"No, no, Julia must not be Amelia. It is not at all the part for her. She would not like it. She would not do well. She is too tall and robust. Amelia should be a small, light, girlish, skipping figure. It is fit for Miss Crawford, and Miss Crawford only. She looks the part, and I am persuaded will do it admirably."

"No, no, Julia must not be Amelia. She is too tall and robust. Amelia should be a small, light, girlish, skipping figure. It is fit for Miss Crawford, and Miss Crawford only."


Without attending to this, Henry Crawford continued his supplication. "You must oblige us," said he, "indeed you must. When you have studied the character, I am sure you will feel it suit you. Tragedy may be your choice, but it will certainly appear that comedy chuses _you_. You will be to visit me in prison with a basket of provisions; you will not refuse to visit me in prison? I think I see you coming in with your basket."

Without attending to this, Henry Crawford continued his supplication. "You must oblige us," said he. "When you have studied the character, I am sure you will feel it will suit you. Tragedy may be your choice, but it will certainly appear that comedy chooses you. You will be to visit me in prison with a basket of provisions; you will not refuse to visit me in prison? I think I see you coming in with your basket."


The influence of his voice was felt. Julia wavered; but was he only trying to soothe and pacify her, and make her overlook the previous affront? She distrusted him. The slight had been most determined. He was, perhaps, but at treacherous play with her. She looked suspiciously at her sister; Maria's countenance was to decide it: if she were vexed and alarmed-but Maria looked all serenity and satisfaction, and Julia well knew that on this ground Maria could not be happy but at her expense. With hasty indignation, therefore, and a tremulous voice, she said to him, "You do not seem afraid of not keeping your countenance when I come in with a basket of provisions-though one might have supposed-but it is only as Agatha that I was to be so overpowering!" She stopped-Henry Crawford looked rather foolish, and as if he did not know what to say. Tom Bertram began again-

Julia wavered; but was he only trying to pacify her, and make her overlook the previous affront? She distrusted him. He was, perhaps, at treacherous play with her. She looked suspiciously at her sister; Maria's face was to decide it: if she were vexed and alarmed-but Maria looked all serenity and satisfaction. With hasty indignation, therefore, she said to him, "You do not seem afraid of not keeping your countenance when I come in with a basket of provisions-though one might have supposed-but it is only as Agatha that I was to be so overpowering!" She stopped-Henry Crawford looked rather foolish. Tom Bertram began again-


"Miss Crawford must be Amelia. She will be an excellent Amelia."
"Do not be afraid of _my_ wanting the character," cried Julia, with angry quickness: "I am _not_ to be Agatha, and I am sure I will do nothing else; and as to Amelia, it is of all parts in the world the most disgusting to me. I quite detest her. An odious, little, pert, unnatural, impudent girl. I have always protested against comedy, and this is comedy in its worst form." And so saying, she walked hastily out of the room, leaving awkward feelings to more than one, but exciting small compassion in any except Fanny, who had been a quiet auditor of the whole, and who could not think of her as under the agitations of _jealousy_ without great pity.
A short silence succeeded her leaving them; but her brother soon returned to business and Lovers' Vows, and was eagerly looking over the play, with Mr. Yates's help, to ascertain what scenery would be necessary-while Maria and Henry Crawford conversed together in an under-voice, and the declaration with which she began of, "I am sure I would give up the part to Julia most willingly, but that though I shall probably do it very ill, I feel persuaded _she_ would do it worse," was doubtless receiving all the compliments it called for.
When this had lasted some time, the division of the party was completed by Tom Bertram and Mr. Yates walking off together to consult farther in the room now beginning to be called _the_ _Theatre_, and Miss Bertram's resolving to go down to the Parsonage herself with the offer of Amelia to Miss Crawford; and Fanny remained alone.

"Miss Crawford must be Amelia. She will be an excellent Amelia."
"Do not be afraid of my wanting the character," cried Julia, with angry quickness: "I am not to be Agatha, and I will do nothing else; and as to Amelia, I quite detest her. An odious, little, pert, unnatural girl. I have always protested against comedy, and this is comedy in its worst form." So saying, she walked hastily out of the room, exciting small compassion in any except Fanny, who pitied her jealousy.
A short silence followed; but her brother soon returned to business, and was eagerly looking over the play to ascertain what scenery would be necessary-while Maria and Henry Crawford conversed together in an under-voice. "I would give up the part to Julia most willingly," said Maria, "but though I shall probably do it very ill, I feel persuaded she would do it worse."
Tom Bertram and Mr. Yates walked off to consult in the room now beginning to be called the Theatre; Miss Bertram resolved to go down to the Parsonage with the offer of Amelia to Miss Crawford; and Fanny remained alone.


The first use she made of her solitude was to take up the volume which had been left on the table, and begin to acquaint herself with the play of which she had heard so much. Her curiosity was all awake, and she ran through it with an eagerness which was suspended only by intervals of astonishment, that it could be chosen in the present instance, that it could be proposed and accepted in a private theatre! Agatha and Amelia appeared to her in their different ways so totally improper for home representation-the situation of one, and the language of the other, so unfit to be expressed by any woman of modesty, that she could hardly suppose her cousins could be aware of what they were engaging in; and longed to have them roused as soon as possible by the remonstrance which Edmund would certainly make.

She took up the volume which had been left on the table, and begin to read the play. Her curiosity was awake, and she ran through it with an eagerness which was suspended only by astonishment that it could be proposed and accepted in a private theatre! Agatha and Amelia appeared to be so totally improper-the situation of one, and the language of the other, so unfit for any modest woman, that she could hardly suppose her cousins could be aware of what they were engaging in. She longed to have them roused as soon as possible by the remonstrance which Edmund would certainly make.


Could Sir Thomas have seen all his niece's feelings, when she wrote her first letter to her aunt, he would not have despaired; for though a good night's rest, a pleasant morning, the hope of soon seeing William again, and the comparatively quiet state of the house, from Tom and Charles being gone to school, Sam on some project of his own, and her father on his usual lounges, enabled her to express herself cheerfully on the subject of home, there were still, to her own perfect consciousness, many drawbacks suppressed. Could he have seen only half that she felt before the end of a week, he would have thought Mr. Crawford sure of her, and been delighted with his own sagacity.

Could Sir Thomas have seen his niece's feelings, he would not have despaired; for despite a good night's rest, the hope of soon seeing William again, and the comparatively quiet state of the house, from Tom and Charles being gone to school, home still held many drawbacks. Could he have seen only half that she felt before the end of a week, he would have been delighted with his own sagacity.


Before the week ended, it was all disappointment. In the first place, William was gone. The Thrush had had her orders, the wind had changed, and he was sailed within four days from their reaching Portsmouth; and during those days she had seen him only twice, in a short and hurried way, when he had come ashore on duty. There had been no free conversation, no walk on the ramparts, no visit to the dockyard, no acquaintance with the Thrush, nothing of all that they had planned and depended on. Everything in that quarter failed her, except William's affection. His last thought on leaving home was for her. He stepped back again to the door to say, "Take care of Fanny, mother. She is tender, and not used to rough it like the rest of us. I charge you, take care of Fanny."

Before the week ended, it was all disappointment. William was gone. The Thrush had had her orders, and sailed within four days; and during those days she had seen him only twice, in a hurried way. There had been no free conversation, no walk on the ramparts, no visit to the dockyard, nothing of all that they had planned. Everything failed, except William's affection. His last words on leaving home were: "Take care of Fanny, mother. She is tender, and not used to rough it like the rest of us."


William was gone: and the home he had left her in was, Fanny could not conceal it from herself, in almost every respect the very reverse of what she could have wished. It was the abode of noise, disorder, and impropriety. Nobody was in their right place, nothing was done as it ought to be. She could not respect her parents as she had hoped. On her father, her confidence had not been sanguine, but he was more negligent of his family, his habits were worse, and his manners coarser, than she had been prepared for. He did not want abilities but he had no curiosity, and no information beyond his profession; he read only the newspaper and the navy-list; he talked only of the dockyard, the harbour, Spithead, and the Motherbank; he swore and he drank, he was dirty and gross. She had never been able to recall anything approaching to tenderness in his former treatment of herself. There had remained only a general impression of roughness and loudness; and now he scarcely ever noticed her, but to make her the object of a coarse joke.

William was gone: and her home was the very reverse of what she could have wished. It was the abode of noise, disorder, and impropriety. Nobody was in their right place, nothing was done as it ought to be. She could not respect her parents as she had hoped. Her father was more negligent of his family, his habits were worse, and his manners coarser, than she had been prepared for. He did not lack abilities, but he had no curiosity; he read only the newspaper and the navy-list; he swore and he drank, he was dirty and gross. She had never been able to recall anything approaching to tenderness in his former treatment of herself; and now he scarcely ever noticed her, but to make her the object of a coarse joke.


Her disappointment in her mother was greater: _there_ she had hoped much, and found almost nothing. Every flattering scheme of being of consequence to her soon fell to the ground. Mrs. Price was not unkind; but, instead of gaining on her affection and confidence, and becoming more and more dear, her daughter never met with greater kindness from her than on the first day of her arrival. The instinct of nature was soon satisfied, and Mrs. Price's attachment had no other source. Her heart and her time were already quite full; she had neither leisure nor affection to bestow on Fanny. Her daughters never had been much to her. She was fond of her sons, especially of William, but Betsey was the first of her girls whom she had ever much regarded. To her she was most injudiciously indulgent. William was her pride; Betsey her darling; and John, Richard, Sam, Tom, and Charles occupied all the rest of her maternal solicitude, alternately her worries and her comforts. These shared her heart: her time was given chiefly to her house and her servants.

Her disappointment in her mother was greater: there she had hoped much, and found almost nothing. Mrs. Price was not unkind; but her daughter never met with greater kindness from her than on the day of her arrival. Her heart and her time were already full; she had neither leisure nor affection to bestow on Fanny. Her daughters never had been much to her. She was fond of her sons, especially William, but Betsey was the first of her girls whom she had ever much regarded. To her she was most injudiciously indulgent. William was her pride; Betsey her darling; and John, Richard, Sam, Tom, and Charles occupied all the rest of her maternal solicitude.


Her days were spent in a kind of slow bustle; all was busy without getting on, always behindhand and lamenting it, without altering her ways; wishing to be an economist, without contrivance or regularity; dissatisfied with her servants, without skill to make them better, and whether helping, or reprimanding, or indulging them, without any power of engaging their respect.
Of her two sisters, Mrs. Price very much more resembled Lady Bertram than Mrs. Norris. She was a manager by necessity, without any of Mrs. Norris's inclination for it, or any of her activity. Her disposition was naturally easy and indolent, like Lady Bertram's; and a situation of similar affluence and do-nothingness would have been much more suited to her capacity than the exertions and self-denials of the one which her imprudent marriage had placed her in. She might have made just as good a woman of consequence as Lady Bertram, but Mrs. Norris would have been a more respectable mother of nine children on a small income.
Much of all this Fanny could not but be sensible of. She might scruple to make use of the words, but she must and did feel that her mother was a partial, ill-judging parent, a dawdle, a slattern, who neither taught nor restrained her children, whose house was the scene of mismanagement and discomfort from beginning to end, and who had no talent, no conversation, no affection towards herself; no curiosity to know her better, no desire of her friendship, and no inclination for her company that could lessen her sense of such feelings.
Fanny was very anxious to be useful, and not to appear above her home, or in any way disqualified or disinclined, by her foreign education, from contributing her help to its comforts, and therefore set about working for Sam immediately; and by working early and late, with perseverance and great despatch, did so much that the boy was shipped off at last, with more than half his linen ready. She had great pleasure in feeling her usefulness, but could not conceive how they would have managed without her.

Her days were spent in a kind of slow bustle; she was busy without getting on; and dissatisfied with her servants, without skill to make them better, or any power of engaging their respect.
Mrs. Price resembled Lady Bertram more than Mrs. Norris. She was a manager by necessity, without any of Mrs. Norris's inclination for it. She was naturally indolent, like Lady Bertram; and Mrs. Norris would have been a more respectable mother of nine children on a small income.
Fanny could not but feel this. She might scruple to use the words, but she must feel that her mother was an ill-judging parent, a slattern, who neither taught nor restrained her children, whose house was the scene of mismanagement from beginning to end, and who had no talent, no conversation, no affection towards herself; and no curiosity to know her better.
Fanny was very anxious to be useful, and not to appear above her home, and therefore set about working for Sam immediately; and by sewing early and late, did so much that the boy was shipped off at last with more than half his linen ready.


Sam, loud and overbearing as he was, she rather regretted when he went, for he was clever and intelligent, and glad to be employed in any errand in the town; and though spurning the remonstrances of Susan, given as they were, though very reasonable in themselves, with ill-timed and powerless warmth, was beginning to be influenced by Fanny's services and gentle persuasions; and she found that the best of the three younger ones was gone in him: Tom and Charles being at least as many years as they were his juniors distant from that age of feeling and reason, which might suggest the expediency of making friends, and of endeavouring to be less disagreeable. Their sister soon despaired of making the smallest impression on _them_; they were quite untameable by any means of address which she had spirits or time to attempt. Every afternoon brought a return of their riotous games all over the house; and she very early learned to sigh at the approach of Saturday's constant half-holiday.
Betsey, too, a spoiled child, trained up to think the alphabet her greatest enemy, left to be with the servants at her pleasure, and then encouraged to report any evil of them, she was almost as ready to despair of being able to love or assist; and of Susan's temper she had many doubts. Her continual disagreements with her mother, her rash squabbles with Tom and Charles, and petulance with Betsey, were at least so distressing to Fanny that, though admitting they were by no means without provocation, she feared the disposition that could push them to such length must be far from amiable, and from affording any repose to herself.
Such was the home which was to put Mansfield out of her head, and teach her to think of her cousin Edmund with moderated feelings. On the contrary, she could think of nothing but Mansfield, its beloved inmates, its happy ways. Everything where she now was in full contrast to it. The elegance, propriety, regularity, harmony, and perhaps, above all, the peace and tranquillity of Mansfield, were brought to her remembrance every hour of the day, by the prevalence of everything opposite to them _here_.

Sam, loud and overbearing as he was, she rather regretted when he went, for he was clever and intelligent, and glad to be employed in errands; and though spurning the ill-timed though reasonable remonstrances of Susan, he was beginning to be influenced by Fanny's gentle persuasions. She despaired of making the smallest impression on Tom or Charles; they were quite untameable. Every afternoon brought a return of their riotous games all over the house; and she learned to sigh at the approach of Saturday's constant half-holiday.
Betsey, too, a spoiled child, trained up to think the alphabet her greatest enemy, left with the servants, and then encouraged to report any evil of them, she was almost as ready to despair of; and of Susan's temper she had many doubts. Susan's continual disagreements with her mother, her squabbles with Tom and Charles, and petulance with Betsey, were so distressing to Fanny that she feared Susan's disposition must be far from amiable.
Such was the home which was to put Mansfield out of her head. On the contrary, she could think of nothing but Mansfield, its beloved inmates, its happy ways. The elegance, propriety, harmony, and above all, the peace and tranquillity of Mansfield, were brought to her remembrance every hour, by the prevalence of everything opposite to them here.


The living in incessant noise was, to a frame and temper delicate and nervous like Fanny's, an evil which no superadded elegance or harmony could have entirely atoned for. It was the greatest misery of all. At Mansfield, no sounds of contention, no raised voice, no abrupt bursts, no tread of violence, was ever heard; all proceeded in a regular course of cheerful orderliness; everybody had their due importance; everybody's feelings were consulted. If tenderness could be ever supposed wanting, good sense and good breeding supplied its place; and as to the little irritations sometimes introduced by aunt Norris, they were short, they were trifling, they were as a drop of water to the ocean, compared with the ceaseless tumult of her present abode. Here everybody was noisy, every voice was loud (excepting, perhaps, her mother's, which resembled the soft monotony of Lady Bertram's, only worn into fretfulness). Whatever was wanted was hallooed for, and the servants hallooed out their excuses from the kitchen. The doors were in constant banging, the stairs were never at rest, nothing was done without a clatter, nobody sat still, and nobody could command attention when they spoke.
In a review of the two houses, as they appeared to her before the end of a week, Fanny was tempted to apply to them Dr. Johnson's celebrated judgment as to matrimony and celibacy, and say, that though Mansfield Park might have some pains, Portsmouth could have no pleasures.

The incessant noise was, to a delicate temper like Fanny's, the greatest misery of all. At Mansfield, no raised voice, no tread of violence, was ever heard; everybody's feelings were consulted. If tenderness could be ever supposed wanting, good breeding supplied its place; and as to the little irritations of aunt Norris, they were trifling, compared with the ceaseless tumult of her present home. Here everybody was noisy, every voice was loud (excepting, perhaps, her mother's). Whatever was wanted was hallooed for, and the servants hallooed out their excuses from the kitchen. The doors were in constant banging, the stairs were never at rest, nothing was done without a clatter, nobody sat still, and nobody could command attention when they spoke.
At the end of a week, Fanny was tempted to say, that though Mansfield Park might have some pains, Portsmouth could have no pleasures.


Miss Crawford accepted the part very readily; and soon after Miss Bertram's return from the Parsonage, Mr. Rushworth arrived, and another character was consequently cast. He had the offer of Count Cassel and Anhalt, and at first did not know which to chuse, and wanted Miss Bertram to direct him; but upon being made to understand the different style of the characters, and which was which, and recollecting that he had once seen the play in London, and had thought Anhalt a very stupid fellow, he soon decided for the Count. Miss Bertram approved the decision, for the less he had to learn the better; and though she could not sympathise in his wish that the Count and Agatha might be to act together, nor wait very patiently while he was slowly turning over the leaves with the hope of still discovering such a scene, she very kindly took his part in hand, and curtailed every speech that admitted being shortened; besides pointing out the necessity of his being very much dressed, and chusing his colours. Mr. Rushworth liked the idea of his finery very well, though affecting to despise it; and was too much engaged with what his own appearance would be to think of the others, or draw any of those conclusions, or feel any of that displeasure which Maria had been half prepared for.
Thus much was settled before Edmund, who had been out all the morning, knew anything of the matter; but when he entered the drawing-room before dinner, the buzz of discussion was high between Tom, Maria, and Mr. Yates; and Mr. Rushworth stepped forward with great alacrity to tell him the agreeable news.
"We have got a play," said he. "It is to be Lovers' Vows; and I am to be Count Cassel, and am to come in first with a blue dress and a pink satin cloak, and afterwards am to have another fine fancy suit, by way of a shooting-dress. I do not know how I shall like it."
Fanny's eyes followed Edmund, and her heart beat for him as she heard this speech, and saw his look, and felt what his sensations must be.

Miss Crawford accepted the part readily; and when Mr. Rushworth arrived, another character was cast. He had the offer of Count Cassel and Anhalt, and at first did not know which to choose, but recollecting that he had once seen the play, and had thought Anhalt a very stupid fellow, he decided on the Count.
Miss Bertram approved, for the less he had to learn the better. Though she could not sympathise in his wish that the Count and Agatha act together, nor wait very patiently while he was slowly turning over the leaves with the hope of discovering such a scene, she very kindly took his part in hand, and curtailed every speech that admitted being shortened; besides pointing out the necessity of his being finely dressed. Mr. Rushworth liked the idea of his finery very well, though pretending to despise it; and was too engaged with his own appearance to feel any of the displeasure which Maria had been prepared for.
Thus much was settled before Edmund, who was out all morning, knew anything of it; but when he entered the drawing-room, the buzz of discussion was high, and Mr. Rushworth stepped forward with alacrity to tell him the agreeable news.
"We have got a play," said he. "It is to be Lovers' Vows; and I am to be Count Cassel, and am to come in first with a pink satin cloak, and afterwards am to have another fancy suit, by way of a shooting-dress. I do not know how I shall like it."
Fanny's eyes followed Edmund, and her heart beat for him as she felt what his sensations must be.


"Lovers' Vows!" in a tone of the greatest amazement, was his only reply to Mr. Rushworth, and he turned towards his brother and sisters as if hardly doubting a contradiction.
"Yes," cried Mr. Yates. "After all our debatings and difficulties, we find there is nothing that will suit us altogether so well, nothing so unexceptionable, as Lovers' Vows. The wonder is that it should not have been thought of before. My stupidity was abominable, for here we have all the advantage of what I saw at Ecclesford; and it is so useful to have anything of a model! We have cast almost every part."
"But what do you do for women?" said Edmund gravely, and looking at Maria.
Maria blushed in spite of herself as she answered, "I take the part which Lady Ravenshaw was to have done, and" (with a bolder eye) "Miss Crawford is to be Amelia."

"Lovers' Vows!" in a tone of the greatest amazement, was his reply, and he turned towards his brother and sisters.
"Yes," cried Mr. Yates. "We find there is nothing that will suit us so well. We have cast almost every part."
"But what do you do for women?" said Edmund gravely, looking at Maria.
Maria blushed in spite of herself as she answered, "I take the part which Lady Ravenshaw was to have done, and" (with a bolder eye) "Miss Crawford is to be Amelia."


"I should not have thought it the sort of play to be so easily filled up, with _us_," replied Edmund, turning away to the fire, where sat his mother, aunt, and Fanny, and seating himself with a look of great vexation.
Mr. Rushworth followed him to say, "I come in three times, and have two-and-forty speeches. That's something, is not it? But I do not much like the idea of being so fine. I shall hardly know myself in a blue dress and a pink satin cloak."
Edmund could not answer him. In a few minutes Mr. Bertram was called out of the room to satisfy some doubts of the carpenter; and being accompanied by Mr. Yates, and followed soon afterwards by Mr. Rushworth, Edmund almost immediately took the opportunity of saying, "I cannot, before Mr. Yates, speak what I feel as to this play, without reflecting on his friends at Ecclesford; but I must now, my dear Maria, tell _you_, that I think it exceedingly unfit for private representation, and that I hope you will give it up. I cannot but suppose you _will_ when you have read it carefully over. Read only the first act aloud to either your mother or aunt, and see how you can approve it. It will not be necessary to send you to your _father's_ judgment, I am convinced."

"I should not have thought it the sort of play to be so easily filled up, with us," replied Edmund, turning away with a look of great vexation.
Mr. Rushworth followed him. "I come in three times, and have two-and-forty speeches. That's something, is not it? But I do not like the idea of being so fine. I shall hardly know myself in a pink satin cloak."
Edmund could not answer. Mr. Bertram was called out of the room by the carpenter, and was accompanied by Mr. Yates and Mr. Rushworth. Edmund then said, "My dear Maria, I must tell you that I think this play exceedingly unfit for private performance. I hope you will give it up. Read the first act aloud to your mother, and see how you can approve it."


"We see things very differently," cried Maria. "I am perfectly acquainted with the play, I assure you; and with a very few omissions, and so forth, which will be made, of course, I can see nothing objectionable in it; and _I_ am not the _only_ young woman you find who thinks it very fit for private representation."
"I am sorry for it," was his answer; "but in this matter it is _you_ who are to lead. _You_ must set the example. If others have blundered, it is your place to put them right, and shew them what true delicacy is. In all points of decorum _your_ conduct must be law to the rest of the party."
This picture of her consequence had some effect, for no one loved better to lead than Maria; and with far more good-humour she answered, "I am much obliged to you, Edmund; you mean very well, I am sure: but I still think you see things too strongly; and I really cannot undertake to harangue all the rest upon a subject of this kind. _There_ would be the greatest indecorum, I think."

"I am perfectly acquainted with the play;" cried Maria, "and with a very few omissions, I see nothing objectionable in it; and I am not the only young woman who thinks it fit for private performance."
"I am sorry for it," was his answer; "but in this matter you must set the example. If others have blundered, it is your place to put them right, and show them what true delicacy is."
This picture of her consequence had some effect; and with far more good-humour she answered, "I am obliged to you, Edmund; you mean well, I am sure: but I still think you see things too strongly; and I cannot undertake to harangue all the rest upon the subject."


"Do you imagine that I could have such an idea in my head? No; let your conduct be the only harangue. Say that, on examining the part, you feel yourself unequal to it; that you find it requiring more exertion and confidence than you can be supposed to have. Say this with firmness, and it will be quite enough. All who can distinguish will understand your motive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as it ought."
"Do not act anything improper, my dear," said Lady Bertram. "Sir Thomas would not like it.-Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my dinner.-To be sure, Julia is dressed by this time."
"I am convinced, madam," said Edmund, preventing Fanny, "that Sir Thomas would not like it."
"There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?"

"Do you imagine that I meant that? No; let your conduct be the only harangue. Say that, on examining the part, you feel yourself unequal to it. All will understand your motive. The play will be given up, and your delicacy honoured as it ought."
"Do not act anything improper, my dear," said Lady Bertram. "Sir Thomas would not like it.-Fanny, ring the bell; I must have my dinner."
"I am convinced, madam," said Edmund, preventing Fanny, "that Sir Thomas would not like it."
"There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?"


"If I were to decline the part," said Maria, with renewed zeal, "Julia would certainly take it."
"What!" cried Edmund, "if she knew your reasons!"
"Oh! she might think the difference between us-the difference in our situations-that _she_ need not be so scrupulous as _I_ might feel necessary. I am sure she would argue so. No; you must excuse me; I cannot retract my consent; it is too far settled, everybody would be so disappointed, Tom would be quite angry; and if we are so very nice, we shall never act anything."

"If I were to decline the part," said Maria, with renewed zeal, "Julia would certainly take it. She might think that she need not be so scrupulous as me. I cannot retract my consent; it is too settled, everybody would be so disappointed; and if we are so fastidious, we shall never act anything."


"I was just going to say the very same thing," said Mrs. Norris. "If every play is to be objected to, you will act nothing, and the preparations will be all so much money thrown away, and I am sure _that_ would be a discredit to us all. I do not know the play; but, as Maria says, if there is anything a little too warm (and it is so with most of them) it can be easily left out. We must not be over-precise, Edmund. As Mr. Rushworth is to act too, there can be no harm. I only wish Tom had known his own mind when the carpenters began, for there was the loss of half a day's work about those side-doors. The curtain will be a good job, however. The maids do their work very well, and I think we shall be able to send back some dozens of the rings. There is no occasion to put them so very close together. I _am_ of some use, I hope, in preventing waste and making the most of things.

"I was just going to say the same thing," said Mrs. Norris. "The preparations will be so much money thrown away. I do not know the play; but if there is anything a little too warm it can be easily left out. As Mr. Rushworth is to act too, there can be no harm. I only wish Tom had known his own mind when the carpenters began, for there was the loss of half a day's work about those side-doors. The curtain will be a good job, however. I think we shall be able to send back some dozens of the rings. I am of some use, I hope, in preventing waste.


There should always be one steady head to superintend so many young ones. I forgot to tell Tom of something that happened to me this very day. I had been looking about me in the poultry-yard, and was just coming out, when who should I see but Dick Jackson making up to the servants' hall-door with two bits of deal board in his hand, bringing them to father, you may be sure; mother had chanced to send him of a message to father, and then father had bid him bring up them two bits of board, for he could not no how do without them. I knew what all this meant, for the servants' dinner-bell was ringing at the very moment over our heads; and as I hate such encroaching people (the Jacksons are very encroaching, I have always said so: just the sort of people to get all they can), I said to the boy directly (a great lubberly fellow of ten years old, you know, who ought to be ashamed of himself), '_I'll_ take the boards to your father, Dick, so get you home again as fast as you can.' The boy looked very silly, and turned away without offering a word, for I believe I might speak pretty sharp; and I dare say it will cure him of coming marauding about the house for one while. I hate such greediness-so good as your father is to the family, employing the man all the year round!"
Nobody was at the trouble of an answer; the others soon returned; and Edmund found that to have endeavoured to set them right must be his only satisfaction.

There should always be one steady head to superintend so many young ones. I forgot to tell Tom of something that happened to me today. Who should I see but Dick Jackson making off with two bits of deal board in his hand, pilfered you may be sure; I hate such encroaching people as the Jacksons, who get all they can. I said to the boy directly, 'I'll take the boards, Dick, so get you home again.' The boy looked very silly, and turned away without a word; and I dare say it will cure him of marauding about the house for a while. I hate such greediness!"
Nobody troubled to answer.


Dinner passed heavily. Mrs. Norris related again her triumph over Dick Jackson, but neither play nor preparation were otherwise much talked of, for Edmund's disapprobation was felt even by his brother, though he would not have owned it. Maria, wanting Henry Crawford's animating support, thought the subject better avoided. Mr. Yates, who was trying to make himself agreeable to Julia, found her gloom less impenetrable on any topic than that of his regret at her secession from their company; and Mr. Rushworth, having only his own part and his own dress in his head, had soon talked away all that could be said of either.
But the concerns of the theatre were suspended only for an hour or two: there was still a great deal to be settled; and the spirits of evening giving fresh courage, Tom, Maria, and Mr. Yates, soon after their being reassembled in the drawing-room, seated themselves in committee at a separate table, with the play open before them, and were just getting deep in the subject when a most welcome interruption was given by the entrance of Mr. and Miss Crawford, who, late and dark and dirty as it was, could not help coming, and were received with the most grateful joy.

Dinner passed heavily. Mrs. Norris related again her triumph over Dick Jackson, but neither play nor preparation were much talked of, for Edmund's disapprobation was felt even by his brother. Maria thought the subject better avoided. Mr. Yates, who was trying to make himself agreeable to Julia, found her gloom was less on other topics; and Mr. Rushworth, having only his own part and his own dress in his head, had soon talked away all that could be said of either.
But after an hour or two, the spirits of the evening gave fresh courage. Tom, Maria, and Mr. Yates were seated at the table with the play open before them, when Mr. and Miss Crawford entered and were received with grateful joy.


"Well, how do you go on?" and "What have you settled?" and "Oh! we can do nothing without you," followed the first salutations; and Henry Crawford was soon seated with the other three at the table, while his sister made her way to Lady Bertram, and with pleasant attention was complimenting _her_. "I must really congratulate your ladyship," said she, "on the play being chosen; for though you have borne it with exemplary patience, I am sure you must be sick of all our noise and difficulties. The actors may be glad, but the bystanders must be infinitely more thankful for a decision; and I do sincerely give you joy, madam, as well as Mrs. Norris, and everybody else who is in the same predicament," glancing half fearfully, half slyly, beyond Fanny to Edmund.

Henry Crawford was soon seated with the other three at the table, while his sister made her way to Lady Bertram, by the fire.
"I congratulate your ladyship," said she, "on the play being chosen; for I am sure you must be sick of all our difficulties. The bystanders must be infinitely thankful for a decision; and I give you joy, madam, as well as everybody else who is in the same predicament," glancing at Edmund.


She was very civilly answered by Lady Bertram, but Edmund said nothing. His being only a bystander was not disclaimed. After continuing in chat with the party round the fire a few minutes, Miss Crawford returned to the party round the table; and standing by them, seemed to interest herself in their arrangements till, as if struck by a sudden recollection, she exclaimed, "My good friends, you are most composedly at work upon these cottages and alehouses, inside and out; but pray let me know my fate in the meanwhile. Who is to be Anhalt? What gentleman among you am I to have the pleasure of making love to?"
For a moment no one spoke; and then many spoke together to tell the same melancholy truth, that they had not yet got any Anhalt. "Mr. Rushworth was to be Count Cassel, but no one had yet undertaken Anhalt."
"I had my choice of the parts," said Mr. Rushworth; "but I thought I should like the Count best, though I do not much relish the finery I am to have."
"You chose very wisely, I am sure," replied Miss Crawford, with a brightened look; "Anhalt is a heavy part."
"_The_ _Count_ has two-and-forty speeches," returned Mr. Rushworth, "which is no trifle."

Edmund said nothing. After chatting a few minutes, Miss Crawford returned to the party round the table; and seemed to interest herself in their arrangements till, as if struck by a sudden recollection, she exclaimed, "My good friends, pray let me know my fate. Who is to be Anhalt? What gentleman among you am I to have the pleasure of making love to?"
For a moment no one spoke; and then many spoke together to tell the melancholy truth, that they had not yet got any Anhalt.
"I thought I should like the Count best," said Mr Rushworth, "though I do not much relish the finery I am to have."
"You chose wisely, I am sure," replied Miss Crawford, with a brightened look; "Anhalt is a heavy part."
"The Count has two-and-forty speeches," returned Mr. Rushworth, "which is no trifle."


"I am not at all surprised," said Miss Crawford, after a short pause, "at this want of an Anhalt. Amelia deserves no better. Such a forward young lady may well frighten the men."
"I should be but too happy in taking the part, if it were possible," cried Tom; "but, unluckily, the Butler and Anhalt are in together. I will not entirely give it up, however; I will try what can be done-I will look it over again."
"Your _brother_ should take the part," said Mr. Yates, in a low voice. "Do not you think he would?"
"_I_ shall not ask him," replied Tom, in a cold, determined manner.
Miss Crawford talked of something else, and soon afterwards rejoined the party at the fire.

"I am not surprised," said Miss Crawford, "at this want of an Anhalt. Amelia deserves no better. Such a forward young lady may well frighten the men."
"I should take the part, if it were possible," cried Tom; "but, unluckily, the Butler and Anhalt are in together. However; I will try what can be done."
"Your brother should take the part," said Mr. Yates.
"I shall not ask him," replied Tom coldly.
Miss Crawford talked of something else, and soon afterwards rejoined the party at the fire.


"They do not want me at all," said she, seating herself. "I only puzzle them, and oblige them to make civil speeches. Mr. Edmund Bertram, as you do not act yourself, you will be a disinterested adviser; and, therefore, I apply to _you_. What shall we do for an Anhalt? Is it practicable for any of the others to double it? What is your advice?"
"My advice," said he calmly, "is that you change the play."
"_I_ should have no objection," she replied; "for though I should not particularly dislike the part of Amelia if well supported, that is, if everything went well, I shall be sorry to be an inconvenience; but as they do not chuse to hear your advice at _that_ _table_" (looking round), "it certainly will not be taken."
Edmund said no more.
"If _any_ part could tempt _you_ to act, I suppose it would be Anhalt," observed the lady archly, after a short pause; "for he is a clergyman, you know."

"They do not want me," said she. "Mr. Edmund Bertram, as you do not act yourself, you will be a disinterested adviser; and, therefore, I apply to you. What shall we do for an Anhalt? What is your advice?"
"My advice," said he calmly, "is that you change the play."
"I should have no objection," she replied; "though I should not particularly dislike the part of Amelia; but as they do not choose to hear your advice, it certainly will not be taken."
Edmund said no more.
"If any part could tempt you to act, I suppose it would be Anhalt," observed the lady archly, after a short pause; "for he is a clergyman, you know."


"_That_ circumstance would by no means tempt me," he replied, "for I should be sorry to make the character ridiculous by bad acting. It must be very difficult to keep Anhalt from appearing a formal, solemn lecturer; and the man who chuses the profession itself is, perhaps, one of the last who would wish to represent it on the stage."
Miss Crawford was silenced, and with some feelings of resentment and mortification, moved her chair considerably nearer the tea-table, and gave all her attention to Mrs. Norris, who was presiding there.
"Fanny," cried Tom Bertram, from the other table, where the conference was eagerly carrying on, and the conversation incessant, "we want your services."
Fanny was up in a moment, expecting some errand; for the habit of employing her in that way was not yet overcome, in spite of all that Edmund could do.
"Oh! we do not want to disturb you from your seat. We do not want your _present_ services. We shall only want you in our play. You must be Cottager's wife."

"That would not tempt me," he replied, "for I should be sorry to make the character ridiculous by bad acting."
Miss Crawford was silenced. Moving her chair nearer the tea-table, she gave her attention to Mrs. Norris.
"Fanny," cried Tom Bertram, "we want your services."
Fanny was up in a moment, expecting some errand.
"Oh! we do not want to disturb you from your seat. We only want you in our play. You must be Cottager's wife."


"Me!" cried Fanny, sitting down again with a most frightened look. "Indeed you must excuse me. I could not act anything if you were to give me the world. No, indeed, I cannot act."
"Indeed, but you must, for we cannot excuse you. It need not frighten you: it is a nothing of a part, a mere nothing, not above half a dozen speeches altogether, and it will not much signify if nobody hears a word you say; so you may be as creep-mouse as you like, but we must have you to look at."
"If you are afraid of half a dozen speeches," cried Mr. Rushworth, "what would you do with such a part as mine? I have forty-two to learn."
"It is not that I am afraid of learning by heart," said Fanny, shocked to find herself at that moment the only speaker in the room, and to feel that almost every eye was upon her; "but I really cannot act."

"Me!" cried Fanny, sitting down again with a frightened look. "Indeed you must excuse me. I cannot act."
"But you must. It need not frighten you: it is a nothing of a part, not half a dozen speeches, and it will not signify if nobody hears a word you say; so you may be as creep-mouse as you like."
"Why, I have forty-two speeches," cried Mr. Rushworth.
"It is not that I am afraid of learning by heart," said Fanny, shocked to find that every eye was upon her; "but I really cannot act."


"Yes, yes, you can act well enough for _us_. Learn your part, and we will teach you all the rest. You have only two scenes, and as I shall be Cottager, I'll put you in and push you about, and you will do it very well, I'll answer for it."
"No, indeed, Mr. Bertram, you must excuse me. You cannot have an idea. It would be absolutely impossible for me. If I were to undertake it, I should only disappoint you."

"You can act well enough for us. You have only two scenes."
"No, indeed, Mr. Bertram, you must excuse me. It would be absolutely impossible for me. I should only disappoint you."


"Phoo! Phoo! Do not be so shamefaced. You'll do it very well. Every allowance will be made for you. We do not expect perfection. You must get a brown gown, and a white apron, and a mob cap, and we must make you a few wrinkles, and a little of the crowsfoot at the corner of your eyes, and you will be a very proper, little old woman."
"You must excuse me, indeed you must excuse me," cried Fanny, growing more and more red from excessive agitation, and looking distressfully at Edmund, who was kindly observing her; but unwilling to exasperate his brother by interference, gave her only an encouraging smile. Her entreaty had no effect on Tom: he only said again what he had said before; and it was not merely Tom, for the requisition was now backed by Maria, and Mr. Crawford, and Mr. Yates, with an urgency which differed from his but in being more gentle or more ceremonious, and which altogether was quite overpowering to Fanny; and before she could breathe after it, Mrs. Norris completed the whole by thus addressing her in a whisper at once angry and audible-"What a piece of work here is about nothing: I am quite ashamed of you, Fanny, to make such a difficulty of obliging your cousins in a trifle of this sort-so kind as they are to you! Take the part with a good grace, and let us hear no more of the matter, I entreat."

"Phoo! We do not expect perfection. You must get a brown gown, and a white apron, and a mob cap, and we must make you a few wrinkles, and you will be a very proper little old woman."
"Indeed you must excuse me," cried Fanny, in agitation, and looking distressfully at Edmund, who was kindly observing her; but unwilling to exasperate his brother, gave her only an encouraging smile. Her entreaty had no effect on Tom: and it was not merely Tom. His request was now backed by Maria, and Mr. Crawford, and Mr. Yates, and Mrs. Norris addressed her in an angry whisper-"What a piece of work about nothing: I am quite ashamed of you, Fanny, to make such a difficulty of obliging your cousins in such a trifle-so kind as they are to you!"


"Do not urge her, madam," said Edmund. "It is not fair to urge her in this manner. You see she does not like to act. Let her chuse for herself, as well as the rest of us. Her judgment may be quite as safely trusted. Do not urge her any more."
"I am not going to urge her," replied Mrs. Norris sharply; "but I shall think her a very obstinate, ungrateful girl, if she does not do what her aunt and cousins wish her-very ungrateful, indeed, considering who and what she is."
Edmund was too angry to speak; but Miss Crawford, looking for a moment with astonished eyes at Mrs. Norris, and then at Fanny, whose tears were beginning to shew themselves, immediately said, with some keenness, "I do not like my situation: this _place_ is too hot for me," and moved away her chair to the opposite side of the table, close to Fanny, saying to her, in a kind, low whisper, as she placed herself, "Never mind, my dear Miss Price, this is a cross evening: everybody is cross and teasing, but do not let us mind them"; and with pointed attention continued to talk to her and endeavour to raise her spirits, in spite of being out of spirits herself. By a look at her brother she prevented any farther entreaty from the theatrical board, and the really good feelings by which she was almost purely governed were rapidly restoring her to all the little she had lost in Edmund's favour.
Fanny did not love Miss Crawford; but she felt very much obliged to her for her present kindness; and when, from taking notice of her work, and wishing _she_ could work as well, and begging for the pattern, and supposing Fanny was now preparing for her _appearance_, as of course she would come out when her cousin was married, Miss Crawford proceeded to inquire if she had heard lately from her brother at sea, and said that she had quite a curiosity to see him, and imagined him a very fine young man, and advised Fanny to get his picture drawn before he went to sea again-she could not help admitting it to be very agreeable flattery, or help listening, and answering with more animation than she had intended.

"Do not urge her, madam," said Edmund. "You see she does not like to act."
"I am not going to urge her," replied Mrs. Norris sharply; "but I shall think her a very obstinate, ungrateful girl, if she does not do what her aunt and cousins wish-very ungrateful, indeed, considering who and what she is."
Edmund was too angry to speak; but Miss Crawford, looking with astonished eyes at Mrs. Norris, and then at Fanny, whose tears were beginning to show, immediately said, "I do not like my situation: this place is too hot for me." She moved her chair close to Fanny, saying to her, in a kind, low whisper, "Never mind, my dear Miss Price, this is a cross evening: everybody is cross and teasing, but do not let us mind them"; and continued to talk to her and endeavour to raise her spirits, in spite of being out of spirits herself. The really good feelings by which she was almost purely governed were rapidly restoring her in Edmund's favour.
Fanny did not love Miss Crawford; but she felt very grateful for her kindness; and when, after talking about her needlework, Miss Crawford proceeded to inquire if she had heard lately from her brother at sea, and said that she was curious to see him, and imagined him a very fine young man-she could not help admitting it to be very agreeable flattery, and answering with more animation than she had intended.


The consultation upon the play still went on, and Miss Crawford's attention was first called from Fanny by Tom Bertram's telling her, with infinite regret, that he found it absolutely impossible for him to undertake the part of Anhalt in addition to the Butler: he had been most anxiously trying to make it out to be feasible, but it would not do; he must give it up. "But there will not be the smallest difficulty in filling it," he added. "We have but to speak the word; we may pick and chuse. I could name, at this moment, at least six young men within six miles of us, who are wild to be admitted into our company, and there are one or two that would not disgrace us: I should not be afraid to trust either of the Olivers or Charles Maddox. Tom Oliver is a very clever fellow, and Charles Maddox is as gentlemanlike a man as you will see anywhere, so I will take my horse early to-morrow morning and ride over to Stoke, and settle with one of them."

Miss Crawford's attention was called from Fanny by Tom Bertram's telling her, with regret, that he found it impossible to take the part of Anhalt in addition to the Butler. "But there will no difficulty in filling it," he added. "We may pick and choose. I could name six young men who are wild to be admitted into our company, and there are one or two that would not disgrace us: Tom Oliver is a clever fellow, and Charles Maddox is a gentlemanlike man, so I will ride over tomorrow, and settle with one of them."


While he spoke, Maria was looking apprehensively round at Edmund in full expectation that he must oppose such an enlargement of the plan as this: so contrary to all their first protestations; but Edmund said nothing. After a moment's thought, Miss Crawford calmly replied, "As far as I am concerned, I can have no objection to anything that you all think eligible. Have I ever seen either of the gentlemen? Yes, Mr. Charles Maddox dined at my sister's one day, did not he, Henry? A quiet-looking young man. I remember him. Let _him_ be applied to, if you please, for it will be less unpleasant to me than to have a perfect stranger."
Charles Maddox was to be the man. Tom repeated his resolution of going to him early on the morrow; and though Julia, who had scarcely opened her lips before, observed, in a sarcastic manner, and with a glance first at Maria and then at Edmund, that "the Mansfield theatricals would enliven the whole neighbourhood exceedingly," Edmund still held his peace, and shewed his feelings only by a determined gravity.

Maria looked apprehensively at Edmund, expecting that he must oppose this enlargement of the plan: but Edmund said nothing. After a moment's thought, Miss Crawford calmly replied, "I can have no objection to anything that you all think eligible. Have I ever seen either of the gentlemen? Yes, Mr. Charles Maddox dined at my sister's, did not he, Henry? A quiet-looking young man. Let him be applied to, if you please, for it will be less unpleasant to me than a perfect stranger."
Tom repeated his resolution of going to Charles Maddox on the morrow; and though Julia observed sarcastically that "the Mansfield theatricals would enliven the whole neighbourhood exceedingly," Edmund still held his peace, and showed his feelings only by a determined gravity.


"I am not very sanguine as to our play," said Miss Crawford, in an undervoice to Fanny, after some consideration; "and I can tell Mr. Maddox that I shall shorten some of _his_ speeches, and a great many of _my_ _own_, before we rehearse together. It will be very disagreeable, and by no means what I expected."

Miss Crawford said quietly to Fanny, "I can tell Mr. Maddox that I shall shorten some of his speeches, and a great many of my own, before we rehearse together. It will be very disagreeable, and by no means what I expected."


The first event of any importance in the family was the death of Mr. Norris, which happened when Fanny was about fifteen, and necessarily introduced alterations and novelties. Mrs. Norris, on quitting the Parsonage, removed first to the Park, and afterwards to a small house of Sir Thomas's in the village, and consoled herself for the loss of her husband by considering that she could do very well without him; and for her reduction of income by the evident necessity of stricter economy.
The living was hereafter for Edmund; and, had his uncle died a few years sooner, it would have been duly given to some friend to hold till he were old enough for orders. But Tom's extravagance had, previous to that event, been so great as to render a different disposal of the next presentation necessary, and the younger brother must help to pay for the pleasures of the elder. There was another family living actually held for Edmund; but though this circumstance had made the arrangement somewhat easier to Sir Thomas's conscience, he could not but feel it to be an act of injustice, and he earnestly tried to impress his eldest son with the same conviction, in the hope of its producing a better effect than anything he had yet been able to say or do.
"I blush for you, Tom," said he, in his most dignified manner; "I blush for the expedient which I am driven on, and I trust I may pity your feelings as a brother on the occasion. You have robbed Edmund for ten, twenty, thirty years, perhaps for life, of more than half the income which ought to be his. It may hereafter be in my power, or in yours (I hope it will), to procure him better preferment; but it must not be forgotten that no benefit of that sort would have been beyond his natural claims on us, and that nothing can, in fact, be an equivalent for the certain advantage which he is now obliged to forego through the urgency of your debts."
Tom listened with some shame and some sorrow; but escaping as quickly as possible, could soon with cheerful selfishness reflect, firstly, that he had not been half so much in debt as some of his friends; secondly, that his father had made a most tiresome piece of work of it; and, thirdly, that the future incumbent, whoever he might be, would, in all probability, die very soon.

The death of Mr. Norris, when Fanny was about fifteen, brought changes. Mrs. Norris removed to a small house in the village, and consoled herself for the loss of her husband by considering that she could do very well without him; and for her reduction of income by the necessity of stricter economy.
The parson's living was for Edmund; and would have been given to some friend to hold till he were old enough for orders. But Tom's extravagance had been so great as to make a different disposal necessary; the younger brother must help to pay for the pleasures of the elder. There was another family living actually held for Edmund; but even so, Sir Thomas could not but feel it to be an injustice, and he earnestly tried to impress his eldest son with the same conviction.
"I blush for you, Tom," said he, in his most dignified manner; "You have robbed Edmund for twenty, thirty years, perhaps for life, of more than half the income which ought to be his. It may hereafter be in my power, or in yours, to find him a better position; but nothing can equal the advantage which he must now forego through the urgency of your debts."
Tom listened with some shame and sorrow; but escaping as quickly as possible, could soon with cheerful selfishness reflect, firstly, that he had not been half so much in debt as some of his friends; secondly, that his father had made a tiresome piece of work of it; and, thirdly, that the future incumbent, whoever he might be, would probably die very soon.


On Mr. Norris's death the presentation became the right of a Dr. Grant, who came consequently to reside at Mansfield; and on proving to be a hearty man of forty-five, seemed likely to disappoint Mr. Bertram's calculations. But "no, he was a short-necked, apoplectic sort of fellow, and, plied well with good things, would soon pop off."
He had a wife about fifteen years his junior, but no children; and they entered the neighbourhood with the usual fair report of being very respectable, agreeable people.
The time was now come when Sir Thomas expected his sister-in-law to claim her share in their niece, the change in Mrs. Norris's situation, and the improvement in Fanny's age, seeming not merely to do away any former objection to their living together, but even to give it the most decided eligibility; and as his own circumstances were rendered less fair than heretofore, by some recent losses on his West India estate, in addition to his eldest son's extravagance, it became not undesirable to himself to be relieved from the expense of her support, and the obligation of her future provision. In the fullness of his belief that such a thing must be, he mentioned its probability to his wife; and the first time of the subject's occurring to her again happening to be when Fanny was present, she calmly observed to her, "So, Fanny, you are going to leave us, and live with my sister. How shall you like it?"
Fanny was too much surprised to do more than repeat her aunt's words, "Going to leave you?"
"Yes, my dear; why should you be astonished? You have been five years with us, and my sister always meant to take you when Mr. Norris died. But you must come up and tack on my patterns all the same."

On Mr. Norris's death the living went to a Dr. Grant, who came to reside at Mansfield; and proving to be a hearty man of forty-five, seemed likely to disappoint Mr. Bertram's calculations. But "no, he was a short-necked, apoplectic sort of fellow, and would soon pop off."
He had a wife about fifteen years his junior, but no children; and they entered the neighbourhood with the usual fair report of being very respectable, agreeable people.
The time was now come when Sir Thomas expected his sister-in-law to claim her share in their niece. Now that Mrs. Norris was a widow, to have Fanny living with her would be very suitable; and as he had borne some losses on his West India estate, in addition to his eldest son's extravagance, he wished to be relieved from the expense of her support. He mentioned this probability to his wife; and she later calmly observed to Fanny, "So, Fanny, you are going to leave us, and live with my sister. How shall you like it?"
"Going to leave you?"
"Yes, my dear; why should you be astonished? You have been five years with us, and my sister always meant to take you when Mr. Norris died."


The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it had been unexpected. She had never received kindness from her aunt Norris, and could not love her.
"I shall be very sorry to go away," said she, with a faltering voice.
"Yes, I dare say you will; _that's_ natural enough. I suppose you have had as little to vex you since you came into this house as any creature in the world."
"I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt," said Fanny modestly.
"No, my dear; I hope not. I have always found you a very good girl."
"And am I never to live here again?"

The news was as disagreeable to Fanny as it was unexpected. She had never received kindness from her aunt Norris, and could not love her.
"I shall be very sorry to go away," said she, with a faltering voice.
"Yes, I dare say you will. You have had as little to vex you in this house as any creature in the world."
"I hope I am not ungrateful, aunt," said Fanny.
"No, my dear; I have always found you a very good girl."
"Am I never to live here again?"


"Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home. It can make very little difference to you, whether you are in one house or the other."
Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could not feel the difference to be so small, she could not think of living with her aunt with anything like satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund she told him her distress.
"Cousin," said she, "something is going to happen which I do not like at all; and though you have often persuaded me into being reconciled to things that I disliked at first, you will not be able to do it now. I am going to live entirely with my aunt Norris."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so. It is quite settled. I am to leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House, I suppose, as soon as she is removed there."

"Never, my dear; but you are sure of a comfortable home."
Fanny left the room with a very sorrowful heart; she could not think of living with her aunt with satisfaction. As soon as she met with Edmund she told him her distress.
"Cousin," said she, "something is going to happen which I do not like at all. I am going to live entirely with my aunt Norris."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; my aunt Bertram has just told me so. I am to leave Mansfield Park, and go to the White House."


"Well, Fanny, and if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call it an excellent one."
"Oh, cousin!"
"It has everything else in its favour. My aunt is acting like a sensible woman in wishing for you. She is choosing a friend and companion exactly where she ought, and I am glad her love of money does not interfere. You will be what you ought to be to her. I hope it does not distress you very much, Fanny?"
"Indeed it does: I cannot like it. I love this house and everything in it: I shall love nothing there. You know how uncomfortable I feel with her."

"Well, Fanny, if the plan were not unpleasant to you, I should call it an excellent one."
"Oh, cousin!"
"My aunt is acting like a sensible woman in wishing for you. She is choosing a companion exactly where she ought, and I am glad her love of money does not interfere. I hope it does not distress you very much, Fanny?"
"Indeed it does. I love this house and everything in it. You know how uncomfortable I feel with her."


"I can say nothing for her manner to you as a child; but it was the same with us all, or nearly so. She never knew how to be pleasant to children. But you are now of an age to be treated better; I think she is behaving better already; and when you are her only companion, you _must_ be important to her."
"I can never be important to any one."
"What is to prevent you?"
"Everything. My situation, my foolishness and awkwardness."

"It was the same with us all when we were younger. She never knew how to be pleasant to children. But you are now of an age to be treated better; and when you are her only companion, you must be important to her."
"I can never be important to any one."
"What is to prevent you?"
"Everything. My situation, my foolishness and awkwardness."


"As to your foolishness and awkwardness, my dear Fanny, believe me, you never have a shadow of either, but in using the words so improperly. There is no reason in the world why you should not be important where you are known. You have good sense, and a sweet temper, and I am sure you have a grateful heart, that could never receive kindness without wishing to return it. I do not know any better qualifications for a friend and companion."
"You are too kind," said Fanny, colouring at such praise; "how shall I ever thank you as I ought, for thinking so well of me. Oh! cousin, if I am to go away, I shall remember your goodness to the last moment of my life."

"As to your foolishness and awkwardness, my dear Fanny, believe me, you never have a shadow of either, but in using the words so improperly. There is no reason in the world why you should not be important where you are known. You have good sense, and a sweet temper, and I am sure you have a grateful heart. I do not know any better qualifications for a friend and companion."
"You are too kind," said Fanny, colouring at such praise; "how shall I ever thank you as I ought, for thinking so well of me. Oh! cousin, if I am to go away, I shall remember your goodness to the last moment of my life."


"Why, indeed, Fanny, I should hope to be remembered at such a distance as the White House. You speak as if you were going two hundred miles off instead of only across the park; but you will belong to us almost as much as ever. The two families will be meeting every day in the year. The only difference will be that, living with your aunt, you will necessarily be brought forward as you ought to be. _Here_ there are too many whom you can hide behind; but with _her_ you will be forced to speak for yourself."
"Oh! do not say so."
"I must say it, and say it with pleasure. Mrs. Norris is much better fitted than my mother for having the charge of you now. She is of a temper to do a great deal for anybody she really interests herself about, and she will force you to do justice to your natural powers."

"Why, Fanny, I should hope to be remembered at such a distance as the White House. You speak as if you were going two hundred miles off; but you will belong to us as much as ever. The two families will be meeting every day. The only difference will be that, living with your aunt, you will be brought forward. Here there are too many whom you can hide behind; but with her you will be forced to speak for yourself."
"Oh! do not say so."
"I must say it, and with pleasure. Mrs. Norris will do a great deal for anybody she interests herself about."


Fanny sighed, and said, "I cannot see things as you do; but I ought to believe you to be right rather than myself, and I am very much obliged to you for trying to reconcile me to what must be. If I could suppose my aunt really to care for me, it would be delightful to feel myself of consequence to anybody. _Here_, I know, I am of none, and yet I love the place so well."
"The place, Fanny, is what you will not quit, though you quit the house. You will have as free a command of the park and gardens as ever. Even _your_ constant little heart need not take fright at such a nominal change. You will have the same walks to frequent, the same library to choose from, the same people to look at, the same horse to ride."

Fanny sighed. "I cannot see things as you do; but I ought to believe you to be right, and I am obliged to you for trying to reconcile me to it. If I could suppose my aunt really to care for me, it would be delightful to feel myself of consequence to anybody. Here, I know, I am of none, and yet I love the place so well."
"The place, Fanny, is what you will not quit, though you quit the house. You will have as free a command of the park and gardens as ever. You will have the same walks to frequent, the same library to choose from, the same horse to ride."


"Very true. Yes, dear old grey pony! Ah! cousin, when I remember how much I used to dread riding, what terrors it gave me to hear it talked of as likely to do me good (oh! how I have trembled at my uncle's opening his lips if horses were talked of), and then think of the kind pains you took to reason and persuade me out of my fears, and convince me that I should like it after a little while, and feel how right you proved to be, I am inclined to hope you may always prophesy as well."
"And I am quite convinced that your being with Mrs. Norris will be as good for your mind as riding has been for your health, and as much for your ultimate happiness too."

"Yes, dear old grey pony! Ah! cousin, I remember how much I used to dread riding, what terrors it gave me; and how kindly you persuaded me out of my fears, and convinced me that I should like it after a little while. When I feel how right you were, I hope you may always prophesy so well."
"And I am quite convinced that your being with Mrs. Norris will be as good for your mind as riding has been for your health, and for your happiness too."


So ended their discourse, which, for any very appropriate service it could render Fanny, might as well have been spared, for Mrs. Norris had not the smallest intention of taking her. It had never occurred to her, on the present occasion, but as a thing to be carefully avoided. To prevent its being expected, she had fixed on the smallest habitation which could rank as genteel among the buildings of Mansfield parish, the White House being only just large enough to receive herself and her servants, and allow a spare room for a friend, of which she made a very particular point. The spare rooms at the Parsonage had never been wanted, but the absolute necessity of a spare room for a friend was now never forgotten. Not all her precautions, however, could save her from being suspected of something better; or, perhaps, her very display of the importance of a spare room might have misled Sir Thomas to suppose it really intended for Fanny. Lady Bertram soon brought the matter to a certainty by carelessly observing to Mrs. Norris-
"I think, sister, we need not keep Miss Lee any longer, when Fanny goes to live with you."
Mrs. Norris almost started. "Live with me, dear Lady Bertram! what do you mean?"

So ended their discourse, which might as well have been spared, for Mrs. Norris had not the smallest intention of taking Fanny. It was a thing to be avoided. To prevent its being expected, she had fixed on the smallest habitation which could rank as genteel, the White House being only just large enough to receive herself and her servants, and allow a spare room for a friend, of which she made a very particular point. The spare rooms at the Parsonage had never been wanted, but the absolute necessity of a spare room for a friend was now never forgotten. Perhaps her very display of the importance of a spare room might have misled Sir Thomas to suppose it really intended for Fanny. Lady Bertram soon brought the matter to a head by carelessly observing to Mrs. Norris-
"I think, sister, we need not keep Miss Lee, when Fanny goes to live with you."
"Live with me! what do you mean?"


"Is she not to live with you? I thought you had settled it with Sir Thomas."


"Me! never. I never spoke a syllable about it to Sir Thomas, nor he to me. Fanny live with me! the last thing in the world for me to think of, or for anybody to wish that really knows us both. Good heaven! what could I do with Fanny? Me! a poor, helpless, forlorn widow, unfit for anything, my spirits quite broke down; what could I do with a girl at her time of life? A girl of fifteen!

"Me! never. I never spoke a syllable about it to Sir Thomas, nor he to me. Fanny live with me! Good heaven! what could I do with Fanny? Me! a poor, helpless, forlorn widow, my spirits quite broke down; what could I do with a girl of fifteen?


the very age of all others to need most attention and care, and put the cheerfullest spirits to the test! Sure Sir Thomas could not seriously expect such a thing! Sir Thomas is too much my friend. Nobody that wishes me well, I am sure, would propose it. How came Sir Thomas to speak to you about it?"
"Indeed, I do not know. I suppose he thought it best."
"But what did he say? He could not say he _wished_ me to take Fanny. I am sure in his heart he could not wish me to do it."

the very age of all others to put the cheerfullest spirits to the test! Sir Thomas could not seriously expect such a thing! How came he to speak to you about it?"
"I do not know. I suppose he thought it best."
"But he could not say he wished me to take Fanny."


"No; he only said he thought it very likely; and I thought so too. We both thought it would be a comfort to you. But if you do not like it, there is no more to be said. She is no encumbrance here."
"Dear sister, if you consider my unhappy state, how can she be any comfort to me? Here am I, a poor desolate widow, deprived of the best of husbands, my health gone in attending and nursing him, my spirits still worse, all my peace in this world destroyed, with hardly enough to support me in the rank of a gentlewoman, and enable me to live so as not to disgrace the memory of the dear departed-what possible comfort could I have in taking such a charge upon me as Fanny? If I could wish it for my own sake, I would not do so unjust a thing by the poor girl. She is in good hands, and sure of doing well. I must struggle through my sorrows and difficulties as I can."
"Then you will not mind living by yourself quite alone?"

"No; he only said he thought it very likely. We both thought it would be a comfort to you. But if you do not like it, she is no encumbrance here."
"Dear sister, how can she be any comfort to me? Here am I, a poor desolate widow, my health and spirits gone, my peace destroyed, with hardly enough to support me-what possible comfort could I have in taking such a charge upon me as Fanny? I would not be so unjust to the poor girl. She is in good hands. I must struggle through my sorrows as I can."
"Then you will not mind living quite alone?"


"Lady Bertram, I do not complain. I know I cannot live as I have done, but I must retrench where I can, and learn to be a better manager. I _have_ _been_ a liberal housekeeper enough, but I shall not be ashamed to practise economy now. My situation is as much altered as my income. A great many things were due from poor Mr. Norris, as clergyman of the parish, that cannot be expected from me. It is unknown how much was consumed in our kitchen by odd comers and goers. At the White House, matters must be better looked after. I _must_ live within my income, or I shall be miserable; and I own it would give me great satisfaction to be able to do rather more, to lay by a little at the end of the year."
"I dare say you will. You always do, don't you?"

"Lady Bertram, I do not complain. I cannot live as I have done. I have been a liberal housekeeper enough, but I shall practise economy now. At the White House, I must live within my income; and I own it would give me great satisfaction to lay by a little at the end of the year."
"I dare say you will. You always do, don't you?"


"My object, Lady Bertram, is to be of use to those that come after me. It is for your children's good that I wish to be richer. I have nobody else to care for, but I should be very glad to think I could leave a little trifle among them worth their having."
"You are very good, but do not trouble yourself about them. They are sure of being well provided for. Sir Thomas will take care of that."
"Why, you know, Sir Thomas's means will be rather straitened if the Antigua estate is to make such poor returns."
"Oh! _that_ will soon be settled. Sir Thomas has been writing about it, I know."

"My object, Lady Bertram, is to be of use to those that come after me. It is for your children's good that I wish to be richer. I should be glad to think I could leave them a little trifle."
"You are very good, but they are sure of being well provided for. Sir Thomas will take care of that."
"Why, you know, Sir Thomas's means will be straitened if the Antigua estate makes such poor returns."
"Oh! that will soon be settled."


"Well, Lady Bertram," said Mrs. Norris, moving to go, "I can only say that my sole desire is to be of use to your family: and so, if Sir Thomas should ever speak again about my taking Fanny, you will be able to say that my health and spirits put it quite out of the question; besides that, I really should not have a bed to give her, for I must keep a spare room for a friend."
Lady Bertram repeated enough of this conversation to her husband to convince him how much he had mistaken his sister-in-law's views; and she was from that moment perfectly safe from all expectation, or the slightest allusion to it from him. He could not but wonder at her refusing to do anything for a niece whom she had been so forward to adopt; but, as she took early care to make him, as well as Lady Bertram, understand that whatever she possessed was designed for their family, he soon grew reconciled to a distinction which, at the same time that it was advantageous and complimentary to them, would enable him better to provide for Fanny himself.
Fanny soon learnt how unnecessary had been her fears of a removal; and her spontaneous, untaught felicity on the discovery, conveyed some consolation to Edmund for his disappointment in what he had expected to be so essentially serviceable to her. Mrs. Norris took possession of the White House, the Grants arrived at the Parsonage, and these events over, everything at Mansfield went on for some time as usual.

"Well, Lady Bertram," said Mrs. Norris, "My sole desire is to be of use to your family: and so, if Sir Thomas should speak again about my taking Fanny, you will be able to say that my health and spirits put it quite out of the question; besides, I really have no bed to give her, for I must keep a spare room for a friend."
Lady Bertram repeated enough of this conversation to her husband to convince him that he had mistaken his sister-in-law's views; and she was from that moment safe from expectation. He wondered at her refusing to do anything for a niece whom she had been so anxious to adopt; but soon accepted it.
Fanny learnt how unnecessary had been her fears. Mrs. Norris moved to the White House, the Grants arrived at the Parsonage, and everything at Mansfield went on for some time as usual.


The Grants showing a disposition to be friendly and sociable, gave great satisfaction in the main among their new acquaintance. They had their faults, and Mrs. Norris soon found them out. The Doctor was very fond of eating, and would have a good dinner every day; and Mrs. Grant, instead of contriving to gratify him at little expense, gave her cook as high wages as they did at Mansfield Park, and was scarcely ever seen in her offices. Mrs. Norris could not speak with any temper of such grievances, nor of the quantity of butter and eggs that were regularly consumed in the house. "Nobody loved plenty and hospitality more than herself; nobody more hated pitiful doings; the Parsonage, she believed, had never been wanting in comforts of any sort, had never borne a bad character in _her_ _time_, but this was a way of going on that she could not understand. A fine lady in a country parsonage was quite out of place. _Her_ store-room, she thought, might have been good enough for Mrs. Grant to go into. Inquire where she would, she could not find out that Mrs. Grant had ever had more than five thousand pounds."
Lady Bertram listened without much interest to this sort of invective. She could not enter into the wrongs of an economist, but she felt all the injuries of beauty in Mrs. Grant's being so well settled in life without being handsome, and expressed her astonishment on that point almost as often, though not so diffusely, as Mrs. Norris discussed the other.

The Grants, being friendly and sociable, gave great satisfaction among their new acquaintance. They had their faults, and Mrs. Norris soon found them out. The Doctor was very fond of eating, and would have a good dinner every day; and Mrs. Grant gave her cook as high wages as they did at Mansfield Park. Mrs. Norris could not speak with any temper of such grievances, nor of the quantity of butter and eggs that were consumed in the house. "Nobody loved plenty and hospitality more than herself; but this was a way of going on that she could not understand. A fine lady in a country parsonage was quite out of place. Inquire where she would, she could not find out that Mrs. Grant had ever had more than five thousand pounds."
Lady Bertram listened without much interest. She could not enter into the wrongs of an economist, but she felt astonishment in Mrs. Grant's being so well settled in life without being handsome.


These opinions had been hardly canvassed a year before another event arose of such importance in the family, as might fairly claim some place in the thoughts and conversation of the ladies. Sir Thomas found it expedient to go to Antigua himself, for the better arrangement of his affairs, and he took his eldest son with him, in the hope of detaching him from some bad connexions at home. They left England with the probability of being nearly a twelvemonth absent.
The necessity of the measure in a pecuniary light, and the hope of its utility to his son, reconciled Sir Thomas to the effort of quitting the rest of his family, and of leaving his daughters to the direction of others at their present most interesting time of life. He could not think Lady Bertram quite equal to supply his place with them, or rather, to perform what should have been her own; but, in Mrs. Norris's watchful attention, and in Edmund's judgment, he had sufficient confidence to make him go without fears for their conduct.
Lady Bertram did not at all like to have her husband leave her; but she was not disturbed by any alarm for his safety, or solicitude for his comfort, being one of those persons who think nothing can be dangerous, or difficult, or fatiguing to anybody but themselves.

Hardly a year on, another event arose of importance in the family. Sir Thomas needed to go to Antigua to sort out his affairs, and he took his eldest son, in the hope of detaching him from some bad connexions at home. They left England expecting to be a twelvemonth absent.
The necessity of the journey reconciled Sir Thomas to quitting the rest of his family, and leaving his daughters in the care of others. He could not think Lady Bertram quite equal to supply his place with them; but, in Mrs. Norris's watchful attention, and in Edmund's judgment, he had confidence.
Lady Bertram did not like to have her husband leave her; but she was not disturbed by any alarm for his safety, being one of those persons who think nothing can be dangerous or difficult to anybody but themselves.


The Miss Bertrams were much to be pitied on the occasion: not for their sorrow, but for their want of it. Their father was no object of love to them; he had never seemed the friend of their pleasures, and his absence was unhappily most welcome. They were relieved by it from all restraint; and without aiming at one gratification that would probably have been forbidden by Sir Thomas, they felt themselves immediately at their own disposal, and to have every indulgence within their reach. Fanny's relief, and her consciousness of it, were quite equal to her cousins'; but a more tender nature suggested that her feelings were ungrateful, and she really grieved because she could not grieve. "Sir Thomas, who had done so much for her and her brothers, and who was gone perhaps never to return! that she should see him go without a tear! it was a shameful insensibility." He had said to her, moreover, on the very last morning, that he hoped she might see William again in the course of the ensuing winter, and had charged her to write and invite him to Mansfield as soon as the squadron to which he belonged should be known to be in England. "This was so thoughtful and kind!" and would he only have smiled upon her, and called her "my dear Fanny," while he said it, every former frown or cold address might have been forgotten.

The Miss Bertrams were much to be pitied on the occasion: not for their sorrow, but for their lack of it. Their father was no object of love to them; his absence was unhappily most welcome. They were relieved by it from all restraint; they felt themselves at their own disposal, and to have every indulgence within their reach.
Fanny's relief was quite equal to her cousins'; but she really grieved because she could not grieve. "Sir Thomas, who had done so much for her, gone perhaps never to return! that she should see him go without a tear! it was a shameful insensibility." He had said to her, on the last morning, that he hoped she might see William again, and had told her to invite him to Mansfield when his squadron was in England. "This was so thoughtful and kind!" and if he had only smiled, and called her "my dear Fanny", every former cold address might have been forgotten.


But he had ended his speech in a way to sink her in sad mortification, by adding, "If William does come to Mansfield, I hope you may be able to convince him that the many years which have passed since you parted have not been spent on your side entirely without improvement; though, I fear, he must find his sister at sixteen in some respects too much like his sister at ten." She cried bitterly over this reflection when her uncle was gone; and her cousins, on seeing her with red eyes, set her down as a hypocrite.

But he had ended his speech by adding, "If William does come to Mansfield, I hope you may convince him that your years here have not been spent entirely without improvement; though, I fear, he must find his sister at sixteen too much like his sister at ten." She cried bitterly over this reflection when her uncle was gone; and her cousins, seeing her with red eyes, set her down as a hypocrite.


The ball was over, and the breakfast was soon over too; the last kiss was given, and William was gone. Mr. Crawford had, as he foretold, been very punctual, and short and pleasant had been the meal.
After seeing William to the last moment, Fanny walked back to the breakfast-room with a very saddened heart to grieve over the melancholy change; and there her uncle kindly left her to cry in peace, conceiving, perhaps, that the deserted chair of each young man might exercise her tender enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold pork bones and mustard in William's plate might but divide her feelings with the broken egg-shells in Mr. Crawford's. She sat and cried _con_ _amore_ as her uncle intended, but it was _con_ _amore_ fraternal and no other. William was gone, and she now felt as if she had wasted half his visit in idle cares and selfish solicitudes unconnected with him.
Fanny's disposition was such that she could never even think of her aunt Norris in the meagreness and cheerlessness of her own small house, without reproaching herself for some little want of attention to her when they had been last together; much less could her feelings acquit her of having done and said and thought everything by William that was due to him for a whole fortnight.

The breakfast was soon over; the last kiss was given, and William was gone. Mr. Crawford had been very punctual, and short and pleasant had been the meal.
Fanny walked back to the breakfast-room with a very saddened heart; and there her uncle kindly left her to cry in peace, conceiving, perhaps, that the cold pork bones in William's plate might but divide her feelings with the broken egg-shells in Mr. Crawford's. She sat and cried as her uncle intended, but for her brother only. William was gone, and she felt as if she had wasted half his visit in idle cares.


It was a heavy, melancholy day. Soon after the second breakfast, Edmund bade them good-bye for a week, and mounted his horse for Peterborough, and then all were gone. Nothing remained of last night but remembrances, which she had nobody to share in. She talked to her aunt Bertram-she must talk to somebody of the ball; but her aunt had seen so little of what had passed, and had so little curiosity, that it was heavy work. Lady Bertram was not certain of anybody's dress or anybody's place at supper but her own. "She could not recollect what it was that she had heard about one of the Miss Maddoxes, or what it was that Lady Prescott had noticed in Fanny: she was not sure whether Colonel Harrison had been talking of Mr. Crawford or of William when he said he was the finest young man in the room-somebody had whispered something to her; she had forgot to ask Sir Thomas what it could be." And these were her longest speeches and clearest communications: the rest was only a languid "Yes, yes; very well; did you? did he? I did not see _that_; I should not know one from the other." This was very bad.

It was a heavy, melancholy day. Edmund bade them good-bye for a week, and mounted his horse for Peterborough, and then all were gone. Nothing remained of last night but remembrances, which she had nobody to share in. She talked to her aunt Bertram, but it was heavy work. Lady Bertram was not certain of anybody's dress or anybody's place at supper but her own. Much of her conversation was a languid, "Yes, very well; did you? did he? I did not see that; I should not know one from the other." This was very bad.


It was only better than Mrs. Norris's sharp answers would have been; but she being gone home with all the supernumerary jellies to nurse a sick maid, there was peace and good-humour in their little party, though it could not boast much beside.
The evening was heavy like the day. "I cannot think what is the matter with me," said Lady Bertram, when the tea-things were removed. "I feel quite stupid. It must be sitting up so late last night. Fanny, you must do something to keep me awake. I cannot work. Fetch the cards; I feel so very stupid."

It was only better than Mrs. Norris's sharp answers would have been; but she was gone home with the leftover jellies to nurse a sick maid.
The evening was heavy like the day. "I cannot think what is the matter with me," said Lady Bertram. "I feel quite stupid. It must be sitting up so late last night. Fanny, you must do something to keep me awake. Fetch the cards; I feel so very stupid."


The cards were brought, and Fanny played at cribbage with her aunt till bedtime; and as Sir Thomas was reading to himself, no sounds were heard in the room for the next two hours beyond the reckonings of the game-"And _that_ makes thirty-one; four in hand and eight in crib. You are to deal, ma'am; shall I deal for you?" Fanny thought and thought again of the difference which twenty-four hours had made in that room, and all that part of the house. Last night it had been hope and smiles, bustle and motion, noise and brilliancy, in the drawing-room, and out of the drawing-room, and everywhere. Now it was languor, and all but solitude.
A good night's rest improved her spirits. She could think of William the next day more cheerfully; and as the morning afforded her an opportunity of talking over Thursday night with Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, in a very handsome style, with all the heightenings of imagination, and all the laughs of playfulness which are so essential to the shade of a departed ball, she could afterwards bring her mind without much effort into its everyday state, and easily conform to the tranquillity of the present quiet week.
They were indeed a smaller party than she had ever known there for a whole day together, and _he_ was gone on whom the comfort and cheerfulness of every family meeting and every meal chiefly depended. But this must be learned to be endured. He would soon be always gone; and she was thankful that she could now sit in the same room with her uncle, hear his voice, receive his questions, and even answer them, without such wretched feelings as she had formerly known.

The cards were brought, and Fanny played at cribbage with her aunt till bedtime; and as Sir Thomas was reading to himself, no sounds were heard in the room for the next two hours beyond the reckonings of the game-"And that makes thirty-one; four in hand and eight in crib. You are to deal, ma'am; shall I deal for you?" Fanny thought of the difference which twenty-four hours had made. Last night it had been bustle and motion, noise and brilliancy, everywhere. Now it was languor, and all but solitude.
A good night's rest improved her spirits. She could think of William more cheerfully; and as she was able to talk over Thursday night with Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, with all the playfulness so essential to the shade of a departed ball, she could afterwards bring her mind back to its everyday tranquillity.
They were a small party now, with Edmund gone. But she must learn to endure this. He would soon be always gone; and she was thankful that she could now sit in the same room with her uncle and answer his questions without such wretched feelings as formerly.


"We miss our two young men," was Sir Thomas's observation on both the first and second day, as they formed their very reduced circle after dinner; and in consideration of Fanny's swimming eyes, nothing more was said on the first day than to drink their good health; but on the second it led to something farther. William was kindly commended and his promotion hoped for. "And there is no reason to suppose," added Sir Thomas, "but that his visits to us may now be tolerably frequent. As to Edmund, we must learn to do without him. This will be the last winter of his belonging to us, as he has done."
"Yes," said Lady Bertram, "but I wish he was not going away. They are all going away, I think. I wish they would stay at home."

"We miss our two young men," observed Sir Thomas on the first day; and seeing Fanny's swimming eyes, said nothing more than to drink their good health; but on the second day, William was kindly commended and his promotion hoped for.
"His visits to us may now be more frequent," said Sir Thomas. "As to Edmund, we must learn to do without him. This will be the last winter of his belonging to us."
"Yes," said Lady Bertram, "but I wish he was not going away. They are all going away, I think. I wish they would stay at home."


This wish was levelled principally at Julia, who had just applied for permission to go to town with Maria; and as Sir Thomas thought it best for each daughter that the permission should be granted, Lady Bertram, though in her own good-nature she would not have prevented it, was lamenting the change it made in the prospect of Julia's return, which would otherwise have taken place about this time. A great deal of good sense followed on Sir Thomas's side, tending to reconcile his wife to the arrangement. Everything that a considerate parent _ought_ to feel was advanced for her use; and everything that an affectionate mother _must_ feel in promoting her children's enjoyment was attributed to her nature. Lady Bertram agreed to it all with a calm "Yes"; and at the end of a quarter of an hour's silent consideration spontaneously observed, "Sir Thomas, I have been thinking-and I am very glad we took Fanny as we did, for now the others are away we feel the good of it."
Sir Thomas immediately improved this compliment by adding, "Very true. We shew Fanny what a good girl we think her by praising her to her face, she is now a very valuable companion. If we have been kind to _her_, she is now quite as necessary to _us_."
"Yes," said Lady Bertram presently; "and it is a comfort to think that we shall always have _her_."
Sir Thomas paused, half smiled, glanced at his niece, and then gravely replied, "She will never leave us, I hope, till invited to some other home that may reasonably promise her greater happiness than she knows here."

This wish was levelled principally at Julia, who had just asked to go to town with Maria; and as Sir Thomas had granted permission, Lady Bertram was lamenting the change it made in the prospect of Julia's return. Sir Thomas used much good sense to reconcile his wife to the arrangement. Everything that an affectionate mother must feel in promoting her children's enjoyment was attributed to her nature. Lady Bertram agreed to it all, and then observed, "Sir Thomas, I am very glad we took Fanny as we did, for now the others are away we feel the good of it."
Sir Thomas immediately added, "Very true. We show Fanny what a good girl we think her by praising her to her face; she is now a very valuable companion."
"Yes," said Lady Bertram; "and it is a comfort to think that we shall always have her."
Sir Thomas half smiled, glanced at his niece, and gravely replied, "She will never leave us, I hope, till invited to some other home that may promise her greater happiness."


"And _that_ is not very likely to be, Sir Thomas. Who should invite her? Maria might be very glad to see her at Sotherton now and then, but she would not think of asking her to live there; and I am sure she is better off here; and besides, I cannot do without her."

"That is not very likely, Sir Thomas. Who should invite her? Maria would not think of asking her to live at Sotherton; and besides, I cannot do without her."