"A sermon, well delivered, is more uncommon even than prayers well read. A sermon, good in itself, is no rare thing. It is more difficult to speak well than to compose well; that is, the rules and trick of composition are oftener an object of study. A thoroughly good sermon, thoroughly well delivered, is a capital gratification. I can never hear such a one without the greatest admiration and respect, and more than half a mind to take orders and preach myself. There is something in the eloquence of the pulpit, when it is really eloquence, which is entitled to the highest praise and honour. The preacher who can touch and affect such an heterogeneous mass of hearers, on subjects limited, and long worn threadbare in all common hands; who can say anything new or striking, anything that rouses the attention without offending the taste, or wearing out the feelings of his hearers, is a man whom one could not, in his public capacity, honour enough. I should like to be such a man."
Edmund laughed.

"A sermon, well delivered, is more uncommon even than prayers well read. A thoroughly good sermon, thoroughly well delivered, is a capital pleasure. I can never hear such a one without the greatest admiration, and more than half a mind to take orders and preach myself. There is something in the eloquence of the pulpit which is entitled to the highest praise and honour. The preacher who can touch such a mass of hearers, on subjects limited, and long worn threadbare in all common hands; who can say anything new or striking, anything that rouses the attention without wearing out the feelings of his hearers, is a man whom one could not honour enough. I should like to be such a man."
Edmund laughed.


"I should indeed. I never listened to a distinguished preacher in my life without a sort of envy. But then, I must have a London audience. I could not preach but to the educated; to those who were capable of estimating my composition. And I do not know that I should be fond of preaching often; now and then, perhaps once or twice in the spring, after being anxiously expected for half a dozen Sundays together; but not for a constancy; it would not do for a constancy."
Here Fanny, who could not but listen, involuntarily shook her head, and Crawford was instantly by her side again, entreating to know her meaning; and as Edmund perceived, by his drawing in a chair, and sitting down close by her, that it was to be a very thorough attack, that looks and undertones were to be well tried, he sank as quietly as possible into a corner, turned his back, and took up a newspaper, very sincerely wishing that dear little Fanny might be persuaded into explaining away that shake of the head to the satisfaction of her ardent lover; and as earnestly trying to bury every sound of the business from himself in murmurs of his own, over the various advertisements of "A most desirable Estate in South Wales"; "To Parents and Guardians"; and a "Capital season'd Hunter."
Fanny, meanwhile, vexed with herself for not having been as motionless as she was speechless, and grieved to the heart to see Edmund's arrangements, was trying by everything in the power of her modest, gentle nature, to repulse Mr. Crawford, and avoid both his looks and inquiries; and he, unrepulsable, was persisting in both.

"I should indeed," said Crawford. "I never listened to a distinguished preacher in my life without envy. But I must have a London audience. I could only preach to the educated. And I should not be fond of preaching often; now and then, perhaps once or twice in the spring; but not for a constancy; it would not do for a constancy."
Here Fanny involuntarily shook her head, and Crawford was instantly by her side again, entreating to know her meaning; and as Edmund perceived that it was to be a very thorough attack, he sank as quietly as possible into a corner and took up a newspaper, sincerely wishing that dear little Fanny might be persuaded into explaining away that shake of the head to the satisfaction of her ardent lover; and he tried to bury every sound of the business in murmurs of his own, over the advertisements of "A most desirable Estate in South Wales" and a "Capital season'd Hunter."
Fanny, meanwhile, vexed with herself, and grieved to see Edmund's arrangements, was trying by everything in the power of her modest, gentle nature, to repulse Mr. Crawford, and avoid both his looks and inquiries; and he, unrepulsable, was persisting in both.


"What did that shake of the head mean?" said he. "What was it meant to express? Disapprobation, I fear. But of what? What had I been saying to displease you? Did you think me speaking improperly, lightly, irreverently on the subject? Only tell me if I was. Only tell me if I was wrong. I want to be set right.

"What did that shake of the head mean?" said he. "What was it meant to express? Disapprobation, I fear. What had I been saying to displease you? Did you think me speaking improperly, lightly on the subject? Only tell me if I was wrong. I want to be set right.


Nay, nay, I entreat you; for one moment put down your work. What did that shake of the head mean?"
In vain was her "Pray, sir, don't; pray, Mr. Crawford," repeated twice over; and in vain did she try to move away. In the same low, eager voice, and the same close neighbourhood, he went on, reurging the same questions as before. She grew more agitated and displeased.
"How can you, sir? You quite astonish me; I wonder how you can-"

Nay, nay, I entreat you; for one moment put down your work. What did that shake of the head mean?"
In vain was her "Pray, sir, don't; pray, Mr. Crawford," repeated; and in vain did she try to move away. In the same low, eager voice, he went on, reurging the same questions. She grew more agitated and displeased.
"How can you, sir? You quite astonish me; I wonder how you can-"


"Do I astonish you?" said he. "Do you wonder? Is there anything in my present entreaty that you do not understand? I will explain to you instantly all that makes me urge you in this manner, all that gives me an interest in what you look and do, and excites my present curiosity. I will not leave you to wonder long."
In spite of herself, she could not help half a smile, but she said nothing.

"Do I astonish you?" said he. "Do you wonder? I will explain to you instantly all that makes me urge you in this manner, all that gives me an interest in what you look and do. I will not leave you to wonder long."
In spite of herself, she could not help half a smile, but she said nothing.


"You shook your head at my acknowledging that I should not like to engage in the duties of a clergyman always for a constancy. Yes, that was the word. Constancy: I am not afraid of the word. I would spell it, read it, write it with anybody. I see nothing alarming in the word. Did you think I ought?"
"Perhaps, sir," said Fanny, wearied at last into speaking-"perhaps, sir, I thought it was a pity you did not always know yourself as well as you seemed to do at that moment."

"You shook your head at my saying that I should not like the duties of a clergyman for a constancy. Yes, that was the word. Constancy: I am not afraid of the word. I see nothing alarming in the word. Did you think I ought?"
"Perhaps, sir," said Fanny, wearied at last into speaking-"perhaps, sir, I thought it was a pity you did not always know yourself as well as you seemed to do at that moment."


Crawford, delighted to get her to speak at any rate, was determined to keep it up; and poor Fanny, who had hoped to silence him by such an extremity of reproof, found herself sadly mistaken, and that it was only a change from one object of curiosity and one set of words to another. He had always something to entreat the explanation of. The opportunity was too fair. None such had occurred since his seeing her in her uncle's room, none such might occur again before his leaving Mansfield. Lady Bertram's being just on the other side of the table was a trifle, for she might always be considered as only half-awake, and Edmund's advertisements were still of the first utility.

Crawford, delighted to get her to speak at any rate, was determined to keep it up; and poor Fanny, who had hoped to silence him by such extreme reproof, found herself sadly mistaken, and that it was only a change from one set of words to another. He had always something to entreat the explanation of. The opportunity was too fair. None such might occur again before his leaving Mansfield. Lady Bertram's being just on the other side of the table was a trifle, for she was only half-awake, and Edmund's advertisements were still proving most useful.


"Well," said Crawford, after a course of rapid questions and reluctant answers; "I am happier than I was, because I now understand more clearly your opinion of me. You think me unsteady: easily swayed by the whim of the moment, easily tempted, easily put aside. With such an opinion, no wonder that-But we shall see.-It is not by protestations that I shall endeavour to convince you I am wronged; it is not by telling you that my affections are steady. My conduct shall speak for me; absence, distance, time shall speak for me. _They_ shall prove that, as far as you can be deserved by anybody, I do deserve you. You are infinitely my superior in merit; all _that_ I know. You have qualities which I had not before supposed to exist in such a degree in any human creature. You have some touches of the angel in you beyond what-not merely beyond what one sees, because one never sees anything like it-but beyond what one fancies might be. But still I am not frightened. It is not by equality of merit that you can be won.

"Well," said Crawford, after a course of rapid questions and reluctant answers; "I am happier than I was, because I now understand more clearly your opinion of me. You think me unsteady: easily swayed by the whim of the moment. But we shall see. My conduct shall speak for me; absence, distance, time shall speak for me. They shall prove that I do deserve you. You are infinitely my superior in merit, I know. You have qualities which I had not before supposed to exist in such a degree in any human creature. You have some touches of the angel in you. But still I am not frightened. It is not by equality of merit that you can be won.


That is out of the question. It is he who sees and worships your merit the strongest, who loves you most devotedly, that has the best right to a return. There I build my confidence. By that right I do and will deserve you; and when once convinced that my attachment is what I declare it, I know you too well not to entertain the warmest hopes. Yes, dearest, sweetest Fanny. Nay" (seeing her draw back displeased), "forgive me. Perhaps I have as yet no right; but by what other name can I call you? Do you suppose you are ever present to my imagination under any other? No, it is 'Fanny' that I think of all day, and dream of all night. You have given the name such reality of sweetness, that nothing else can now be descriptive of you."

It is he who worships your merit the strongest, who loves you most devotedly, that has the best right to a return. There I build my confidence. By that right I do and will deserve you. Yes, dearest, sweetest Fanny. Nay" (seeing her draw back displeased), "forgive me; but by what other name can I call you? It is 'Fanny' that I think of all day, and dream of all night. You have given the name such sweetness, that nothing else can be descriptive of you."


Fanny could hardly have kept her seat any longer, or have refrained from at least trying to get away in spite of all the too public opposition she foresaw to it, had it not been for the sound of approaching relief, the very sound which she had been long watching for, and long thinking strangely delayed.
The solemn procession, headed by Baddeley, of tea-board, urn, and cake-bearers, made its appearance, and delivered her from a grievous imprisonment of body and mind. Mr. Crawford was obliged to move. She was at liberty, she was busy, she was protected.
Edmund was not sorry to be admitted again among the number of those who might speak and hear. But though the conference had seemed full long to him, and though on looking at Fanny he saw rather a flush of vexation, he inclined to hope that so much could not have been said and listened to without some profit to the speaker.

Fanny could hardly have kept her seat any longer, had it not been for the sound of approaching relief, the sound which she had been long waiting for, and thinking strangely delayed.
The solemn procession, headed by Baddeley, of tea-board, urn, and cake-bearers, made its appearance, and delivered her. Mr. Crawford was obliged to move. She was at liberty, she was busy, she was protected.
Edmund was not sorry to be again able to speak and hear. On looking at Fanny he saw a flush of vexation; yet he hoped that so much could not have been said without some profit to the speaker.


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

The Honourable John Yates, this new friend of Tom's, had not much to recommend him beyond being the younger son of a lord; and Sir Thomas would probably have thought his introduction at Mansfield undesirable. Mr. Bertram's acquaintance with him had begun at Weymouth, where they had spent ten days in the same society. Mr. Yates was invited to visit Mansfield, and came rather earlier than expected, in consequence of the sudden breaking-up of a large party at the house of another friend.
He came on the wings of disappointment, and with his head full of acting, for it had been a theatrical party; the sudden death of a connexion of the family had dispersed the performers two days before the performance. To be so near happiness, so near fame, so near the long paragraph in praise of the private theatricals at Ecclesford, the seat of Lord Ravenshaw, which would have immortalised the whole party for a twelvemonth! to lose it all, was an injury keenly felt, and Mr. Yates could talk of nothing else. Ecclesford and its theatre, its dresses, rehearsals and jokes, was his never-failing subject.


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

Happily for him, a love of the theatre is so general, an itch for acting so strong among young people, that he could hardly out-talk the interest of his hearers. It was all bewitching. The play had been Lovers' Vows, and Mr. Yates was to have been Count Cassel.
"A trifling part," said he, "and not to my taste; but I was determined to make no difficulties. Lord Ravenshaw and the duke had taken the only two characters worth playing. I was sorry that Lord Ravenshaw should have so mistaken his powers, for he was not equal to the Baron-a little man with a weak voice, always hoarse after ten minutes. Sir Henry thought the duke not equal to Frederick, but that was because Sir Henry wanted the part himself.


Our Agatha was inimitable, and the duke was thought very great by many. And upon the whole, it would certainly have gone off wonderfully."
"It was a hard case, upon my word"; and, "I do think you were very much to be pitied," were the kind responses of listening sympathy.
"It is not worth complaining about; but to be sure the poor old dowager could not have died at a worse time; and it is impossible to help wishing that the news could have been suppressed for just the three days we wanted. It was but three days; and being only a grandmother, and all happening two hundred miles off, I think there would have been no great harm, and it was suggested, I know; but Lord Ravenshaw, who I suppose is one of the most correct men in England, would not hear of it."
"An afterpiece instead of a comedy," said Mr. Bertram. "Lovers' Vows were at an end, and Lord and Lady Ravenshaw left to act My Grandmother by themselves. Well, the jointure may comfort _him_; and perhaps, between friends, he began to tremble for his credit and his lungs in the Baron, and was not sorry to withdraw; and to make _you_ amends, Yates, I think we must raise a little theatre at Mansfield, and ask you to be our manager."

Our Agatha was inimitable, and the duke was thought very great by many. It would certainly have gone off wonderfully."
"I do think you were very much to be pitied," was the kind response.
"To be sure, the poor old dowager could not have died at a worse time; and I wish the news could have been suppressed for just three days. I think there would have been no great harm, and it was suggested, I know; but Lord Ravenshaw would not hear of it."
"To make you amends, Yates," said Mr Bertram, "I think we must raise a little theatre at Mansfield, and ask you to be our manager."


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

The desire to act was awakened in Tom, who was now master of the house; and who had such lively talents and comic taste as were exactly adapted to the novelty of acting. Each sister echoed the wish; and Henry Crawford, to whom, in all the riot of his gratifications it was an untasted pleasure, was quite alive at the idea.
"I really believe," said he, "I could at this moment undertake any character that ever was written. I feel as if I could rant and storm, or sigh or cut capers, in any play in the English language. Let us be doing something. As for a theatre,


Any room in this house might suffice."
"We must have a curtain," said Tom Bertram; "a few yards of green baize for a curtain, and perhaps that may be enough."
"Oh, quite enough," cried Mr. Yates, "with only just a side wing or two run up, doors in flat, and three or four scenes to be let down; nothing more would be necessary on such a plan as this. For mere amusement among ourselves we should want nothing more."
"I believe we must be satisfied with _less_," said Maria. "There would not be time, and other difficulties would arise. We must rather adopt Mr. Crawford's views, and make the _performance_, not the _theatre_, our object. Many parts of our best plays are independent of scenery."

 any room in this house might suffice."
"We must have a curtain," said Tom Bertram; "a few yards of green baize for a curtain may be enough."
"Oh, quite enough," cried Mr. Yates, "with only just a side wing or two run up, doors in flat, and three or four scenes to be let down. We should want nothing more."
"I believe we must be satisfied with less," said Maria. "We must make the performance, not the theatre, our object."


"Nay," said Edmund, who began to listen with alarm. "Let us do nothing by halves. If we are to act, let it be in a theatre completely fitted up with pit, boxes, and gallery, and let us have a play entire from beginning to end; so as it be a German play, no matter what, with a good tricking, shifting afterpiece, and a figure-dance, and a hornpipe, and a song between the acts. If we do not outdo Ecclesford, we do nothing."
"Now, Edmund, do not be disagreeable," said Julia. "Nobody loves a play better than you do, or can have gone much farther to see one."
"True, to see real acting, good hardened real acting; but I would hardly walk from this room to the next to look at the raw efforts of those who have not been bred to the trade: a set of gentlemen and ladies, who have all the disadvantages of education and decorum to struggle through."
After a short pause, however, the subject still continued, and was discussed with unabated eagerness, every one's inclination increasing by the discussion, and a knowledge of the inclination of the rest; and though nothing was settled but that Tom Bertram would prefer a comedy, and his sisters and Henry Crawford a tragedy, and that nothing in the world could be easier than to find a piece which would please them all, the resolution to act something or other seemed so decided as to make Edmund quite uncomfortable. He was determined to prevent it, if possible, though his mother, who equally heard the conversation which passed at table, did not evince the least disapprobation.

"Nay," said Edmund, listening with alarm. "Let us do nothing by halves. If we are to act, let it be in a theatre completely fitted up with pit, boxes, and gallery, and let us have a play entire, with a good tricking, and a figure-dance, and a hornpipe, and a song between the acts. If we do not outdo Ecclesford, we do nothing."
"Now, Edmund, do not be disagreeable," said Julia. "Nobody loves a play better than you do, or can have gone farther to see one."
"True, to see real acting; but I would hardly walk from this room to the next to look at the raw efforts of those who have not been bred to the trade."
However, the subject continued to be discussed with eagerness; and though nothing was settled but that Tom Bertram would prefer a comedy, and his sisters and Henry Crawford a tragedy, and that nothing could be easier than to find a piece which would please them all, their resolution to act seemed so decided as to make Edmund quite uncomfortable. He was determined to prevent it, if possible, though his mother did not show the least disapprobation.


The same evening afforded him an opportunity of trying his strength. Maria, Julia, Henry Crawford, and Mr. Yates were in the billiard-room. Tom, returning from them into the drawing-room, where Edmund was standing thoughtfully by the fire, while Lady Bertram was on the sofa at a little distance, and Fanny close beside her arranging her work, thus began as he entered-"Such a horribly vile billiard-table as ours is not to be met with, I believe, above ground. I can stand it no longer, and I think, I may say, that nothing shall ever tempt me to it again; but one good thing I have just ascertained: it is the very room for a theatre, precisely the shape and length for it; and the doors at the farther end, communicating with each other, as they may be made to do in five minutes, by merely moving the bookcase in my father's room, is the very thing we could have desired, if we had sat down to wish for it; and my father's room will be an excellent greenroom. It seems to join the billiard-room on purpose."
"You are not serious, Tom, in meaning to act?" said Edmund, in a low voice, as his brother approached the fire.
"Not serious! never more so, I assure you. What is there to surprise you in it?"

The same evening gave him an opportunity of trying his strength. Maria, Julia, Henry Crawford, and Mr. Yates were in the billiard-room. Tom, returning from them into the drawing-room, found Edmund standing thoughtfully by the fire, while Lady Bertram and Fanny were on the sofa. Tom began as he entered-"Such a horribly vile billiard-table as ours is not to be met with. I can stand it no longer, but I have just ascertained one good thing: the room is precisely the shape for a theatre; and with the doors at the end communicating with each other, as they may be made to do by merely moving the bookcase in my father's room, is the very thing we could have desired."
"You are not serious, Tom, in meaning to act?" said Edmund.
"Never more so, I assure you."


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

"I think it would be very wrong. It would be highly injudicious. It would show great lack of feeling on my father's account, absent as he is, and in constant danger; and it would be imprudent with regard to Maria, whose situation is a very delicate one."


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

"You take it so seriously! as if we were going to act three times a week, and invite all the country. But we mean nothing but a little amusement among ourselves. We want no audience, no publicity. As to my father's absence, I consider it a motive; for this must be a very anxious period to my mother; and if we can keep up her spirits for the next few weeks, I shall think our time well spent."


As he said this, each looked towards their mother. Lady Bertram, sunk back in one corner of the sofa, the picture of health, wealth, ease, and tranquillity, was just falling into a gentle doze, while Fanny was getting through the few difficulties of her work for her.
Edmund smiled and shook his head.
"By Jove! this won't do," cried Tom, throwing himself into a chair with a hearty laugh. "To be sure, my dear mother, your anxiety-I was unlucky there."
"What is the matter?" asked her ladyship, in the heavy tone of one half-roused; "I was not asleep."
"Oh dear, no, ma'am, nobody suspected you! Well, Edmund," he continued, returning to the former subject, posture, and voice, as soon as Lady Bertram began to nod again, "but _this_ I _will_ maintain, that we shall be doing no harm."

Each looked towards their mother. Lady Bertram, sunk in one corner of the sofa, the picture of ease and tranquillity, was just falling into a gentle doze.
Edmund smiled and shook his head.
"By Jove! this won't do," cried Tom, with a laugh. "To be sure, my dear mother-I was unlucky there."
"What is the matter?" asked her ladyship, half-roused; "I was not asleep."
"No, ma'am, nobody suspected you! Well, Edmund," he continued, as Lady Bertram began to nod again, "I maintain that we shall be doing no harm."


"I cannot agree with you; I am convinced that my father would totally disapprove it."
"And I am convinced to the contrary. Nobody is fonder of the exercise of talent in young people, or promotes it more, than my father, and for anything of the acting, spouting, reciting kind, I think he has always a decided taste. I am sure he encouraged it in us as boys. How many a time have we mourned over the dead body of Julius Caesar, and to _be'd_ and not _to_ _be'd_, in this very room, for his amusement? And I am sure, _my_ _name_ _was_ _Norval_, every evening of my life through one Christmas holidays."
"It was a very different thing. You must see the difference yourself. My father wished us, as schoolboys, to speak well, but he would never wish his grown-up daughters to be acting plays. His sense of decorum is strict."

"I cannot agree; I am convinced that my father would totally disapprove it."
"And I am convinced to the contrary. Nobody is fonder of the exercise of talent in young people than my father, and I think he has a decided taste for acting. He encouraged it in us as boys. How many a time have we mourned over the dead body of Caesar, and to be'd and not to be'd, for his amusement?"
"It was a very different thing. My father wished us, as schoolboys, to speak well, but he would never wish his grown-up daughters to be acting plays. His sense of decorum is strict."


"I know all that," said Tom, displeased. "I know my father as well as you do; and I'll take care that his daughters do nothing to distress him. Manage your own concerns, Edmund, and I'll take care of the rest of the family."
"If you are resolved on acting," replied the persevering Edmund, "I must hope it will be in a very small and quiet way; and I think a theatre ought not to be attempted. It would be taking liberties with my father's house in his absence which could not be justified."
"For everything of that nature I will be answerable," said Tom, in a decided tone. "His house shall not be hurt. I have quite as great an interest in being careful of his house as you can have; and as to such alterations as I was suggesting just now, such as moving a bookcase, or unlocking a door, or even as using the billiard-room for the space of a week without playing at billiards in it, you might just as well suppose he would object to our sitting more in this room, and less in the breakfast-room, than we did before he went away, or to my sister's pianoforte being moved from one side of the room to the other. Absolute nonsense!"
"The innovation, if not wrong as an innovation, will be wrong as an expense."

"I know that," said Tom, displeased. "I know my father as well as you do; and I'll take care that his daughters do nothing to distress him. Manage your own concerns, Edmund, and I'll take care of the rest of the family."
"If you are resolved on acting," replied the persevering Edmund, "I hope it will be in a very quiet way; and I think a theatre ought not to be attempted. It would be taking liberties with my father's house."
"I will be answerable," said Tom. "His house shall not be hurt. I have quite as great an interest in his house as you; and as to such alterations as moving a bookcase, or unlocking a door, or using the billiard-room for the space of a week, you might as well suppose he would object to my sister's pianoforte being moved from one side of the room to the other. Absolute nonsense!"
"The innovation will be wrong as an expense."


"Yes, the expense of such an undertaking would be prodigious! Perhaps it might cost a whole twenty pounds. Something of a theatre we must have undoubtedly, but it will be on the simplest plan: a green curtain and a little carpenter's work, and that's all; and as the carpenter's work may be all done at home by Christopher Jackson himself, it will be too absurd to talk of expense; and as long as Jackson is employed, everything will be right with Sir Thomas. Don't imagine that nobody in this house can see or judge but yourself. Don't act yourself, if you do not like it, but don't expect to govern everybody else."
"No, as to acting myself," said Edmund, "_that_ I absolutely protest against."
Tom walked out of the room as he said it, and Edmund was left to sit down and stir the fire in thoughtful vexation.
Fanny, who had heard it all, and borne Edmund company in every feeling throughout the whole, now ventured to say, in her anxiety to suggest some comfort, "Perhaps they may not be able to find any play to suit them. Your brother's taste and your sisters' seem very different."

"Yes, the expense would be prodigious! Perhaps it might cost a whole twenty pounds. It will be a green curtain and a little carpenter's work, that's all; and as the carpenter's work may be done by Christopher Jackson, it will be absurd to talk of expense. As long as Jackson is employed, everything will be right with Sir Thomas. Don't imagine that nobody in this house can see or judge but yourself. Don't act yourself, if you do not like it, but don't expect to govern everybody else."
"No, as to acting myself," said Edmund, "that I absolutely protest against."
Tom walked out of the room, and Edmund was left to stir the fire in thoughtful vexation.
Fanny said, anxious to suggest some comfort, "Perhaps they may not find any play to suit them. Your brother's taste and your sisters' seem very different."


"I have no hope there, Fanny. If they persist in the scheme, they will find something. I shall speak to my sisters and try to dissuade _them_, and that is all I can do."
"I should think my aunt Norris would be on your side."
"I dare say she would, but she has no influence with either Tom or my sisters that could be of any use; and if I cannot convince them myself, I shall let things take their course, without attempting it through her. Family squabbling is the greatest evil of all, and we had better do anything than be altogether by the ears."

"I have no hope there, Fanny. They will find something. I shall try to dissuade my sisters, and that is all I can do."
"I should think my aunt Norris would be on your side."
"I dare say she would, but she has no influence with either Tom or my sisters; and if I cannot convince them myself, I shall let things take their course. Family squabbling is the greatest evil of all."


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

His sisters, to whom he spoke the next morning, were quite as impatient of his advice as Tom. Their mother had no objection to the plan, and they were not afraid of their father's disapprobation. There could be no harm in what had been done in so many respectable families. Julia did admit that Maria's situation might require particular caution-but that could not extend to her-she was at liberty; and Maria evidently considered her engagement as only raising her so much more above restraint.
Edmund was still urging them when Henry Crawford entered the room, calling out, "No lack of hands in our theatre, Miss Bertram. My sister hopes to be admitted into the company, and will be happy to take the part of any old duenna that you may not like yourselves."
Maria gave Edmund a glance, which meant, "What say you now? Can we be wrong if Mary Crawford feels the same?" And Edmund, silenced, acknowledged that the charm of acting might well carry fascination to the mind of genius.


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

As to Mrs. Norris, he was mistaken in supposing she would wish to oppose the scheme. She was talked down in five minutes by her eldest nephew and niece, who were all-powerful with her. The arrangement was to bring very little expense to anybody, and none at all to herself. She foresaw in it all the comforts of bustle and importance, and fancied herself obliged to leave her own house, where she had been living at her own cost, and stay in theirs, so that every hour might be spent in their service. She was, in fact, delighted with the project.


A week was gone since Edmund might be supposed in town, and Fanny had heard nothing of him. There were three different conclusions to be drawn from his silence, between which her mind was in fluctuation; each of them at times being held the most probable. Either his going had been again delayed, or he had yet procured no opportunity of seeing Miss Crawford alone, or he was too happy for letter-writing!
One morning, about this time, Fanny having now been nearly four weeks from Mansfield, a point which she never failed to think over and calculate every day, as she and Susan were preparing to remove, as usual, upstairs, they were stopped by the knock of a visitor, whom they felt they could not avoid, from Rebecca's alertness in going to the door, a duty which always interested her beyond any other.
It was a gentleman's voice; it was a voice that Fanny was just turning pale about, when Mr. Crawford walked into the room.
Good sense, like hers, will always act when really called upon; and she found that she had been able to name him to her mother, and recall her remembrance of the name, as that of "William's friend," though she could not previously have believed herself capable of uttering a syllable at such a moment. The consciousness of his being known there only as William's friend was some support. Having introduced him, however, and being all reseated, the terrors that occurred of what this visit might lead to were overpowering, and she fancied herself on the point of fainting away.
While trying to keep herself alive, their visitor, who had at first approached her with as animated a countenance as ever, was wisely and kindly keeping his eyes away, and giving her time to recover, while he devoted himself entirely to her mother, addressing her, and attending to her with the utmost politeness and propriety, at the same time with a degree of friendliness, of interest at least, which was making his manner perfect.

A week was gone since Edmund might be supposed to be in London, and Fanny had heard nothing of him. Either his going had been again delayed, or he had as yet found no opportunity of seeing Miss Crawford alone, or he was too happy for letter-writing!
One morning, Fanny having now been nearly four weeks from Mansfield, a point which she never failed to calculate every day, there was the knock of a visitor.
It was a gentleman's voice; it was a voice that Fanny was just turning pale about, when Mr. Crawford walked into the room.
Good sense will always act when really called upon; and she found that she had been able to name him to her mother, as "William's friend," though she could not have believed herself capable of uttering a syllable. Having introduced him, however, her terror of what this visit might lead to became overpowering, and she fancied herself on the point of fainting.
Their visitor was wisely and kindly keeping his eyes away, giving her time to recover, while he devoted himself entirely to her mother, addressing her with the utmost politeness and propriety.


Mrs. Price's manners were also at their best. Warmed by the sight of such a friend to her son, and regulated by the wish of appearing to advantage before him, she was overflowing with gratitude-artless, maternal gratitude-which could not be unpleasing. Mr. Price was out, which she regretted very much. Fanny was just recovered enough to feel that _she_ could not regret it; for to her many other sources of uneasiness was added the severe one of shame for the home in which he found her. She might scold herself for the weakness, but there was no scolding it away. She was ashamed, and she would have been yet more ashamed of her father than of all the rest.
They talked of William, a subject on which Mrs. Price could never tire; and Mr. Crawford was as warm in his commendation as even her heart could wish. She felt that she had never seen so agreeable a man in her life; and was only astonished to find that, so great and so agreeable as he was, he should be come down to Portsmouth neither on a visit to the port-admiral, nor the commissioner, nor yet with the intention of going over to the island, nor of seeing the dockyard. Nothing of all that she had been used to think of as the proof of importance, or the employment of wealth, had brought him to Portsmouth. He had reached it late the night before, was come for a day or two, was staying at the Crown, had accidentally met with a navy officer or two of his acquaintance since his arrival, but had no object of that kind in coming.

Mrs. Price's manners were also at their best. Warmed by the sight of such a friend to her son, and wishing to appear to advantage, she was overflowing with gratitude. Mr. Price was out, which she regretted very much. Fanny did not; for she felt ashamed of her home, and she would have been yet more ashamed of her father than of all the rest.
They talked of William; and Mr. Crawford was as warm in his commendation as even Mrs Price could wish. She felt that she had never seen so agreeable a man; and was only astonished to find that it was no port-admiral, or any object of importance and wealth, that had brought him to Portsmouth. He had come for a day or two, was staying at the Crown, had accidentally met with a navy officer or two of his acquaintance, but had no object of that kind in coming.


By the time he had given all this information, it was not unreasonable to suppose that Fanny might be looked at and spoken to; and she was tolerably able to bear his eye, and hear that he had spent half an hour with his sister the evening before his leaving London; that she had sent her best and kindest love, but had had no time for writing; that he thought himself lucky in seeing Mary for even half an hour, having spent scarcely twenty-four hours in London, after his return from Norfolk, before he set off again; that her cousin Edmund was in town, had been in town, he understood, a few days; that he had not seen him himself, but that he was well, had left them all well at Mansfield, and was to dine, as yesterday, with the Frasers.
Fanny listened collectedly, even to the last-mentioned circumstance; nay, it seemed a relief to her worn mind to be at any certainty; and the words, "then by this time it is all settled," passed internally, without more evidence of emotion than a faint blush.
After talking a little more about Mansfield, a subject in which her interest was most apparent, Crawford began to hint at the expediency of an early walk. "It was a lovely morning, and at that season of the year a fine morning so often turned off, that it was wisest for everybody not to delay their exercise"; and such hints producing nothing, he soon proceeded to a positive recommendation to Mrs. Price and her daughters to take their walk without loss of time. Now they came to an understanding. Mrs. Price, it appeared, scarcely ever stirred out of doors, except of a Sunday; she owned she could seldom, with her large family, find time for a walk. "Would she not, then, persuade her daughters to take advantage of such weather, and allow him the pleasure of attending them?" Mrs. Price was greatly obliged and very complying. "Her daughters were very much confined; Portsmouth was a sad place; they did not often get out; and she knew they had some errands in the town, which they would be very glad to do." And the consequence was, that Fanny, strange as it was-strange, awkward, and distressing-found herself and Susan, within ten minutes, walking towards the High Street with Mr. Crawford.

By the time he had given all this information, Fanny was able to bear his gaze, and hear that he had spent half an hour with his sister the evening before his leaving London; that she had sent her best love, but had had no time for writing; that he thought himself lucky in seeing Mary for even half an hour, having spent scarcely twenty-four hours in London; that her cousin Edmund had been in town, he understood, a few days; that he had not seen him, but that Edmund was well, had left them all well at Mansfield, and was to dine, as yesterday, with Mary and the Frasers.
Fanny listened collectedly, even to the last-mentioned circumstance; nay, it seemed a relief; and "then by this time it is all settled," passed internally, without more evidence of emotion than a faint blush.
After talking a little more about Mansfield, Crawford began to hint at the convenience of an early walk. "It was a lovely morning, and at that season a fine morning so often changed, that it was wisest for everybody not to delay their exercise". Such hints producing nothing, he proceeded to a positive recommendation to Mrs. Price and her daughters to take their walk. But Mrs. Price, it appeared, scarcely ever stirred out of doors, except of a Sunday. "Would she not, then, persuade her daughters to take advantage of such weather, and allow him the pleasure of attending them?"
Mrs. Price agreed. "She knew they had some errands in the town, which they would be very glad to do." And the consequence was, that Fanny, strange and distressing as it was, found herself and Susan, within ten minutes, walking towards the High Street with Mr. Crawford.


It was soon pain upon pain, confusion upon confusion; for they were hardly in the High Street before they met her father, whose appearance was not the better from its being Saturday. He stopt; and, ungentlemanlike as he looked, Fanny was obliged to introduce him to Mr. Crawford. She could not have a doubt of the manner in which Mr. Crawford must be struck. He must be ashamed and disgusted altogether. He must soon give her up, and cease to have the smallest inclination for the match; and yet, though she had been so much wanting his affection to be cured, this was a sort of cure that would be almost as bad as the complaint; and I believe there is scarcely a young lady in the United Kingdoms who would not rather put up with the misfortune of being sought by a clever, agreeable man, than have him driven away by the vulgarity of her nearest relations.
Mr. Crawford probably could not regard his future father-in-law with any idea of taking him for a model in dress; but (as Fanny instantly, and to her great relief, discerned) her father was a very different man, a very different Mr. Price in his behaviour to this most highly respected stranger, from what he was in his own family at home. His manners now, though not polished, were more than passable: they were grateful, animated, manly; his expressions were those of an attached father, and a sensible man; his loud tones did very well in the open air, and there was not a single oath to be heard. Such was his instinctive compliment to the good manners of Mr. Crawford; and, be the consequence what it might, Fanny's immediate feelings were infinitely soothed.
The conclusion of the two gentlemen's civilities was an offer of Mr. Price's to take Mr. Crawford into the dockyard, which Mr. Crawford, desirous of accepting as a favour what was intended as such, though he had seen the dockyard again and again, and hoping to be so much the longer with Fanny, was very gratefully disposed to avail himself of, if the Miss Prices were not afraid of the fatigue; and as it was somehow or other ascertained, or inferred, or at least acted upon, that they were not at all afraid, to the dockyard they were all to go; and but for Mr. Crawford, Mr. Price would have turned thither directly, without the smallest consideration for his daughters' errands in the High Street. He took care, however, that they should be allowed to go to the shops they came out expressly to visit; and it did not delay them long, for Fanny could so little bear to excite impatience, or be waited for, that before the gentlemen, as they stood at the door, could do more than begin upon the last naval regulations, or settle the number of three-deckers now in commission, their companions were ready to proceed.

They were hardly there before they met her father, whose appearance was not the better from its being Saturday. He stopped; and Fanny was obliged to introduce him to Mr. Crawford.
She could not have a doubt of how Mr. Crawford must be struck. He must be ashamed and disgusted altogether. He must soon cease to have the smallest inclination for the match; and yet this cure would be almost as bad as the complaint. I believe there is scarcely a young lady living who would not rather put up with the misfortune of being sought by a clever, agreeable man, than have him driven away by the vulgarity of her relations.
However, (as Fanny instantly, and to her great relief, discerned) her father was a very different man in his behaviour to this highly respected stranger, from what he was at home. His manners were more than passable: they were grateful, animated, manly; his loud tones did very well in the open air, and there was not a single oath to be heard. Such was his instinctive compliment to the good manners of Mr. Crawford; and Fanny's feelings were infinitely soothed.
Mr. Price offered to take Mr. Crawford into the dockyard: Mr. Crawford, though he had seen the dockyard before, was still grateful to accept, hoping to be so much the longer with Fanny. Mr. Price would have turned thither directly, without the smallest consideration for his daughters' errands in the High Street. Mr Crawford took care, however, that they should be allowed to go to the shops they came to visit.


They were then to set forward for the dockyard at once, and the walk would have been conducted-according to Mr. Crawford's opinion-in a singular manner, had Mr. Price been allowed the entire regulation of it, as the two girls, he found, would have been left to follow, and keep up with them or not, as they could, while they walked on together at their own hasty pace. He was able to introduce some improvement occasionally, though by no means to the extent he wished; he absolutely would not walk away from them; and at any crossing or any crowd, when Mr. Price was only calling out, "Come, girls; come, Fan; come, Sue, take care of yourselves; keep a sharp lookout!" he would give them his particular attendance.

They then set forward for the dockyard, and the walk would have been conducted in a singular manner, had Mr. Price been allowed the regulation of it, as the two girls would have been left to follow, and keep up with the gentlemen or not, as they could. Mr Crawford was able to introduce some improvement; he would not walk away from them, and at any crossing, when Mr. Price was calling out, "Come, girls; come, Fan; come, Sue; keep a sharp lookout!" he would give them his particular attendance.


Once fairly in the dockyard, he began to reckon upon some happy intercourse with Fanny, as they were very soon joined by a brother lounger of Mr. Price's, who was come to take his daily survey of how things went on, and who must prove a far more worthy companion than himself; and after a time the two officers seemed very well satisfied going about together, and discussing matters of equal and never-failing interest, while the young people sat down upon some timbers in the yard, or found a seat on board a vessel in the stocks which they all went to look at. Fanny was most conveniently in want of rest. Crawford could not have wished her more fatigued or more ready to sit down; but he could have wished her sister away. A quick-looking girl of Susan's age was the very worst third in the world: totally different from Lady Bertram, all eyes and ears; and there was no introducing the main point before her. He must content himself with being only generally agreeable, and letting Susan have her share of entertainment, with the indulgence, now and then, of a look or hint for the better-informed and conscious Fanny. Norfolk was what he had mostly to talk of: there he had been some time, and everything there was rising in importance from his present schemes. Such a man could come from no place, no society, without importing something to amuse; his journeys and his acquaintance were all of use, and Susan was entertained in a way quite new to her. For Fanny, somewhat more was related than the accidental agreeableness of the parties he had been in. For her approbation, the particular reason of his going into Norfolk at all, at this unusual time of year, was given. It had been real business, relative to the renewal of a lease in which the welfare of a large and-he believed-industrious family was at stake.

Once in the dockyard, he hoped for some happy conversation with Fanny, as they were joined by a brother lounger of Mr. Price's, who must prove a more worthy companion than himself; and the two officers seemed very well satisfied going about together, while the young people sat down upon some timbers in the yard.
Fanny was most conveniently in want of rest. Crawford could not have wished her more ready to sit down; but he could have wished her sister away. A quick-looking girl of Susan's age was the very worst third in the world: totally different from Lady Bertram, all eyes and ears; and there was no introducing the main point before her. He must content himself with being generally agreeable, and letting Susan have her share of entertainment, with a hint, now and then, for Fanny.
Norfolk was what he mostly talked of. Such a man could come from no place, without importing something to amuse; his journeys and his acquaintances entertained Susan in a way quite new to her.
For Fanny's approval, he gave the reason of his going into Norfolk at this unusual time of year. It related to the renewal of a lease in which the welfare of a large family was at stake.


He had suspected his agent of some underhand dealing; of meaning to bias him against the deserving; and he had determined to go himself, and thoroughly investigate the merits of the case. He had gone, had done even more good than he had foreseen, had been useful to more than his first plan had comprehended, and was now able to congratulate himself upon it, and to feel that in performing a duty, he had secured agreeable recollections for his own mind. He had introduced himself to some tenants whom he had never seen before; he had begun making acquaintance with cottages whose very existence, though on his own estate, had been hitherto unknown to him. This was aimed, and well aimed, at Fanny. It was pleasing to hear him speak so properly; here he had been acting as he ought to do. To be the friend of the poor and the oppressed! Nothing could be more grateful to her; and she was on the point of giving him an approving look, when it was all frightened off by his adding a something too pointed of his hoping soon to have an assistant, a friend, a guide in every plan of utility or charity for Everingham: a somebody that would make Everingham and all about it a dearer object than it had ever been yet.
She turned away, and wished he would not say such things. She was willing to allow he might have more good qualities than she had been wont to suppose. She began to feel the possibility of his turning out well at last; but he was and must ever be completely unsuited to her, and ought not to think of her.

He had suspected his agent of some underhand dealing; and he had determined to go himself, and thoroughly investigate the case. He had gone, had done even more good than he had foreseen, and was now able to congratulate himself. He had introduced himself to some tenants whom he had never seen before; and he had made acquaintance with cottages whose very existence, though on his own estate, had been unknown to him.
This was aimed at Fanny. It was pleasing to hear him speak so properly; here he had been acting as he ought. To be the friend of the poor and the oppressed! She was on the point of giving him an approving look, when it was frightened off by his adding pointedly that he hoped soon to have a friend and guide in every plan of charity for Everingham.
She turned away, and wished he would not say such things. She began to feel the possibility of his turning out well at last; but he was and must ever be completely unsuited to her.


He perceived that enough had been said of Everingham, and that it would be as well to talk of something else, and turned to Mansfield. He could not have chosen better; that was a topic to bring back her attention and her looks almost instantly. It was a real indulgence to her to hear or to speak of Mansfield. Now so long divided from everybody who knew the place, she felt it quite the voice of a friend when he mentioned it, and led the way to her fond exclamations in praise of its beauties and comforts, and by his honourable tribute to its inhabitants allowed her to gratify her own heart in the warmest eulogium, in speaking of her uncle as all that was clever and good, and her aunt as having the sweetest of all sweet tempers.
He had a great attachment to Mansfield himself; he said so; he looked forward with the hope of spending much, very much, of his time there; always there, or in the neighbourhood. He particularly built upon a very happy summer and autumn there this year; he felt that it would be so: he depended upon it; a summer and autumn infinitely superior to the last. As animated, as diversified, as social, but with circumstances of superiority undescribable.
"Mansfield, Sotherton, Thornton Lacey," he continued; "what a society will be comprised in those houses! And at Michaelmas, perhaps, a fourth may be added: some small hunting-box in the vicinity of everything so dear; for as to any partnership in Thornton Lacey, as Edmund Bertram once good-humouredly proposed, I hope I foresee two objections: two fair, excellent, irresistible objections to that plan."

He perceived that enough had been said of Everingham, and turned to Mansfield. He could not have chosen better; that was a topic to bring back her attention instantly. She felt it the voice of a friend when he mentioned it, and by his honourable tribute to its inhabitants allowed her to gratify her own heart, in speaking of her uncle as all that was clever and good, and her aunt as having the sweetest of tempers.
He had a great attachment to Mansfield himself, he said; he hoped to spend much of his time there, or in the neighbourhood. He predicted a very happy summer and autumn there this year; he felt that it would be infinitely superior to the last.
"Mansfield, Sotherton, Thornton Lacey," he continued; "what a society will be comprised in those houses! And at Michaelmas, perhaps, a fourth may be added: some small hunting-box; for as to any partnership in Thornton Lacey, as Edmund Bertram once good-humouredly proposed, I hope I foresee two objections: two fair, excellent, irresistible objections to that plan."


Fanny was doubly silenced here; though when the moment was passed, could regret that she had not forced herself into the acknowledged comprehension of one half of his meaning, and encouraged him to say something more of his sister and Edmund. It was a subject which she must learn to speak of, and the weakness that shrunk from it would soon be quite unpardonable.
When Mr. Price and his friend had seen all that they wished, or had time for, the others were ready to return; and in the course of their walk back, Mr. Crawford contrived a minute's privacy for telling Fanny that his only business in Portsmouth was to see her; that he was come down for a couple of days on her account, and hers only, and because he could not endure a longer total separation. She was sorry, really sorry; and yet in spite of this and the two or three other things which she wished he had not said, she thought him altogether improved since she had seen him; he was much more gentle, obliging, and attentive to other people's feelings than he had ever been at Mansfield; she had never seen him so agreeable-so _near_ being agreeable; his behaviour to her father could not offend, and there was something particularly kind and proper in the notice he took of Susan. He was decidedly improved. She wished the next day over, she wished he had come only for one day; but it was not so very bad as she would have expected: the pleasure of talking of Mansfield was so very great!
Before they parted, she had to thank him for another pleasure, and one of no trivial kind. Her father asked him to do them the honour of taking his mutton with them, and Fanny had time for only one thrill of horror, before he declared himself prevented by a prior engagement. He was engaged to dinner already both for that day and the next; he had met with some acquaintance at the Crown who would not be denied; he should have the honour, however, of waiting on them again on the morrow, etc., and so they parted-Fanny in a state of actual felicity from escaping so horrible an evil!

Fanny was doubly silenced here; though she regretted that she had not encouraged him to say more of his sister and Edmund. It was a subject which she must learn to speak of.
By now, all were ready to return; and during their walk back, Mr. Crawford contrived a minute's privacy for telling Fanny that his only business in Portsmouth was to see her; it was on her account, because he could not endure a longer separation. She was really sorry; and yet in spite of this, she thought him improved since she had seen him; he was much more gentle, obliging, and attentive to other people's feelings than he had ever been at Mansfield; she had never seen him so near being agreeable. He was decidedly improved. She wished he had come only for one day; but it was not so very bad: the pleasure of talking of Mansfield was so great!
Her father asked him to do them the honour of taking his mutton with them, and Fanny had time for only one thrill of horror, before he declared himself prevented by a prior engagement. He should, however, wait on them again on the morrow, and so they parted-Fanny thankful to escape so horrible an evil!


To have had him join their family dinner-party, and see all their deficiencies, would have been dreadful! Rebecca's cookery and Rebecca's waiting, and Betsey's eating at table without restraint, and pulling everything about as she chose, were what Fanny herself was not yet enough inured to for her often to make a tolerable meal. _She_ was nice only from natural delicacy, but _he_ had been brought up in a school of luxury and epicurism.

To have had him join their family dinner-party, and see all their deficiencies, would have been dreadful! Fanny was not yet inured to Rebecca's cookery and Rebecca's waiting, and Betsey's eating at table without restraint, and pulling everything about as she chose.


As Fanny could not doubt that her answer was conveying a real disappointment, she was rather in expectation, from her knowledge of Miss Crawford's temper, of being urged again; and though no second letter arrived for the space of a week, she had still the same feeling when it did come.
On receiving it, she could instantly decide on its containing little writing, and was persuaded of its having the air of a letter of haste and business. Its object was unquestionable; and two moments were enough to start the probability of its being merely to give her notice that they should be in Portsmouth that very day, and to throw her into all the agitation of doubting what she ought to do in such a case. If two moments, however, can surround with difficulties, a third can disperse them; and before she had opened the letter, the possibility of Mr. and Miss Crawford's having applied to her uncle and obtained his permission was giving her ease. This was the letter-

As Fanny could not doubt that her answer would give Miss Crawford real disappointment, she rather expected to be urged again; and though no second letter arrived for a week, she had still the same feeling when it did come.
On receiving it, she was instantly persuaded of its having the air of a brief letter of haste and business. In all probability it would be merely to give her notice that they should be in Portsmouth that very day, and to throw her into all the agitation of doubting what she ought to do. This was the letter-


"A most scandalous, ill-natured rumour has just reached me, and I write, dear Fanny, to warn you against giving the least credit to it, should it spread into the country. Depend upon it, there is some mistake, and that a day or two will clear it up; at any rate, that Henry is blameless, and in spite of a moment's _etourderie_, thinks of nobody but you. Say not a word of it; hear nothing, surmise nothing, whisper nothing till I write again. I am sure it will be all hushed up, and nothing proved but Rushworth's folly. If they are gone, I would lay my life they are only gone to Mansfield Park, and Julia with them. But why would not you let us come for you? I wish you may not repent it.-Yours, etc."

"A most scandalous, ill-natured rumour has just reached me, and I write, dear Fanny, to warn you against giving the least credit to it. Depend upon it, there is some mistake, and a day or two will clear it up; Henry is blameless, and in spite of a moment's rashness, thinks of nobody but you. Say not a word of it; hear nothing, surmise nothing, whisper nothing till I write again. I am sure it will be all hushed up, and nothing proved but Rushworth's folly. If they are gone, I would lay my life they are only gone to Mansfield Park, and Julia with them. But why would not you let us come for you? I wish you may not repent it.-Yours, etc."


Fanny stood aghast. As no scandalous, ill-natured rumour had reached her, it was impossible for her to understand much of this strange letter. She could only perceive that it must relate to Wimpole Street and Mr. Crawford, and only conjecture that something very imprudent had just occurred in that quarter to draw the notice of the world, and to excite her jealousy, in Miss Crawford's apprehension, if she heard it. Miss Crawford need not be alarmed for her. She was only sorry for the parties concerned and for Mansfield, if the report should spread so far; but she hoped it might not. If the Rushworths were gone themselves to Mansfield, as was to be inferred from what Miss Crawford said, it was not likely that anything unpleasant should have preceded them, or at least should make any impression.
As to Mr. Crawford, she hoped it might give him a knowledge of his own disposition, convince him that he was not capable of being steadily attached to any one woman in the world, and shame him from persisting any longer in addressing herself.
It was very strange! She had begun to think he really loved her, and to fancy his affection for her something more than common; and his sister still said that he cared for nobody else. Yet there must have been some marked display of attentions to her cousin, there must have been some strong indiscretion, since her correspondent was not of a sort to regard a slight one.

Fanny stood aghast. As no scandalous, ill-natured rumour had reached her, it was impossible for her to understand much of this strange letter. She could only perceive that it must relate to Wimpole Street and Mr. Crawford, and only conjecture that something very imprudent had just occurred in that quarter to draw the notice of the world, and to excite her jealousy, in Miss Crawford's apprehension.
Miss Crawford need not be alarmed for her. She was only sorry for the parties concerned and for Mansfield, if the report should spread that far; but she hoped it might not. If the Rushworths were gone to Mansfield, as she gathered from Miss Crawford's words, it was not likely that anything unpleasant should have preceded them.
As to Mr. Crawford, she hoped it might give him a knowledge of his own disposition, convince him that he was not capable of being steadily attached to any one woman in the world, and shame him from persisting any longer in addressing herself.
It was very strange! She had begun to think he really loved her, and to fancy his affection for her something more than common; and his sister still said that he cared for nobody else. Yet there must have been some marked display of attentions to her cousin, some strong indiscretion, since her correspondent was not of a sort to regard a slight one.


Very uncomfortable she was, and must continue, till she heard from Miss Crawford again. It was impossible to banish the letter from her thoughts, and she could not relieve herself by speaking of it to any human being. Miss Crawford need not have urged secrecy with so much warmth; she might have trusted to her sense of what was due to her cousin.
The next day came and brought no second letter. Fanny was disappointed. She could still think of little else all the morning; but, when her father came back in the afternoon with the daily newspaper as usual, she was so far from expecting any elucidation through such a channel that the subject was for a moment out of her head.

Very uncomfortable she was, and must continue, till she heard from Miss Crawford again. It was impossible to banish the letter from her thoughts, and she could not speak of it to anyone.
The next day came and brought no second letter. Fanny was disappointed. She could still think of little else all morning; but, when her father came back in the afternoon with the newspaper as usual, she was


She was deep in other musing. The remembrance of her first evening in that room, of her father and his newspaper, came across her. No candle was now wanted. The sun was yet an hour and half above the horizon. She felt that she had, indeed, been three months there; and the sun's rays falling strongly into the parlour, instead of cheering, made her still more melancholy, for sunshine appeared to her a totally different thing in a town and in the country. Here, its power was only a glare: a stifling, sickly glare, serving but to bring forward stains and dirt that might otherwise have slept. There was neither health nor gaiety in sunshine in a town. She sat in a blaze of oppressive heat, in a cloud of moving dust, and her eyes could only wander from the walls, marked by her father's head, to the table cut and notched by her brothers, where stood the tea-board never thoroughly cleaned, the cups and saucers wiped in streaks, the milk a mixture of motes floating in thin blue, and the bread and butter growing every minute more greasy than even Rebecca's hands had first produced it. Her father read his newspaper, and her mother lamented over the ragged carpet as usual, while the tea was in preparation, and wished Rebecca would mend it; and Fanny was first roused by his calling out to her, after humphing and considering over a particular paragraph: "What's the name of your great cousins in town, Fan?"
A moment's recollection enabled her to say, "Rushworth, sir."

 deep in musing. The remembrance of her first evening in that room, of her father and his newspaper, came across her. She felt that she had, indeed, been three months there; and the sun's rays falling strongly into the parlour made her still more melancholy, for sunshine appeared to her a totally different thing in a town from in the country. Here, its power was only a glare: a stifling, sickly glare, bringing neither health nor gaiety. She sat in a blaze of oppressive heat, in a cloud of moving dust, and her eyes could only wander from the table cut and notched by her brothers, to the cups and saucers wiped in streaks, the milk a mixture of motes floating in thin blue, and the bread and butter growing every minute more greasy than even Rebecca's hands had first produced it. Her father read his newspaper, and Fanny was first roused by his calling out to her: "What's the name of your great cousins in town, Fan?"
"Rushworth, sir."


"And don't they live in Wimpole Street?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then, there's the devil to pay among them, that's all! There" (holding out the paper to her); "much good may such fine relations do you. I don't know what Sir Thomas may think of such matters; he may be too much of the courtier and fine gentleman to like his daughter the less. But, by G-! if she belonged to _me_, I'd give her the rope's end as long as I could stand over her. A little flogging for man and woman too would be the best way of preventing such things."
Fanny read to herself that "it was with infinite concern the newspaper had to announce to the world a matrimonial _fracas_ in the family of Mr. R. of Wimpole Street; the beautiful Mrs. R., whose name had not long been enrolled in the lists of Hymen, and who had promised to become so brilliant a leader in the fashionable world, having quitted her husband's roof in company with the well-known and captivating Mr. C., the intimate friend and associate of Mr. R., and it was not known even to the editor of the newspaper whither they were gone."
"It is a mistake, sir," said Fanny instantly; "it must be a mistake, it cannot be true; it must mean some other people."

"And don't they live in Wimpole Street?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then, there's the devil to pay among them, that's all! There" (holding out the paper to her); "much good may such fine relations do you. I don't know what Sir Thomas may think of such matters; but, by G-! if she belonged to me, I'd give her the rope's end. A little flogging for man and woman too would be the best way of preventing such things."
Fanny read to herself that "it was with infinite concern the newspaper had to announce a matrimonial fracas in the family of Mr. R. of Wimpole Street; the beautiful Mrs. R., not long married, who had promised to become so brilliant a leader in the fashionable world, having quitted her husband's roof in company with the well-known and captivating Mr. C., the intimate friend of Mr. R., and it was not known even to the editor of the newspaper whither they were gone."
"It is a mistake, sir," said Fanny instantly; "it cannot be true; it must mean some other people."


She spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame; she spoke with a resolution which sprung from despair, for she spoke what she did not, could not believe herself. It had been the shock of conviction as she read. The truth rushed on her; and how she could have spoken at all, how she could even have breathed, was afterwards matter of wonder to herself.
Mr. Price cared too little about the report to make her much answer. "It might be all a lie," he acknowledged; "but so many fine ladies were going to the devil nowadays that way, that there was no answering for anybody."
"Indeed, I hope it is not true," said Mrs. Price plaintively; "it would be so very shocking! If I have spoken once to Rebecca about that carpet, I am sure I have spoke at least a dozen times; have not I, Betsey? And it would not be ten minutes' work."

She spoke from the instinctive wish of delaying shame; she spoke with a resolution which sprung from despair, for she spoke what she could not believe herself. It had been the shock of conviction as she read. The truth rushed on her; and how she could have spoken at all was afterwards a matter of wonder.
Mr. Price cared too little to make much answer. "It might be all a lie, but so many fine ladies were going to the devil nowadays, that there was no answering for anybody."
"Indeed, I hope it is not true," said Mrs. Price plaintively; "it would be so very shocking! If I have spoken once to Rebecca about that carpet, I am sure I have spoke at least a dozen times; have not I, Betsey? It would not be ten minutes' work."


The horror of a mind like Fanny's, as it received the conviction of such guilt, and began to take in some part of the misery that must ensue, can hardly be described. At first, it was a sort of stupefaction; but every moment was quickening her perception of the horrible evil. She could not doubt, she dared not indulge a hope, of the paragraph being false. Miss Crawford's letter, which she had read so often as to make every line her own, was in frightful conformity with it. Her eager defence of her brother, her hope of its being _hushed_ _up_, her evident agitation, were all of a piece with something very bad; and if there was a woman of character in existence, who could treat as a trifle this sin of the first magnitude, who would try to gloss it over, and desire to have it unpunished, she could believe Miss Crawford to be the woman! Now she could see her own mistake as to _who_ were gone, or _said_ to be gone. It was not Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth; it was Mrs. Rushworth and Mr. Crawford.

The horror of Fanny's mind, as it received the conviction of such guilt, and began to take in the misery that must follow, can hardly be described. At first, it was a sort of stupefaction; but every moment was quickening her perception of the horrible evil. She dared not hope of the paragraph being false. Miss Crawford's letter was in frightful agreement with it. Her eager defence of her brother, her hope of its being hushed up, her evident agitation, were all of a piece with something very bad; and if there was a woman of character in existence, who could treat as a trifle this sin of the first magnitude, who would try to gloss it over, she could believe Miss Crawford to be the woman! Now she could see her own mistake as to who were gone. It was not Mr. and Mrs. Rushworth; it was Mrs. Rushworth and Mr. Crawford.


Fanny seemed to herself never to have been shocked before. There was no possibility of rest. The evening passed without a pause of misery, the night was totally sleepless. She passed only from feelings of sickness to shudderings of horror; and from hot fits of fever to cold. The event was so shocking, that there were moments even when her heart revolted from it as impossible: when she thought it could not be. A woman married only six months ago; a man professing himself devoted, even _engaged_ to another; that other her near relation; the whole family, both families connected as they were by tie upon tie; all friends, all intimate together! It was too horrible a confusion of guilt, too gross a complication of evil, for human nature, not in a state of utter barbarism, to be capable of! yet her judgment told her it was so. _His_ unsettled affections, wavering with his vanity, _Maria's_ decided attachment, and no sufficient principle on either side, gave it possibility: Miss Crawford's letter stampt it a fact.

Fanny felt herself never to have been shocked before. The evening passed without a pause of misery, the night was totally sleepless. She passed only from feelings of sickness to shudderings of horror. The event was so shocking, that there were moments even when her heart revolted from it as impossible: it could not be. A woman married only six months ago; a man professing himself devoted to another; both families connected as they were by tie upon tie; all friends, all intimate together! It was too horrible a confusion of guilt, too gross a complication of evil, for civilized human nature to be capable of! yet her judgment told her it was so. His unsettled affections, Maria's decided attachment, and no sufficient principle on either side, gave it possibility: Miss Crawford's letter stamped it a fact.


What would be the consequence? Whom would it not injure? Whose views might it not affect? Whose peace would it not cut up for ever? Miss Crawford, herself, Edmund; but it was dangerous, perhaps, to tread such ground. She confined herself, or tried to confine herself, to the simple, indubitable family misery which must envelop all, if it were indeed a matter of certified guilt and public exposure. The mother's sufferings, the father's; there she paused. Julia's, Tom's, Edmund's; there a yet longer pause. They were the two on whom it would fall most horribly. Sir Thomas's parental solicitude and high sense of honour and decorum, Edmund's upright principles, unsuspicious temper, and genuine strength of feeling, made her think it scarcely possible for them to support life and reason under such disgrace; and it appeared to her that, as far as this world alone was concerned, the greatest blessing to every one of kindred with Mrs. Rushworth would be instant annihilation.

What would be the consequence? Whom would it not injure? Whose peace would it not cut up for ever? Miss Crawford, herself, Edmund; but it was dangerous, perhaps, to tread such ground. She tried to confine herself to the indubitable family misery which must envelop all. The mother's sufferings, the father's; there she paused. Julia's, Tom's, Edmund's; there a yet longer pause. They were the two on whom it would fall most horribly. Sir Thomas's high sense of honour and decorum, Edmund's upright principles, unsuspicious temper, and genuine strength of feeling, made her think it scarcely possible for them to support life and reason under such disgrace. She felt as if the greatest blessing for everyone related to Mrs. Rushworth would be instant annihilation.


Nothing happened the next day, or the next, to weaken her terrors. Two posts came in, and brought no refutation, public or private. There was no second letter to explain away the first from Miss Crawford; there was no intelligence from Mansfield, though it was now full time for her to hear again from her aunt. This was an evil omen. She had, indeed, scarcely the shadow of a hope to soothe her mind, and was reduced to so low and wan and trembling a condition, as no mother, not unkind, except Mrs. Price could have overlooked, when the third day did bring the sickening knock, and a letter was again put into her hands. It bore the London postmark, and came from Edmund.

Nothing happened the next day, or the next, to weaken her terrors. Two posts came in, and brought no denial, no second letter from Miss Crawford to explain away the first; there was no news from Mansfield, though it was now full time for her to hear again from her aunt. This was an evil omen. She had, indeed, scarcely the shadow of a hope to soothe her mind, and was reduced to so low and trembling a condition, as no mother except Mrs. Price could have overlooked, when the third day did bring the sickening knock, and a letter was put into her hands. It bore the London postmark, and came from Edmund.


"Dear Fanny,-You know our present wretchedness. May God support you under your share! We have been here two days, but there is nothing to be done. They cannot be traced. You may not have heard of the last blow-Julia's elopement; she is gone to Scotland with Yates. She left London a few hours before we entered it. At any other time this would have been felt dreadfully. Now it seems nothing; yet it is an heavy aggravation. My father is not overpowered. More cannot be hoped.

"Dear Fanny,-You know our present wretchedness. May God support you under your share! We have been in London two days, but there is nothing to be done. They cannot be traced. You may not have heard of the last blow-Julia's elopement; she is gone to Scotland with Yates. She left London a few hours before we entered it. At any other time this would have been felt dreadfully. Now it seems nothing; yet it is an heavy aggravation. My father is not overpowered. More cannot be hoped.


He is still able to think and act; and I write, by his desire, to propose your returning home. He is anxious to get you there for my mother's sake. I shall be at Portsmouth the morning after you receive this, and hope to find you ready to set off for Mansfield. My father wishes you to invite Susan to go with you for a few months. Settle it as you like; say what is proper; I am sure you will feel such an instance of his kindness at such a moment! Do justice to his meaning, however I may confuse it. You may imagine something of my present state. There is no end of the evil let loose upon us. You will see me early by the mail.-Yours, etc."

He is still able to think and act; and I write, by his desire, to propose your returning home. He is anxious to get you there for my mother's sake. I shall be at Portsmouth the morning after you receive this, and hope to find you ready to set off for Mansfield. My father wishes you to invite Susan to go with you for a few months. Settle it as you like; I am sure you will feel his kindness at such a moment! Do justice to his meaning, however I may confuse it. You may imagine something of my present state. There is no end of the evil let loose upon us. You will see me early by the mail.-Yours, etc."


Never had Fanny more wanted a cordial. Never had she felt such a one as this letter contained. To-morrow! to leave Portsmouth to-morrow! She was, she felt she was, in the greatest danger of being exquisitely happy, while so many were miserable. The evil which brought such good to her! She dreaded lest she should learn to be insensible of it. To be going so soon, sent for so kindly, sent for as a comfort, and with leave to take Susan, was altogether such a combination of blessings as set her heart in a glow, and for a time seemed to distance every pain, and make her incapable of suitably sharing the distress even of those whose distress she thought of most. Julia's elopement could affect her comparatively but little; she was amazed and shocked; but it could not occupy her, could not dwell on her mind. She was obliged to call herself to think of it, and acknowledge it to be terrible and grievous, or it was escaping her, in the midst of all the agitating pressing joyful cares attending this summons to herself.

Tomorrow! to leave Portsmouth tomorrow! She felt she was in the greatest danger of being exquisitely happy, while so many were miserable. The evil which brought such good to her! She dreaded lest she should learn to be careless of it. To be going so soon, sent for so kindly, and with permission to take Susan, was altogether such a combination of blessings as set her heart in a glow, and for a time seemed to distance every pain, and make her incapable of sharing the distress even of those she thought of most. Julia's elopement could affect her but little; she was amazed and shocked; but it could not dwell on her mind. She acknowledged it to be grievous, but it almost escaped her, in the midst of all the joyful cares attending this summons.


There is nothing like employment, active indispensable employment, for relieving sorrow. Employment, even melancholy, may dispel melancholy, and her occupations were hopeful. She had so much to do, that not even the horrible story of Mrs. Rushworth (now fixed to the last point of certainty), could affect her as it had done before. She had not time to be miserable. Within twenty-four hours she was hoping to be gone; her father and mother must be spoken to, Susan prepared, everything got ready. Business followed business; the day was hardly long enough. The happiness she was imparting, too, happiness very little alloyed by the black communication which must briefly precede it-the joyful consent of her father and mother to Susan's going with her-the general satisfaction with which the going of both seemed regarded, and the ecstasy of Susan herself, was all serving to support her spirits.
The affliction of the Bertrams was little felt in the family. Mrs. Price talked of her poor sister for a few minutes, but how to find anything to hold Susan's clothes, because Rebecca took away all the boxes and spoilt them, was much more in her thoughts: and as for Susan, now unexpectedly gratified in the first wish of her heart, and knowing nothing personally of those who had sinned, or of those who were sorrowing-if she could help rejoicing from beginning to end, it was as much as ought to be expected from human virtue at fourteen.

There is nothing like employment for relieving sorrow. Employment, even melancholy, may dispel melancholy, and her occupations were hopeful. She had so much to do that she had not time to be miserable. Her father and mother must be spoken to, Susan prepared, everything got ready. Business followed business; the day was hardly long enough. The happiness she was imparting, too,-the joyful consent of her father and mother to Susan's going with her, and the ecstasy of Susan herself, were all serving to support her spirits.
The affliction of the Bertrams was little felt in the family. Mrs. Price talked of her poor sister for a few minutes, but how to find anything to hold Susan's clothes was much more in her thoughts: and as for Susan, now unexpectedly gratified in the first wish of her heart, and knowing nothing personally of those who had sinned, or who were sorrowing-if she could help rejoicing from beginning to end, it was as much as ought to be expected from human virtue at fourteen.


As nothing was really left for the decision of Mrs. Price, or the good offices of Rebecca, everything was rationally and duly accomplished, and the girls were ready for the morrow. The advantage of much sleep to prepare them for their journey was impossible. The cousin who was travelling towards them could hardly have less than visited their agitated spirits-one all happiness, the other all varying and indescribable perturbation.
By eight in the morning Edmund was in the house. The girls heard his entrance from above, and Fanny went down. The idea of immediately seeing him, with the knowledge of what he must be suffering, brought back all her own first feelings. He so near her, and in misery. She was ready to sink as she entered the parlour. He was alone, and met her instantly; and she found herself pressed to his heart with only these words, just articulate, "My Fanny, my only sister; my only comfort now!" She could say nothing; nor for some minutes could he say more.

Everything was duly accomplished, and the girls were ready for the morrow. They slept little: one was all happiness, the other all indescribable perturbation.
By eight in the morning Edmund was in the house, and Fanny went down to him. The idea of seeing him, with the knowledge of what he must be suffering, brought back all her own first feelings. He so near her, and in misery. She was ready to sink as she entered the parlour. He was alone; and she found herself pressed to his heart with these words, just articulate, "My Fanny, my only sister; my only comfort now!" She could say nothing; nor for some minutes could he say more.


He turned away to recover himself, and when he spoke again, though his voice still faltered, his manner shewed the wish of self-command, and the resolution of avoiding any farther allusion. "Have you breakfasted? When shall you be ready? Does Susan go?" were questions following each other rapidly. His great object was to be off as soon as possible. When Mansfield was considered, time was precious; and the state of his own mind made him find relief only in motion. It was settled that he should order the carriage to the door in half an hour. Fanny answered for their having breakfasted and being quite ready in half an hour. He had already ate, and declined staying for their meal.

He turned away to recover himself, and when he spoke again, though his voice still faltered, his manner showed the wish of self-command. "Have you breakfasted? When shall you be ready? Does Susan go?" were questions following each other rapidly. His great object was to be off as soon as possible. Time was precious; and the state of his mind made him find relief only in motion. It was settled that he should order the carriage to the door in half an hour. Fanny answered for their having breakfasted and being quite ready. He declined staying for their meal.


He would walk round the ramparts, and join them with the carriage. He was gone again; glad to get away even from Fanny.
He looked very ill; evidently suffering under violent emotions, which he was determined to suppress. She knew it must be so, but it was terrible to her.
The carriage came; and he entered the house again at the same moment, just in time to spend a few minutes with the family, and be a witness-but that he saw nothing-of the tranquil manner in which the daughters were parted with, and just in time to prevent their sitting down to the breakfast-table, which, by dint of much unusual activity, was quite and completely ready as the carriage drove from the door. Fanny's last meal in her father's house was in character with her first: she was dismissed from it as hospitably as she had been welcomed.
How her heart swelled with joy and gratitude as she passed the barriers of Portsmouth, and how Susan's face wore its broadest smiles, may be easily conceived. Sitting forwards, however, and screened by her bonnet, those smiles were unseen.

He would walk round the ramparts, and join them with the carriage. He was gone again; glad to get away even from Fanny.
He looked very ill; evidently suffering under violent emotions, which he was determined to suppress. She knew it must be so, but it was terrible to her.
The carriage came; and he entered the house again, just in time to spend a few minutes with the family, and be a witness-except that he saw nothing-of the tranquil manner in which the daughters were parted with, and just in time to prevent their sitting down to the breakfast-table, which by dint of unusual activity was completely ready as the carriage drove from the door. Fanny's last meal in her father's house was in character with her first: she was dismissed from it as hospitably as she had been welcomed.
How her heart swelled with joy and gratitude as she left Portsmouth, and how Susan's face wore its broadest smiles, may be easily conceived. Sitting forwards, however, and screened by her bonnet, those smiles were unseen.