 CHAPTER XIX of Mansfield Park by Jane Austen. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 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 harbored anywhere. Thomas' looks were in 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 at 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. See 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. Mariah 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 respect to Sir Thomas without delay, sent him after the others with delighted haste. Fanny was left with only the Crawford's 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 vent, 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 as 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, 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 stayed 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 the 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 near 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 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 laterally 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 a mark 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 to depend on. Mr. Rushworth was not forgotten, a most friendly reception and warmth of handshaking had already met him, and with pointed attention he was now included in the object's most intimately connected with man's field. 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 near 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 incommodated 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 show 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 laboring to be important where nothing was wanted but tranquility 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 dispatch. But Sir Thomas resolutely denied all dinner. He would take nothing. Nothing till tea came. He would rather wait for tea. Still, Mrs. Norris 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. Surely, 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 badly a little. He seems behind hand 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 joyfully looking round 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 effected on concern. But it is not worth while to bore my father with it now. You will hear enough of it tomorrow, Sir. We have just been trying by a 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 third. 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 copes 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 stock 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 feeling subsided. But when tea was soon afterwards brought in, and Sir Thomas getting up said that he found 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 Mariah, 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 farther. Someone was talking there in a very loud accent, he did not know the voice, more than talking, almost hallowing. 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 his first appearance on any stage, and the gradual metamorphosis of the impassioned Baron Vildenheim 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 écla. 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 connections 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 always be 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 at probation, 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. It's 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. And those things always spread, you know, sir, the faster probably from your having so often encouraged the sort of thing in us formally, 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 and interest has 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 hum 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, or a monstrance, or a proof which he felt at his heart. Not less acutely was it felt by Fanny, who had edged back her chair beyond 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 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 crawfers being gone home, that nothing more can be done tonight, but, if you will give us honour of your company tomorrow 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 tranquility, 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 scarcely saying anything, he did his best towards preserving that good opinion a little longer. CHAPTER XX. OF MANSFIELD PARK. by Jane Austen. 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 sober 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. CHAPTER XX. We have all been more or less to blame, said he. CHAPTER XX. 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 what was due to you. You will find Fanny everything you could wish. CHAPTER XX. 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 clearly have disapproved. The young people had been very inconsiderate in forming the plan. They ought to have been capable of better decision themselves. But they were young. And, accepting 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 she had ever 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 have not 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 being detected. But her chief strength lay in Southerton. Her greatest support and glory was in having formed the connection with the Rushworths. There she was impregnable. She took to herself all the credit of bringing Mr. Rushworth's admiration of Mariah 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 certain, as I said 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 Southerton. It was in the middle of winter, and the roads almost impossible. 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, and though we had the four horses, of course, and poor old coachmen would attend us out of his great love and kindness, though he was hardly able to sit the box on account of 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 leader 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 ate for him at every jolt. And when we got into the rough lanes about stoke, where, what with frost and snow upon the beds of stones, it was worse than anything you can imagine, I was in quite 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 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 wanted 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 assumed 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 spoiled only the floor of one room, ruined all the coachman's sponges, and made five of the underservants 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 lover's 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 being 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 Sutherton, and she had fondly hoped for such an immediate éclaircy small 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 respect 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 Mariah 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 under-voice 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 lover's 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 were 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, Mariah, who wanted neither pride nor resolution, was preparing to encounter her sheravid 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 accepting 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 in the heart were like 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 civility 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 Mariah and Julia Bertram. Julia could rejoice that he was gone. His presence was beginning to be odious to her, and if Mariah 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 pure 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 stayed 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 sobreness 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 site 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 bays. CHAPTER XXI 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 somber 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. CHAPTER XXI But they— CHAPTER XXI—he observed to Fanny— CHAPTER XXI—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'm afraid they may feel themselves neglected, but the truth is that my father hardly knows them. They had not been here at twelve months 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 tarm is certainly not a disease. The doctor and Mrs. Grant would enliven us and make our evenings pass away with more enjoyment even to my father. CHAPTER XXI—Do you think so? said Fanny. CHAPTER XXI—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 it 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 peoples are, I suppose, when those they look up to are at home. 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 there 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 daresay. Why should you daresay 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 who is 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've gained so much countenance. And your figure, and A. 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'm 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 showing 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 gentleman-like, 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 if they are 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 daresay, 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 Pondridge 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. Tomorrow, I think, my uncle dines at Southerton, 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 tomorrow's visit, for we shall be five hours in his company. I should dread the stupidity of the day if it 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 Mariah had never met. In this quarter, indeed, disappointment was impending over Sir Thomas. Not all his goodwill 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 Mariah'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. Advantages as would be the alliance, and longstanding 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, shared into her wishes, entreated her to be open and sincere, and assured her that every inconvenience should be braved, and the connection entirely given up if she felt herself unhappy in the prospect of it. He would act for her and release her. Mariah 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 Mariah 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 Southerton 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 Southerton, 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 again be 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 tranquilized, 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 Southerton and London, independence and splendor 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 tranquility, 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 fair play. The principles all being agreed in this respect, it soon appeared that a very few weeks would be sufficient for such arrangements as must proceed 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 Southerton and 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 Southerton 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. Everything 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 Southerton was the same shears which Mr. Rushworth had used for a twelve-month 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 supernumeric 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 Mariah, 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 Mariah, 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 laterly added little to its gaiety, they could not but be missed. Even their mother missed them, and how much more their tender hearted 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. CHAPTER XXI. CHAPTER XXII of Mansfield Park by Jane Austen. 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 and 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 described 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 stripping 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 much 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 spirit 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 choose 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 acknowledgement 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 showed 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. 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 until 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 ever 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 Bertram's 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 a 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 suites of so protracted and 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 shown 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 person 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 rhapsodizing, 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 wandering 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 Louis 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 suddenly 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 connections, 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 tet-a-tet 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 should be very unhandsome in us to be severe on Mrs. Rushworth, for I look forward to harrowing her a great many gay, brilliant happy hours. I expect we shall be all very much at Southerton another year. Such a match as Miss Bertram is 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, sounds delightfully, but sink it under the chill, the annihilation of a Mr., and Mr. Edmund is no more than Mr. John nor 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 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. One 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 shales 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. The 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 Archley, commend me to the nurserymen and the polterer. My dear child, commend Dr. Grant to the Deenery of Westminster or St. Paul's, and I should be as glad of your nurseryman and polterer 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 nurserymen and the polterer, 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 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 choose 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 want 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 connections. 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 you are 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 so much to the purpose now, and as to my being in Parliament I believe I must wait till there is in a special 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 sorrowful 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 adduce, 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 stopped 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 in 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 turkeys being dressed tomorrow. Very well, very well, all the better, cried Dr. Grant. I'm glad to hear you have anything so good in the house. But, Miss Priceham, Mr. Edmund Bertram, I daresay, would take the chance. We, none of us, want to hear the bill of fare. The friendly meeting and not a fine dinner is all we have in view. Turkey, or a goose, or a leg of mutton, or whatever you and your cook choose 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. 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'm 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 speaking. Fanny will immediately say no, but I'm sure, my dear mother, she would like to go. And I can see no reason why she should not. I cannot imagine why Mrs. Grouch had 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, Mum, 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, Mum? 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. Now, as you please, Mum, on that head. But I meant my father's opinion as to the propriety of the invitations 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 surprised that Mrs. Grouch had asked 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 langer, 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 stayed? 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 showing 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's 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 accepting the day at Southerton, 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 enjoyment 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 aunt, and uncle, and me. Mrs. Grant thinks that 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 content 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 enough dinner on it for then, I daresay. Mrs. Norris fetched breath and went on again. The nonsense and folly of people 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 are one of your cousins, as if you are 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 passage, 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 chooses, leave him to settle that. Yes, Mum, I should not think of anything else. And if it should reign, 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 did 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, Sucu? 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 stayed 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 the 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 when she's 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. There's not Miss Crawford a gown, something the same. In approaching the parsonage they passed close by the stable yard and coach-house. Hey there! said Edmund. Here's company, here's a carriage. Who have they got to meet us? And letting down the side-glass to distinguish. Dis Crawford's, Crawford's, Baruch, I protest. There are his two men pushing it back into its old quarters. Here's 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 showed 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 favorite 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 young men about hunting, so much of politics between Mr. Crawford and Dr. Grant, and of everything and altogether 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 complement 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 Mariah, 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 reassembled 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's 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 Mariah 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, 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 meanest pleasures. 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 menu plays here, which 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. 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 you not 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 tranquility, and as a wist 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 tranquility 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 humor 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 and 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.