doesn't want to do it, she's convinced that her moral judgment is right on the money. Edmund comes to see Fanny and to discuss the problem of this Charles Maddox fellow. Who the heck is he? Edmund decides that he'll have to do the part himself in order to avoid having strangers join the Theater Club. He says his dad will be more upset if random people start coming to the house. Edmund insists that he's just doing the moral thing and that he's not being a flip-flopper. Fanny privately thinks that Edmund should apply for a job at the Waffle House and blames Mary's horrible influence for all of this. Edmund is happy when Fanny approves of his plan and chats with her about her books. Fanny's too stressed to read when he leaves and is mad at Mary and her evil, influential ways. She's so bummed that she doesn't even care if the others start in on her again about acting.

