Chapter: It was, indeed, a triumphant day to Mr. Bertram and Maria. Such a
victory over Edmund's discretion had been beyond their hopes, and was
most delightful. There was no longer anything to disturb them in their
darling project, and they congratulated each other in private on the
jealous weakness to which they attributed the change, with all the glee
of feelings gratified in every way. Edmund might still look grave, and
say he did not like the scheme in general, and must disapprove the play
in particular; their point was gained: he was to act, and he was driven
to it by the force of selfish inclinations only. Edmund had descended
from that moral elevation which he had maintained before, and they were
both as much the better as the happier for the descent.

They behaved very well, however, to _him_ on the occasion, betraying no
exultation beyond the lines about the corners of the mouth, and seemed
to think it as great an escape to be quit of the intrusion of Charles
Maddox, as if they had been forced into admitting him against their
inclination. "To have it quite in their own family circle was what
they had particularly wished. A stranger among them would have been the
destruction of all their comfort"; and when Edmund, pursuing that idea,
gave a hint of his hope as to the limitation of the audience, they were
ready, in the complaisance of the moment, to promise anything. It was
all good-humour and encouragement. Mrs. Norris offered to contrive his
dress, Mr. Yates assured him that Anhalt's last scene with the Baron
admitted a good deal of action and emphasis, and Mr. Rushworth undertook
to count his speeches.

"Perhaps," said Tom, "Fanny may be more disposed to oblige us now.
Perhaps you may persuade _her_."

"No, she is quite determined. She certainly will not act."

"Oh! very well." And not another word was said; but Fanny felt herself
again in danger, and her indifference to the danger was beginning to
fail her already.

There were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage than at the Park on this
change in Edmund; Miss Crawford looked very lovely in hers, and entered
with such an instantaneous renewal of cheerfulness into the whole
affair as could have but one effect on him. "He was certainly right in
respecting such feelings; he was glad he had determined on it." And the
morning wore away in satisfactions very sweet, if not very sound. One
advantage resulted from it to Fanny: at the earnest request of Miss
Crawford, Mrs. Grant had, with her usual good-humour, agreed to
undertake the part for which Fanny had been wanted; and this was all
that occurred to gladden _her_ heart during the day; and even this, when
imparted by Edmund, brought a pang with it, for it was Miss Crawford to
whom she was obliged--it was Miss Crawford whose kind exertions were to
excite her gratitude, and whose merit in making them was spoken of
with a glow of admiration. She was safe; but peace and safety were
unconnected here. Her mind had been never farther from peace. She could
not feel that she had done wrong herself, but she was disquieted
in every other way. Her heart and her judgment were equally against
Edmund's decision: she could not acquit his unsteadiness, and his
happiness under it made her wretched. She was full of jealousy and
agitation. Miss Crawford came with looks of gaiety which seemed an
insult, with friendly expressions towards herself which she could hardly
answer calmly. Everybody around her was gay and busy, prosperous and
important; each had their object of interest, their part, their dress,
their favourite scene, their friends and confederates: all were finding
employment in consultations and comparisons, or diversion in the playful
conceits they suggested. She alone was sad and insignificant: she had
no share in anything; she might go or stay; she might be in the midst
of their noise, or retreat from it to the solitude of the East room,
without being seen or missed. She could almost think anything would
have been preferable to this. Mrs. Grant was of consequence: _her_
good-nature had honourable mention; her taste and her time were
considered; her presence was wanted; she was sought for, and attended,
and praised; and Fanny was at first in some danger of envying her the
character she had accepted. But reflection brought better feelings, and
shewed her that Mrs. Grant was entitled to respect, which could never
have belonged to _her_; and that, had she received even the greatest,
she could never have been easy in joining a scheme which, considering
only her uncle, she must condemn altogether.

Fanny's heart was not absolutely the only saddened one amongst them,
as she soon began to acknowledge to herself. Julia was a sufferer too,
though not quite so blamelessly.

Henry Crawford had trifled with her feelings; but she had very long
allowed and even sought his attentions, with a jealousy of her sister so
reasonable as ought to have been their cure; and now that the conviction
of his preference for Maria had been forced on her, she submitted to it
without any alarm for Maria's situation, or any endeavour at rational
tranquillity for herself. She either sat in gloomy silence, wrapt in
such gravity as nothing could subdue, no curiosity touch, no wit amuse;
or allowing the attentions of Mr. Yates, was talking with forced gaiety
to him alone, and ridiculing the acting of the others.

For a day or two after the affront was given, Henry Crawford had
endeavoured to do it away by the usual attack of gallantry and
compliment, but he had not cared enough about it to persevere against a
few repulses; and becoming soon too busy with his play to have time for
more than one flirtation, he grew indifferent to the quarrel, or rather
thought it a lucky occurrence, as quietly putting an end to what might
ere long have raised expectations in more than Mrs. Grant. She was not
pleased to see Julia excluded from the play, and sitting by disregarded;
but as it was not a matter which really involved her happiness, as Henry
must be the best judge of his own, and as he did assure her, with a
most persuasive smile, that neither he nor Julia had ever had a serious
thought of each other, she could only renew her former caution as to
the elder sister, entreat him not to risk his tranquillity by too
much admiration there, and then gladly take her share in anything that
brought cheerfulness to the young people in general, and that did so
particularly promote the pleasure of the two so dear to her.

"I rather wonder Julia is not in love with Henry," was her observation
to Mary.

"I dare say she is," replied Mary coldly. "I imagine both sisters are."

"Both! no, no, that must not be. Do not give him a hint of it. Think of
Mr. Rushworth!"

"You had better tell Miss Bertram to think of Mr. Rushworth. It may
do _her_ some good. I often think of Mr. Rushworth's property and
independence, and wish them in other hands; but I never think of him. A
man might represent the county with such an estate; a man might escape a
profession and represent the county."

"I dare say he _will_ be in parliament soon. When Sir Thomas comes, I
dare say he will be in for some borough, but there has been nobody to
put him in the way of doing anything yet."

"Sir Thomas is to achieve many mighty things when he comes home," said
Mary, after a pause. "Do you remember Hawkins Browne's 'Address to
Tobacco,' in imitation of Pope?--

     Blest leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense
     To Templars modesty, to Parsons sense.

I will parody them--

     Blest Knight! whose dictatorial looks dispense
     To Children affluence, to Rushworth sense.

Will not that do, Mrs. Grant? Everything seems to depend upon Sir
Thomas's return."

"You will find his consequence very just and reasonable when you see him
in his family, I assure you. I do not think we do so well without him.
He has a fine dignified manner, which suits the head of such a house,
and keeps everybody in their place. Lady Bertram seems more of a cipher
now than when he is at home; and nobody else can keep Mrs. Norris in
order. But, Mary, do not fancy that Maria Bertram cares for Henry. I
am sure _Julia_ does not, or she would not have flirted as she did last
night with Mr. Yates; and though he and Maria are very good friends, I
think she likes Sotherton too well to be inconstant."

"I would not give much for Mr. Rushworth's chance if Henry stept in
before the articles were signed."

"If you have such a suspicion, something must be done; and as soon as
the play is all over, we will talk to him seriously and make him know
his own mind; and if he means nothing, we will send him off, though he
is Henry, for a time."

Julia _did_ suffer, however, though Mrs. Grant discerned it not, and
though it escaped the notice of many of her own family likewise. She had
loved, she did love still, and she had all the suffering which a warm
temper and a high spirit were likely to endure under the disappointment
of a dear, though irrational hope, with a strong sense of ill-usage.
Her heart was sore and angry, and she was capable only of angry
consolations. The sister with whom she was used to be on easy terms was
now become her greatest enemy: they were alienated from each other;
and Julia was not superior to the hope of some distressing end to the
attentions which were still carrying on there, some punishment to
Maria for conduct so shameful towards herself as well as towards Mr.
Rushworth. With no material fault of temper, or difference of opinion,
to prevent their being very good friends while their interests were
the same, the sisters, under such a trial as this, had not affection or
principle enough to make them merciful or just, to give them honour or
compassion. Maria felt her triumph, and pursued her purpose, careless of
Julia; and Julia could never see Maria distinguished by Henry Crawford
without trusting that it would create jealousy, and bring a public
disturbance at last.

Fanny saw and pitied much of this in Julia; but there was no outward
fellowship between them. Julia made no communication, and Fanny took
no liberties. They were two solitary sufferers, or connected only by
Fanny's consciousness.

The inattention of the two brothers and the aunt to Julia's
discomposure, and their blindness to its true cause, must be imputed to
the fullness of their own minds. They were totally preoccupied. Tom was
engrossed by the concerns of his theatre, and saw nothing that did not
immediately relate to it. Edmund, between his theatrical and his real
part, between Miss Crawford's claims and his own conduct, between love
and consistency, was equally unobservant; and Mrs. Norris was too busy
in contriving and directing the general little matters of the company,
superintending their various dresses with economical expedient, for
which nobody thanked her, and saving, with delighted integrity, half
a crown here and there to the absent Sir Thomas, to have leisure for
watching the behaviour, or guarding the happiness of his daughters.



Everything was now in a regular train: theatre, actors, actresses, and
dresses, were all getting forward; but though no other great impediments
arose, Fanny found, before many days were past, that it was not all
uninterrupted enjoyment to the party themselves, and that she had not to
witness the continuance of such unanimity and delight as had been almost
too much for her at first. Everybody began to have their vexation.
Edmund had many. Entirely against _his_ judgment, a scene-painter
arrived from town, and was at work, much to the increase of the
expenses, and, what was worse, of the eclat of their proceedings; and
his brother, instead of being really guided by him as to the privacy of
the representation, was giving an invitation to every family who came
in his way. Tom himself began to fret over the scene-painter's slow
progress, and to feel the miseries of waiting. He had learned his
part--all his parts, for he took every trifling one that could be united
with the Butler, and began to be impatient to be acting; and every day
thus unemployed was tending to increase his sense of the insignificance
of all his parts together, and make him more ready to regret that some
other play had not been chosen.

Fanny, being always a very courteous listener, and often the only
listener at hand, came in for the complaints and the distresses of
most of them. _She_ knew that Mr. Yates was in general thought to rant
dreadfully; that Mr. Yates was disappointed in Henry Crawford; that
Tom Bertram spoke so quick he would be unintelligible; that Mrs. Grant
spoiled everything by laughing; that Edmund was behindhand with his
part, and that it was misery to have anything to do with Mr. Rushworth,
who was wanting a prompter through every speech. She knew, also, that
poor Mr. Rushworth could seldom get anybody to rehearse with him: _his_
complaint came before her as well as the rest; and so decided to her
eye was her cousin Maria's avoidance of him, and so needlessly often the
rehearsal of the first scene between her and Mr. Crawford, that she had
soon all the terror of other complaints from _him_. So far from being
all satisfied and all enjoying, she found everybody requiring something
they had not, and giving occasion of discontent to the others. Everybody
had a part either too long or too short; nobody would attend as they
ought; nobody would remember on which side they were to come in; nobody
but the complainer would observe any directions.

Fanny believed herself to derive as much innocent enjoyment from the
play as any of them; Henry Crawford acted well, and it was a pleasure to
_her_ to creep into the theatre, and attend the rehearsal of the first
act, in spite of the feelings it excited in some speeches for Maria.
Maria, she also thought, acted well, too well; and after the first
rehearsal or two, Fanny began to be their only audience; and sometimes
as prompter, sometimes as spectator, was often very useful. As far as
she could judge, Mr. Crawford was considerably the best actor of all: he
had more confidence than Edmund, more judgment than Tom, more talent and
taste than Mr. Yates. She did not like him as a man, but she must admit
him to be the best actor, and on this point there were not many who
differed from her. Mr. Yates, indeed, exclaimed against his tameness and
insipidity; and the day came at last, when Mr. Rushworth turned to her
with a black look, and said, "Do you think there is anything so very
fine in all this? For the life and soul of me, I cannot admire him; and,
between ourselves, to see such an undersized, little, mean-looking man,
set up for a fine actor, is very ridiculous in my opinion."

From this moment there was a return of his former jealousy, which Maria,
from increasing hopes of Crawford, was at little pains to remove; and
the chances of Mr. Rushworth's ever attaining to the knowledge of his
two-and-forty speeches became much less. As to his ever making anything
_tolerable_ of them, nobody had the smallest idea of that except
his mother; _she_, indeed, regretted that his part was not more
considerable, and deferred coming over to Mansfield till they were
forward enough in their rehearsal to comprehend all his scenes; but the
others aspired at nothing beyond his remembering the catchword, and the
first line of his speech, and being able to follow the prompter through
the rest. Fanny, in her pity and kindheartedness, was at great pains to
teach him how to learn, giving him all the helps and directions in her
power, trying to make an artificial memory for him, and learning every
word of his part herself, but without his being much the forwarder.

Many uncomfortable, anxious, apprehensive feelings she certainly had;
but with all these, and other claims on her time and attention, she was
as far from finding herself without employment or utility amongst them,
as without a companion in uneasiness; quite as far from having no
demand on her leisure as on her compassion. The gloom of her first
anticipations was proved to have been unfounded. She was occasionally
useful to all; she was perhaps as much at peace as any.

There was a great deal of needlework to be done, moreover, in which her
help was wanted; and that Mrs. Norris thought her quite as well off
as the rest, was evident by the manner in which she claimed it--"Come,
Fanny," she cried, "these are fine times for you, but you must not be
always walking from one room to the other, and doing the lookings-on at
your ease, in this way; I want you here. I have been slaving myself till
I can hardly stand, to contrive Mr. Rushworth's cloak without sending
for any more satin; and now I think you may give me your help in putting
it together. There are but three seams; you may do them in a trice. It
would be lucky for me if I had nothing but the executive part to do.
_You_ are best off, I can tell you: but if nobody did more than _you_,
we should not get on very fast."

Fanny took the work very quietly, without attempting any defence; but
her kinder aunt Bertram observed on her behalf--

"One cannot wonder, sister, that Fanny _should_ be delighted: it is
all new to her, you know; you and I used to be very fond of a play
ourselves, and so am I still; and as soon as I am a little more at
leisure, _I_ mean to look in at their rehearsals too. What is the play
about, Fanny? you have never told me."

"Oh! sister, pray do not ask her now; for Fanny is not one of those who
can talk and work at the same time. It is about Lovers' Vows."

"I believe," said Fanny to her aunt Bertram, "there will be three acts
rehearsed to-morrow evening, and that will give you an opportunity of
seeing all the actors at once."

"You had better stay till the curtain is hung," interposed Mrs. Norris;
"the curtain will be hung in a day or two--there is very little sense in
a play without a curtain--and I am much mistaken if you do not find it
draw up into very handsome festoons."

Lady Bertram seemed quite resigned to waiting. Fanny did not share her
aunt's composure: she thought of the morrow a great deal, for if the
three acts were rehearsed, Edmund and Miss Crawford would then be acting
together for the first time; the third act would bring a scene between
them which interested her most particularly, and which she was longing
and dreading to see how they would perform. The whole subject of it was
love--a marriage of love was to be described by the gentleman, and very
little short of a declaration of love be made by the lady.

She had read and read the scene again with many painful, many wondering
emotions, and looked forward to their representation of it as a
circumstance almost too interesting. She did not _believe_ they had yet
rehearsed it, even in private.

The morrow came, the plan for the evening continued, and Fanny's
consideration of it did not become less agitated. She worked very
diligently under her aunt's directions, but her diligence and her
silence concealed a very absent, anxious mind; and about noon she
made her escape with her work to the East room, that she might have no
concern in another, and, as she deemed it, most unnecessary rehearsal of
the first act, which Henry Crawford was just proposing, desirous at
once of having her time to herself, and of avoiding the sight of Mr.
Rushworth. A glimpse, as she passed through the hall, of the two ladies
walking up from the Parsonage made no change in her wish of retreat, and
she worked and meditated in the East room, undisturbed, for a quarter of
an hour, when a gentle tap at the door was followed by the entrance of
Miss Crawford.

"Am I right? Yes; this is the East room. My dear Miss Price, I beg your
pardon, but I have made my way to you on purpose to entreat your help."

Fanny, quite surprised, endeavoured to shew herself mistress of the room
by her civilities, and looked at the bright bars of her empty grate with
concern.

"Thank you; I am quite warm, very warm. Allow me to stay here a little
while, and do have the goodness to hear me my third act. I have brought
my book, and if you would but rehearse it with me, I should be _so_
obliged! I came here to-day intending to rehearse it with Edmund--by
ourselves--against the evening, but he is not in the way; and if he
_were_, I do not think I could go through it with _him_, till I have
hardened myself a little; for really there is a speech or two. You will
be so good, won't you?"

Fanny was most civil in her assurances, though she could not give them
in a very steady voice.

"Have you ever happened to look at the part I mean?" continued Miss
Crawford, opening her book. "Here it is. I did not think much of it at
first--but, upon my word. There, look at _that_ speech, and _that_, and
_that_. How am I ever to look him in the face and say such things? Could
you do it? But then he is your cousin, which makes all the difference.
You must rehearse it with me, that I may fancy _you_ him, and get on by
degrees. You _have_ a look of _his_ sometimes."

"Have I? I will do my best with the greatest readiness; but I must
_read_ the part, for I can say very little of it."

"_None_ of it, I suppose. You are to have the book, of course. Now for
it. We must have two chairs at hand for you to bring forward to the
front of the stage. There--very good school-room chairs, not made for a
theatre, I dare say; much more fitted for little girls to sit and kick
their feet against when they are learning a lesson. What would your
governess and your uncle say to see them used for such a purpose? Could
Sir Thomas look in upon us just now, he would bless himself, for we
are rehearsing all over the house. Yates is storming away in the
dining-room. I heard him as I came upstairs, and the theatre is engaged
of course by those indefatigable rehearsers, Agatha and Frederick. If
_they_ are not perfect, I _shall_ be surprised. By the bye, I looked in
upon them five minutes ago, and it happened to be exactly at one of the
times when they were trying _not_ to embrace, and Mr. Rushworth was with
me. I thought he began to look a little queer, so I turned it off as
well as I could, by whispering to him, 'We shall have an excellent
Agatha; there is something so _maternal_ in her manner, so completely
_maternal_ in her voice and countenance.' Was not that well done of me?
He brightened up directly. Now for my soliloquy."

She began, and Fanny joined in with all the modest feeling which the
idea of representing Edmund was so strongly calculated to inspire; but
with looks and voice so truly feminine as to be no very good picture of
a man. With such an Anhalt, however, Miss Crawford had courage enough;
and they had got through half the scene, when a tap at the door brought
a pause, and the entrance of Edmund, the next moment, suspended it all.

Surprise, consciousness, and pleasure appeared in each of the three
on this unexpected meeting; and as Edmund was come on the very same
business that had brought Miss Crawford, consciousness and pleasure were
likely to be more than momentary in _them_. He too had his book, and was
seeking Fanny, to ask her to rehearse with him, and help him to prepare
for the evening, without knowing Miss Crawford to be in the house;
and great was the joy and animation of being thus thrown together, of
comparing schemes, and sympathising in praise of Fanny's kind offices.

_She_ could not equal them in their warmth. _Her_ spirits sank under the
glow of theirs, and she felt herself becoming too nearly nothing to
both to have any comfort in having been sought by either. They must now
rehearse together. Edmund proposed, urged, entreated it, till the lady,
not very unwilling at first, could refuse no longer, and Fanny was
wanted only to prompt and observe them. She was invested, indeed, with
the office of judge and critic, and earnestly desired to exercise it and
tell them all their faults; but from doing so every feeling within her
shrank--she could not, would not, dared not attempt it: had she been
otherwise qualified for criticism, her conscience must have restrained
her from venturing at disapprobation. She believed herself to feel too
much of it in the aggregate for honesty or safety in particulars. To
prompt them must be enough for her; and it was sometimes _more_ than
enough; for she could not always pay attention to the book. In watching
them she forgot herself; and, agitated by the increasing spirit of
Edmund's manner, had once closed the page and turned away exactly as he
wanted help. It was imputed to very reasonable weariness, and she was
thanked and pitied; but she deserved their pity more than she hoped they
would ever surmise. At last the scene was over, and Fanny forced herself
to add her praise to the compliments each was giving the other; and when
again alone and able to recall the whole, she was inclined to believe
their performance would, indeed, have such nature and feeling in it as
must ensure their credit, and make it a very suffering exhibition to
herself. Whatever might be its effect, however, she must stand the brunt
of it again that very day.

The first regular rehearsal of the three first acts was certainly to
take place in the evening: Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords were engaged to
return for that purpose as soon as they could after dinner; and every
one concerned was looking forward with eagerness. There seemed a general
diffusion of cheerfulness on the occasion. Tom was enjoying such an
advance towards the end; Edmund was in spirits from the morning's
rehearsal, and little vexations seemed everywhere smoothed away. All
were alert and impatient; the ladies moved soon, the gentlemen soon
followed them, and with the exception of Lady Bertram, Mrs. Norris, and
Julia, everybody was in the theatre at an early hour; and having lighted
it up as well as its unfinished state admitted, were waiting only the
arrival of Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords to begin.

They did not wait long for the Crawfords, but there was no Mrs. Grant.
She could not come. Dr. Grant, professing an indisposition, for which he
had little credit with his fair sister-in-law, could not spare his wife.

"Dr. Grant is ill," said she, with mock solemnity. "He has been ill ever
since he did not eat any of the pheasant today. He fancied it tough,
sent away his plate, and has been suffering ever since".

Here was disappointment! Mrs. Grant's non-attendance was sad indeed.
Her pleasant manners and cheerful conformity made her always valuable
amongst them; but _now_ she was absolutely necessary. They could not
act, they could not rehearse with any satisfaction without her. The
comfort of the whole evening was destroyed. What was to be done? Tom, as
Cottager, was in despair. After a pause of perplexity, some eyes began
to be turned towards Fanny, and a voice or two to say, "If Miss Price
would be so good as to _read_ the part." She was immediately surrounded
by supplications; everybody asked it; even Edmund said, "Do, Fanny, if
it is not _very_ disagreeable to you."

But Fanny still hung back. She could not endure the idea of it. Why was
not Miss Crawford to be applied to as well? Or why had not she rather
gone to her own room, as she had felt to be safest, instead of attending
the rehearsal at all? She had known it would irritate and distress her;
she had known it her duty to keep away. She was properly punished.

"You have only to _read_ the part," said Henry Crawford, with renewed
entreaty.

"And I do believe she can say every word of it," added Maria, "for she
could put Mrs. Grant right the other day in twenty places. Fanny, I am
sure you know the part."

Fanny could not say she did _not_; and as they all persevered, as
Edmund repeated his wish, and with a look of even fond dependence on
her good-nature, she must yield. She would do her best. Everybody was
satisfied; and she was left to the tremors of a most palpitating heart,
while the others prepared to begin.

They _did_ begin; and being too much engaged in their own noise to be
struck by an unusual noise in the other part of the house, had proceeded
some way when the door of the room was thrown open, and Julia, appearing
at it, with a face all aghast, exclaimed, "My father is come! He is in
the hall at this moment."



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.



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.



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!



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.



"But why should Mrs. Grant ask Fanny?" said Lady Bertram. "How came she
to think of asking Fanny? Fanny never dines there, you know, in this
sort of way. I cannot spare her, and I am sure she does not want to go.
Fanny, you do not want to go, do you?"

"If you put such a question to her," cried Edmund, preventing his
cousin's speaking, "Fanny will immediately say No; but I am sure, my
dear mother, she would like to go; and I can see no reason why she
should not."

"I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grant should think of asking her? She never
did before. She used to ask your sisters now and then, but she never
asked Fanny."

"If you cannot do without me, ma'am--" said Fanny, in a self-denying
tone.

"But my mother will have my father with her all the evening."

"To be sure, so I shall."

"Suppose you take my father's opinion, ma'am."

"That's well thought of. So I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas, as
soon as he comes in, whether I can do without her."

"As you please, ma'am, on that head; but I meant my father's opinion
as to the _propriety_ of the invitation's being accepted or not; and
I think he will consider it a right thing by Mrs. Grant, as well as by
Fanny, that being the _first_ invitation it should be accepted."

"I do not know. We will ask him. But he will be very much surprised that
Mrs. Grant should ask Fanny at all."

There was nothing more to be said, or that could be said to any purpose,
till Sir Thomas were present; but the subject involving, as it did,
her own evening's comfort for the morrow, was so much uppermost in Lady
Bertram's mind, that half an hour afterwards, on his looking in for a
minute in his way from his plantation to his dressing-room, she called
him back again, when he had almost closed the door, with "Sir Thomas,
stop a moment--I have something to say to you."

Her tone of calm languor, for she never took the trouble of raising her
voice, was always heard and attended to; and Sir Thomas came back. Her
story began; and Fanny immediately slipped out of the room; for to hear
herself the subject of any discussion with her uncle was more than her
nerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew--more anxious perhaps than
she ought to be--for what was it after all whether she went or staid?
but if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and
with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and
at last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly
submissive and indifferent. Her cause, meanwhile, went on well. It
began, on Lady Bertram's part, with--"I have something to tell you that
will surprise you. Mrs. Grant has asked Fanny to dinner."

"Well," said Sir Thomas, as if waiting more to accomplish the surprise.

"Edmund wants her to go. But how can I spare her?"

"She will be late," said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; "but what is
your difficulty?"

Edmund found himself obliged to speak and fill up the blanks in his
mother's story. He told the whole; and she had only to add, "So strange!
for Mrs. Grant never used to ask her."

"But is it not very natural," observed Edmund, "that Mrs. Grant should
wish to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister?"

"Nothing can be more natural," said Sir Thomas, after a short
deliberation; "nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything,
in my opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant's shewing civility to Miss
Price, to Lady Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only
surprise I can feel is, that this should be the _first_ time of its
being paid. Fanny was perfectly right in giving only a conditional
answer. She appears to feel as she ought. But as I conclude that she
must wish to go, since all young people like to be together, I can see
no reason why she should be denied the indulgence."

"But can I do without her, Sir Thomas?"

"Indeed I think you may."

"She always makes tea, you know, when my sister is not here."

"Your sister, perhaps, may be prevailed on to spend the day with us, and
I shall certainly be at home."

"Very well, then, Fanny may go, Edmund."

The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked at her door in his way
to his own.

"Well, Fanny, it is all happily settled, and without the smallest
hesitation on your uncle's side. He had but one opinion. You are to go."

"Thank you, I am _so_ glad," was Fanny's instinctive reply; though when
she had turned from him and shut the door, she could not help feeling,
"And yet why should I be glad? for am I not certain of seeing or hearing
something there to pain me?"

In spite of this conviction, however, she was glad. Simple as such an
engagement might appear in other eyes, it had novelty and importance in
hers, for excepting the day at Sotherton, she had scarcely ever dined
out before; and though now going only half a mile, and only to three
people, still it was dining out, and all the little interests of
preparation were enjoyments in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor
assistance from those who ought to have entered into her feelings and
directed her taste; for Lady Bertram never thought of being useful to
anybody, and Mrs. Norris, when she came on the morrow, in consequence of
an early call and invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very ill humour,
and seemed intent only on lessening her niece's pleasure, both present
and future, as much as possible.

"Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention
and indulgence! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grant for
thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to
look upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that
there is no real occasion for your going into company in this sort of
way, or ever dining out at all; and it is what you must not depend upon
ever being repeated. Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is
meant as any particular compliment to _you_; the compliment is intended
to your uncle and aunt and me. Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due to
_us_ to take a little notice of you, or else it would never have come
into her head, and you may be very certain that, if your cousin Julia
had been at home, you would not have been asked at all."

Mrs. Norris had now so ingeniously done away all Mrs. Grant's part of
the favour, that Fanny, who found herself expected to speak, could only
say that she was very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her,
and that she was endeavouring to put her aunt's evening work in such a
state as to prevent her being missed.

"Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you, or you
would not be allowed to go. _I_ shall be here, so you may be quite easy
about your aunt. And I hope you will have a very _agreeable_ day, and
find it all mighty _delightful_. But I must observe that five is the
very awkwardest of all possible numbers to sit down to table; and I
cannot but be surprised that such an _elegant_ lady as Mrs. Grant should
not contrive better! And round their enormous great wide table, too,
which fills up the room so dreadfully! Had the doctor been contented to
take my dining-table when I came away, as anybody in their senses would
have done, instead of having that absurd new one of his own, which is
wider, literally wider than the dinner-table here, how infinitely better
it would have been! and how much more he would have been respected! for
people are never respected when they step out of their proper sphere.
Remember that, Fanny. Five--only five to be sitting round that table.
However, you will have dinner enough on it for ten, I dare say."

Mrs. Norris fetched breath, and went on again.

"The nonsense and folly of people's stepping out of their rank and
trying to appear above themselves, makes me think it right to give _you_
a hint, Fanny, now that you are going into company without any of us;
and I do beseech and entreat you not to be putting yourself forward, and
talking and giving your opinion as if you were one of your cousins--as
if you were dear Mrs. Rushworth or Julia. _That_ will never do, believe
me. Remember, wherever you are, you must be the lowest and last; and
though Miss Crawford is in a manner at home at the Parsonage, you are
not to be taking place of her. And as to coming away at night, you are
to stay just as long as Edmund chuses. Leave him to settle _that_."

"Yes, ma'am, I should not think of anything else."

"And if it should rain, which I think exceedingly likely, for I never
saw it more threatening for a wet evening in my life, you must manage as
well as you can, and not be expecting the carriage to be sent for you. I
certainly do not go home to-night, and, therefore, the carriage will not
be out on my account; so you must make up your mind to what may happen,
and take your things accordingly."

Her niece thought it perfectly reasonable. She rated her own claims
to comfort as low even as Mrs. Norris could; and when Sir Thomas soon
afterwards, just opening the door, said, "Fanny, at what time would you
have the carriage come round?" she felt a degree of astonishment which
made it impossible for her to speak.

"My dear Sir Thomas!" cried Mrs. Norris, red with anger, "Fanny can
walk."

"Walk!" repeated Sir Thomas, in a tone of most unanswerable dignity, and
coming farther into the room. "My niece walk to a dinner engagement at
this time of the year! Will twenty minutes after four suit you?"

"Yes, sir," was Fanny's humble answer, given with the feelings almost
of a criminal towards Mrs. Norris; and not bearing to remain with her
in what might seem a state of triumph, she followed her uncle out of
the room, having staid behind him only long enough to hear these words
spoken in angry agitation--

"Quite unnecessary! a great deal too kind! But Edmund goes; true, it is
upon Edmund's account. I observed he was hoarse on Thursday night."

But this could not impose on Fanny. She felt that the carriage was for
herself, and herself alone: and her uncle's consideration of her, coming
immediately after such representations from her aunt, cost her some
tears of gratitude when she was alone.

The coachman drove round to a minute; another minute brought down the
gentleman; and as the lady had, with a most scrupulous fear of being
late, been many minutes seated in the drawing-room, Sir Thomas saw them
off in as good time as his own correctly punctual habits required.

"Now I must look at you, Fanny," said Edmund, with the kind smile of an
affectionate brother, "and tell you how I like you; and as well as I can
judge by this light, you look very nicely indeed. What have you got on?"

"The new dress that my uncle was so good as to give me on my cousin's
marriage. I hope it is not too fine; but I thought I ought to wear it as
soon as I could, and that I might not have such another opportunity all
the winter. I hope you do not think me too fine."

"A woman can never be too fine while she is all in white. No, I see no
finery about you; nothing but what is perfectly proper. Your gown seems
very pretty. I like these glossy spots. Has not Miss Crawford a gown
something the same?"

In approaching the Parsonage they passed close by the stable-yard and
coach-house.

"Heyday!" said Edmund, "here's company, here's a carriage! who have they
got to meet us?" And letting down the side-glass to distinguish, "'Tis
Crawford's, Crawford's barouche, I protest! There are his own two men
pushing it back into its old quarters. He is here, of course. This is
quite a surprise, Fanny. I shall be very glad to see him."

There was no occasion, there was no time for Fanny to say how very
differently she felt; but the idea of having such another to observe
her was a great increase of the trepidation with which she performed the
very awful ceremony of walking into the drawing-room.

In the drawing-room Mr. Crawford certainly was, having been just long
enough arrived to be ready for dinner; and the smiles and pleased looks
of the three others standing round him, shewed how welcome was his
sudden resolution of coming to them for a few days on leaving Bath.
A very cordial meeting passed between him and Edmund; and with the
exception of Fanny, the pleasure was general; and even to _her_ there
might be some advantage in his presence, since every addition to the
party must rather forward her favourite indulgence of being suffered to
sit silent and unattended to. She was soon aware of this herself; for
though she must submit, as her own propriety of mind directed, in spite
of her aunt Norris's opinion, to being the principal lady in company,
and to all the little distinctions consequent thereon, she found, while
they were at table, such a happy flow of conversation prevailing, in
which she was not required to take any part--there was so much to be
said between the brother and sister about Bath, so much between the two
young men about hunting, so much of politics between Mr. Crawford and
Dr. Grant, and of everything and all together between Mr. Crawford
and Mrs. Grant, as to leave her the fairest prospect of having only
to listen in quiet, and of passing a very agreeable day. She could not
compliment the newly arrived gentleman, however, with any appearance of
interest, in a scheme for extending his stay at Mansfield, and sending
for his hunters from Norfolk, which, suggested by Dr. Grant, advised by
Edmund, and warmly urged by the two sisters, was soon in possession of
his mind, and which he seemed to want to be encouraged even by her to
resolve on. Her opinion was sought as to the probable continuance of the
open weather, but her answers were as short and indifferent as civility
allowed. She could not wish him to stay, and would much rather not have
him speak to her.

Her two absent cousins, especially Maria, were much in her thoughts on
seeing him; but no embarrassing remembrance affected _his_ spirits.
Here he was again on the same ground where all had passed before, and
apparently as willing to stay and be happy without the Miss Bertrams,
as if he had never known Mansfield in any other state. She heard them
spoken of by him only in a general way, till they were all re-assembled
in the drawing-room, when Edmund, being engaged apart in some matter of
business with Dr. Grant, which seemed entirely to engross them, and
Mrs. Grant occupied at the tea-table, he began talking of them with more
particularity to his other sister. With a significant smile, which made
Fanny quite hate him, he said, "So! Rushworth and his fair bride are at
Brighton, I understand; happy man!"

"Yes, they have been there about a fortnight, Miss Price, have they not?
And Julia is with them."

"And Mr. Yates, I presume, is not far off."

"Mr. Yates! Oh! we hear nothing of Mr. Yates. I do not imagine he
figures much in the letters to Mansfield Park; do you, Miss Price? I
think my friend Julia knows better than to entertain her father with Mr.
Yates."

"Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty speeches!" continued Crawford.
"Nobody can ever forget them. Poor fellow! I see him now--his toil and
his despair. Well, I am much mistaken if his lovely Maria will ever want
him to make two-and-forty speeches to her"; adding, with a momentary
seriousness, "She is too good for him--much too good." And then changing
his tone again to one of gentle gallantry, and addressing Fanny, he
said, "You were Mr. Rushworth's best friend. Your kindness and patience
can never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience in trying to make it
possible for him to learn his part--in trying to give him a brain
which nature had denied--to mix up an understanding for him out of the
superfluity of your own! _He_ might not have sense enough himself to
estimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had honour from
all the rest of the party."

Fanny coloured, and said nothing.

"It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!" he exclaimed, breaking forth
again, after a few minutes' musing. "I shall always look back on our
theatricals with exquisite pleasure. There was such an interest, such an
animation, such a spirit diffused. Everybody felt it. We were all alive.
There was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every hour of
the day. Always some little objection, some little doubt, some little
anxiety to be got over. I never was happier."

With silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself, "Never
happier!--never happier than when doing what you must know was not
justifiable!--never happier than when behaving so dishonourably and
unfeelingly! Oh! what a corrupted mind!"

"We were unlucky, Miss Price," he continued, in a lower tone, to avoid
the possibility of being heard by Edmund, and not at all aware of her
feelings, "we certainly were very unlucky. Another week, only one other
week, would have been enough for us. I think if we had had the disposal
of events--if Mansfield Park had had the government of the winds
just for a week or two, about the equinox, there would have been
a difference. Not that we would have endangered his safety by any
tremendous weather--but only by a steady contrary wind, or a calm. I
think, Miss Price, we would have indulged ourselves with a week's calm
in the Atlantic at that season."

He seemed determined to be answered; and Fanny, averting her face, said,
with a firmer tone than usual, "As far as _I_ am concerned, sir, I would
not have delayed his return for a day. My uncle disapproved it all so
entirely when he did arrive, that in my opinion everything had gone
quite far enough."

She had never spoken so much at once to him in her life before, and
never so angrily to any one; and when her speech was over, she trembled
and blushed at her own daring. He was surprised; but after a few
moments' silent consideration of her, replied in a calmer, graver tone,
and as if the candid result of conviction, "I believe you are right.
It was more pleasant than prudent. We were getting too noisy." And
then turning the conversation, he would have engaged her on some other
subject, but her answers were so shy and reluctant that he could not
advance in any.

Miss Crawford, who had been repeatedly eyeing Dr. Grant and Edmund,
now observed, "Those gentlemen must have some very interesting point to
discuss."

"The most interesting in the world," replied her brother--"how to make
money; how to turn a good income into a better. Dr. Grant is giving
Bertram instructions about the living he is to step into so soon. I find
he takes orders in a few weeks. They were at it in the dining-parlour. I
am glad to hear Bertram will be so well off. He will have a very pretty
income to make ducks and drakes with, and earned without much trouble. I
apprehend he will not have less than seven hundred a year. Seven hundred
a year is a fine thing for a younger brother; and as of course he will
still live at home, it will be all for his _menus_ _plaisirs_; and a
sermon at Christmas and Easter, I suppose, will be the sum total of
sacrifice."

His sister tried to laugh off her feelings by saying, "Nothing amuses me
more than the easy manner with which everybody settles the abundance of
those who have a great deal less than themselves. You would look rather
blank, Henry, if your _menus_ _plaisirs_ were to be limited to seven
hundred a year."

"Perhaps I might; but all _that_ you know is entirely comparative.
Birthright and habit must settle the business. Bertram is certainly well
off for a cadet of even a baronet's family. By the time he is four or
five and twenty he will have seven hundred a year, and nothing to do for
it."

Miss Crawford _could_ have said that there would be a something to do
and to suffer for it, which she could not think lightly of; but she
checked herself and let it pass; and tried to look calm and unconcerned
when the two gentlemen shortly afterwards joined them.

"Bertram," said Henry Crawford, "I shall make a point of coming to
Mansfield to hear you preach your first sermon. I shall come on purpose
to encourage a young beginner. When is it to be? Miss Price, will not
you join me in encouraging your cousin? Will not you engage to attend
with your eyes steadily fixed on him the whole time--as I shall do--not
to lose a word; or only looking off just to note down any sentence
preeminently beautiful? We will provide ourselves with tablets and a
pencil. When will it be? You must preach at Mansfield, you know, that
Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram may hear you."

"I shall keep clear of you, Crawford, as long as I can," said Edmund;
"for you would be more likely to disconcert me, and I should be more
sorry to see you trying at it than almost any other man."

"Will he not feel this?" thought Fanny. "No, he can feel nothing as he
ought."

The party being now all united, and the chief talkers attracting each
other, she remained in tranquillity; and as a whist-table was formed
after tea--formed really for the amusement of Dr. Grant, by his
attentive wife, though it was not to be supposed so--and Miss Crawford
took her harp, she had nothing to do but to listen; and her tranquillity
remained undisturbed the rest of the evening, except when Mr. Crawford
now and then addressed to her a question or observation, which she could
not avoid answering. Miss Crawford was too much vexed by what had passed
to be in a humour for anything but music. With that she soothed herself
and amused her friend.

The assurance of Edmund's being so soon to take orders, coming upon her
like a blow that had been suspended, and still hoped uncertain and at a
distance, was felt with resentment and mortification. She was very angry
with him. She had thought her influence more. She _had_ begun to think
of him; she felt that she had, with great regard, with almost decided
intentions; but she would now meet him with his own cool feelings. It
was plain that he could have no serious views, no true attachment, by
fixing himself in a situation which he must know she would never
stoop to. She would learn to match him in his indifference. She would
henceforth admit his attentions without any idea beyond immediate
amusement. If _he_ could so command his affections, _hers_ should do her
no harm.



Henry Crawford had quite made up his mind by the next morning to give
another fortnight to Mansfield, and having sent for his hunters, and
written a few lines of explanation to the Admiral, he looked round at
his sister as he sealed and threw the letter from him, and seeing the
coast clear of the rest of the family, said, with a smile, "And how do
you think I mean to amuse myself, Mary, on the days that I do not hunt?
I am grown too old to go out more than three times a week; but I have a
plan for the intermediate days, and what do you think it is?"

"To walk and ride with me, to be sure."

"Not exactly, though I shall be happy to do both, but _that_ would be
exercise only to my body, and I must take care of my mind. Besides,
_that_ would be all recreation and indulgence, without the wholesome
alloy of labour, and I do not like to eat the bread of idleness. No, my
plan is to make Fanny Price in love with me."

"Fanny Price! Nonsense! No, no. You ought to be satisfied with her two
cousins."

"But I cannot be satisfied without Fanny Price, without making a small
hole in Fanny Price's heart. You do not seem properly aware of her
claims to notice. When we talked of her last night, you none of you
seemed sensible of the wonderful improvement that has taken place in her
looks within the last six weeks. You see her every day, and therefore do
not notice it; but I assure you she is quite a different creature from
what she was in the autumn. She was then merely a quiet, modest, not
plain-looking girl, but she is now absolutely pretty. I used to think
she had neither complexion nor countenance; but in that soft skin of
hers, so frequently tinged with a blush as it was yesterday, there is
decided beauty; and from what I observed of her eyes and mouth, I do
not despair of their being capable of expression enough when she
has anything to express. And then, her air, her manner, her _tout_
_ensemble_, is so indescribably improved! She must be grown two inches,
at least, since October."

"Phoo! phoo! This is only because there were no tall women to compare
her with, and because she has got a new gown, and you never saw her so
well dressed before. She is just what she was in October, believe me.
The truth is, that she was the only girl in company for you to notice,
and you must have a somebody. I have always thought her pretty--not
strikingly pretty--but 'pretty enough,' as people say; a sort of beauty
that grows on one. Her eyes should be darker, but she has a sweet smile;
but as for this wonderful degree of improvement, I am sure it may all
be resolved into a better style of dress, and your having nobody else to
look at; and therefore, if you do set about a flirtation with her, you
never will persuade me that it is in compliment to her beauty, or that
it proceeds from anything but your own idleness and folly."

Her brother gave only a smile to this accusation, and soon afterwards
said, "I do not quite know what to make of Miss Fanny. I do not
understand her. I could not tell what she would be at yesterday. What is
her character? Is she solemn? Is she queer? Is she prudish? Why did she
draw back and look so grave at me? I could hardly get her to speak. I
never was so long in company with a girl in my life, trying to entertain
her, and succeed so ill! Never met with a girl who looked so grave on
me! I must try to get the better of this. Her looks say, 'I will not
like you, I am determined not to like you'; and I say she shall."

"Foolish fellow! And so this is her attraction after all! This it is,
her not caring about you, which gives her such a soft skin, and makes
her so much taller, and produces all these charms and graces! I do
desire that you will not be making her really unhappy; a _little_ love,
perhaps, may animate and do her good, but I will not have you plunge
her deep, for she is as good a little creature as ever lived, and has a
great deal of feeling."

"It can be but for a fortnight," said Henry; "and if a fortnight can
kill her, she must have a constitution which nothing could save. No, I
will not do her any harm, dear little soul! only want her to look kindly
on me, to give me smiles as well as blushes, to keep a chair for me by
herself wherever we are, and be all animation when I take it and talk
to her; to think as I think, be interested in all my possessions and
pleasures, try to keep me longer at Mansfield, and feel when I go away
that she shall be never happy again. I want nothing more."

"Moderation itself!" said Mary. "I can have no scruples now. Well, you
will have opportunities enough of endeavouring to recommend yourself,
for we are a great deal together."

And without attempting any farther remonstrance, she left Fanny to
her fate, a fate which, had not Fanny's heart been guarded in a way
unsuspected by Miss Crawford, might have been a little harder than she
deserved; for although there doubtless are such unconquerable young
ladies of eighteen (or one should not read about them) as are never
to be persuaded into love against their judgment by all that talent,
manner, attention, and flattery can do, I have no inclination to
believe Fanny one of them, or to think that with so much tenderness
of disposition, and so much taste as belonged to her, she could have
escaped heart-whole from the courtship (though the courtship only of
a fortnight) of such a man as Crawford, in spite of there being some
previous ill opinion of him to be overcome, had not her affection been
engaged elsewhere. With all the security which love of another and
disesteem of him could give to the peace of mind he was attacking,
his continued attentions--continued, but not obtrusive, and adapting
themselves more and more to the gentleness and delicacy of her
character--obliged her very soon to dislike him less than formerly. She
had by no means forgotten the past, and she thought as ill of him as
ever; but she felt his powers: he was entertaining; and his manners were
so improved, so polite, so seriously and blamelessly polite, that it was
impossible not to be civil to him in return.

A very few days were enough to effect this; and at the end of those few
days, circumstances arose which had a tendency rather to forward his
views of pleasing her, inasmuch as they gave her a degree of happiness
which must dispose her to be pleased with everybody. William, her
brother, the so long absent and dearly loved brother, was in England
again. She had a letter from him herself, a few hurried happy lines,
written as the ship came up Channel, and sent into Portsmouth with
the first boat that left the Antwerp at anchor in Spithead; and when
Crawford walked up with the newspaper in his hand, which he had hoped
would bring the first tidings, he found her trembling with joy over this
letter, and listening with a glowing, grateful countenance to the kind
invitation which her uncle was most collectedly dictating in reply.

It was but the day before that Crawford had made himself thoroughly
master of the subject, or had in fact become at all aware of her having
such a brother, or his being in such a ship, but the interest then
excited had been very properly lively, determining him on his return to
town to apply for information as to the probable period of the Antwerp's
return from the Mediterranean, etc.; and the good luck which attended
his early examination of ship news the next morning seemed the reward of
his ingenuity in finding out such a method of pleasing her, as well as
of his dutiful attention to the Admiral, in having for many years
taken in the paper esteemed to have the earliest naval intelligence. He
proved, however, to be too late. All those fine first feelings, of which
he had hoped to be the exciter, were already given. But his intention,
the kindness of his intention, was thankfully acknowledged: quite
thankfully and warmly, for she was elevated beyond the common timidity
of her mind by the flow of her love for William.

This dear William would soon be amongst them. There could be no doubt
of his obtaining leave of absence immediately, for he was still only a
midshipman; and as his parents, from living on the spot, must already
have seen him, and be seeing him perhaps daily, his direct holidays
might with justice be instantly given to the sister, who had been his
best correspondent through a period of seven years, and the uncle who
had done most for his support and advancement; and accordingly the reply
to her reply, fixing a very early day for his arrival, came as soon as
possible; and scarcely ten days had passed since Fanny had been in
the agitation of her first dinner-visit, when she found herself in an
agitation of a higher nature, watching in the hall, in the lobby, on
the stairs, for the first sound of the carriage which was to bring her a
brother.

It came happily while she was thus waiting; and there being neither
ceremony nor fearfulness to delay the moment of meeting, she was with
him as he entered the house, and the first minutes of exquisite feeling
had no interruption and no witnesses, unless the servants chiefly intent
upon opening the proper doors could be called such. This was exactly
what Sir Thomas and Edmund had been separately conniving at, as each
proved to the other by the sympathetic alacrity with which they both
advised Mrs. Norris's continuing where she was, instead of rushing out
into the hall as soon as the noises of the arrival reached them.

William and Fanny soon shewed themselves; and Sir Thomas had the
pleasure of receiving, in his protege, certainly a very different person
from the one he had equipped seven years ago, but a young man of an
open, pleasant countenance, and frank, unstudied, but feeling and
respectful manners, and such as confirmed him his friend.

It was long before Fanny could recover from the agitating happiness of
such an hour as was formed by the last thirty minutes of expectation,
and the first of fruition; it was some time even before her happiness
could be said to make her happy, before the disappointment inseparable
from the alteration of person had vanished, and she could see in him the
same William as before, and talk to him, as her heart had been yearning
to do through many a past year. That time, however, did gradually come,
forwarded by an affection on his side as warm as her own, and much less
encumbered by refinement or self-distrust. She was the first object
of his love, but it was a love which his stronger spirits, and bolder
temper, made it as natural for him to express as to feel. On the
morrow they were walking about together with true enjoyment, and every
succeeding morrow renewed a _tete-a-tete_ which Sir Thomas could not but
observe with complacency, even before Edmund had pointed it out to him.

Excepting the moments of peculiar delight, which any marked or
unlooked-for instance of Edmund's consideration of her in the last few
months had excited, Fanny had never known so much felicity in her life,
as in this unchecked, equal, fearless intercourse with the brother and
friend who was opening all his heart to her, telling her all his hopes
and fears, plans, and solicitudes respecting that long thought of,
dearly earned, and justly valued blessing of promotion; who could give
her direct and minute information of the father and mother, brothers and
sisters, of whom she very seldom heard; who was interested in all the
comforts and all the little hardships of her home at Mansfield; ready to
think of every member of that home as she directed, or differing only
by a less scrupulous opinion, and more noisy abuse of their aunt Norris,
and with whom (perhaps the dearest indulgence of the whole) all the evil
and good of their earliest years could be gone over again, and every
former united pain and pleasure retraced with the fondest recollection.
An advantage this, a strengthener of love, in which even the conjugal
tie is beneath the fraternal. Children of the same family, the same
blood, with the same first associations and habits, have some means of
enjoyment in their power, which no subsequent connexions can supply; and
it must be by a long and unnatural estrangement, by a divorce which
no subsequent connexion can justify, if such precious remains of the
earliest attachments are ever entirely outlived. Too often, alas! it is
so. Fraternal love, sometimes almost everything, is at others worse than
nothing. But with William and Fanny Price it was still a sentiment
in all its prime and freshness, wounded by no opposition of interest,
cooled by no separate attachment, and feeling the influence of time and
absence only in its increase.

An affection so amiable was advancing each in the opinion of all who had
hearts to value anything good. Henry Crawford was as much struck with
it as any. He honoured the warm-hearted, blunt fondness of the young
sailor, which led him to say, with his hands stretched towards Fanny's
head, "Do you know, I begin to like that queer fashion already, though
when I first heard of such things being done in England, I could
not believe it; and when Mrs. Brown, and the other women at the
Commissioner's at Gibraltar, appeared in the same trim, I thought they
were mad; but Fanny can reconcile me to anything"; and saw, with lively
admiration, the glow of Fanny's cheek, the brightness of her eye, the
deep interest, the absorbed attention, while her brother was describing
any of the imminent hazards, or terrific scenes, which such a period at
sea must supply.

It was a picture which Henry Crawford had moral taste enough to value.
Fanny's attractions increased--increased twofold; for the sensibility
which beautified her complexion and illumined her countenance was an
attraction in itself. He was no longer in doubt of the capabilities of
her heart. She had feeling, genuine feeling. It would be something to
be loved by such a girl, to excite the first ardours of her young
unsophisticated mind! She interested him more than he had foreseen. A
fortnight was not enough. His stay became indefinite.

William was often called on by his uncle to be the talker. His recitals
were amusing in themselves to Sir Thomas, but the chief object in
seeking them was to understand the reciter, to know the young man by his
histories; and he listened to his clear, simple, spirited details
with full satisfaction, seeing in them the proof of good principles,
professional knowledge, energy, courage, and cheerfulness, everything
that could deserve or promise well. Young as he was, William had already
seen a great deal. He had been in the Mediterranean; in the West Indies;
in the Mediterranean again; had been often taken on shore by the favour
of his captain, and in the course of seven years had known every variety
of danger which sea and war together could offer. With such means in
his power he had a right to be listened to; and though Mrs. Norris could
fidget about the room, and disturb everybody in quest of two needlefuls
of thread or a second-hand shirt button, in the midst of her nephew's
account of a shipwreck or an engagement, everybody else was attentive;
and even Lady Bertram could not hear of such horrors unmoved, or
without sometimes lifting her eyes from her work to say, "Dear me! how
disagreeable! I wonder anybody can ever go to sea."

To Henry Crawford they gave a different feeling. He longed to have been
at sea, and seen and done and suffered as much. His heart was warmed,
his fancy fired, and he felt the highest respect for a lad who, before
he was twenty, had gone through such bodily hardships and given such
proofs of mind. The glory of heroism, of usefulness, of exertion, of
endurance, made his own habits of selfish indulgence appear in shameful
contrast; and he wished he had been a William Price, distinguishing
himself and working his way to fortune and consequence with so much
self-respect and happy ardour, instead of what he was!

The wish was rather eager than lasting. He was roused from the reverie
of retrospection and regret produced by it, by some inquiry from Edmund
as to his plans for the next day's hunting; and he found it was as well
to be a man of fortune at once with horses and grooms at his command.
In one respect it was better, as it gave him the means of conferring a
kindness where he wished to oblige. With spirits, courage, and curiosity
up to anything, William expressed an inclination to hunt; and Crawford
could mount him without the slightest inconvenience to himself, and with
only some scruples to obviate in Sir Thomas, who knew better than his
nephew the value of such a loan, and some alarms to reason away in
Fanny. She feared for William; by no means convinced by all that he
could relate of his own horsemanship in various countries, of the
scrambling parties in which he had been engaged, the rough horses and
mules he had ridden, or his many narrow escapes from dreadful falls,
that he was at all equal to the management of a high-fed hunter in an
English fox-chase; nor till he returned safe and well, without accident
or discredit, could she be reconciled to the risk, or feel any of that
obligation to Mr. Crawford for lending the horse which he had fully
intended it should produce. When it was proved, however, to have done
William no harm, she could allow it to be a kindness, and even reward
the owner with a smile when the animal was one minute tendered to his
use again; and the next, with the greatest cordiality, and in a manner
not to be resisted, made over to his use entirely so long as he remained
in Northamptonshire.

                        [End volume one of this edition.
                        Printed by T. and A. Constable,
                        Printers to Her Majesty at
                        the Edinburgh University Press]

 Chapter Eighteen and Chapter Nineteen

