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. 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.

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 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.

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.


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 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.


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.


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 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.

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 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, 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."

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.

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 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.

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 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.

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."

"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."

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 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_."

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 presently; "and it is a comfort to think that we shall always have _her_."

"Yes," said Lady Bertram; "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."

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."


The week which passed so quietly and peaceably at the great house in Mansfield had a very different character at the Parsonage. To the young lady, at least, in each family, it brought very different feelings. What was tranquillity and comfort to Fanny was tediousness and vexation to Mary. Something arose from difference of disposition and habit: one so easily satisfied, the other so unused to endure; but still more might be imputed to difference of circumstances. In some points of interest they were exactly opposed to each other. To Fanny's mind, Edmund's absence was really, in its cause and its tendency, a relief. To Mary it was every way painful. She felt the want of his society every day, almost every hour, and was too much in want of it to derive anything but irritation from considering the object for which he went. He could not have devised anything more likely to raise his consequence than this week's absence, occurring as it did at the very time of her brother's going away, of William Price's going too, and completing the sort of general break-up of a party which had been so animated. She felt it keenly. They were now a miserable trio, confined within doors by a series of rain and snow, with nothing to do and no variety to hope for. Angry as she was with Edmund for adhering to his own notions, and acting on them in defiance of her (and she had been so angry that they had hardly parted friends at the ball), she could not help thinking of him continually when absent, dwelling on his merit and affection, and longing again for the almost daily meetings they lately had. His absence was unnecessarily long. He should not have planned such an absence-he should not have left home for a week, when her own departure from Mansfield was so near. Then she began to blame herself. She wished she had not spoken so warmly in their last conversation. She was afraid she had used some strong, some contemptuous expressions in speaking of the clergy, and that should not have been. It was ill-bred; it was wrong. She wished such words unsaid with all her heart.

The week which passed so quietly at the great house in Mansfield had a very different character at the Parsonage. What was tranquillity and comfort to Fanny was tediousness and vexation to Mary. To Fanny's mind, Edmund's absence was really, in its cause and its tendency, a relief. To Mary it was every way painful. She felt the want of his society almost every hour, and was irritated when she considered why he went. They were now a miserable trio at the Parsonage, confined within doors by rain and snow, with nothing to do. Angry as she was with Edmund for adhering to his own notions, and acting on them in defiance of her (and she had been so angry that they had hardly parted friends at the ball), she could not help thinking of him continually when absent, dwelling on his merit and affection, and longing again for their almost daily meetings. He should not have planned such an absence, when her own departure from Mansfield was so near.
Then she began to blame herself. She wished she had not spoken so warmly in their last conversation. She was afraid she had used some strong, contemptuous expressions in speaking of the clergy, and that was ill-bred; it was wrong. She wished such words unsaid with all her heart.


Her vexation did not end with the week. All this was bad, but she had still more to feel when Friday came round again and brought no Edmund; when Saturday came and still no Edmund; and when, through the slight communication with the other family which Sunday produced, she learned that he had actually written home to defer his return, having promised to remain some days longer with his friend.

All this was bad, but she had still more to feel when Friday came round again and brought no Edmund; Saturday, and still no Edmund; and when she learned that he had written home to defer his return, having promised to remain some days longer with his friend.


If she had felt impatience and regret before-if she had been sorry for what she said, and feared its too strong effect on him-she now felt and feared it all tenfold more. She had, moreover, to contend with one disagreeable emotion entirely new to her-jealousy. His friend Mr. Owen had sisters; he might find them attractive. But, at any rate, his staying away at a time when, according to all preceding plans, she was to remove to London, meant something that she could not bear. Had Henry returned, as he talked of doing, at the end of three or four days, she should now have been leaving Mansfield. It became absolutely necessary for her to get to Fanny and try to learn something more. She could not live any longer in such solitary wretchedness; and she made her way to the Park, through difficulties of walking which she had deemed unconquerable a week before, for the chance of hearing a little in addition, for the sake of at least hearing his name.

If she had felt impatience and regret before, she now felt it tenfold more. She had, moreover, to contend with an entirely new emotion-jealousy. His friend Mr. Owen had sisters; he might find them attractive. It became absolutely necessary for her to try to learn something more; and she made her way to the Park and Fanny, for the chance of hearing a little news, or at least hearing his name.


The first half-hour was lost, for Fanny and Lady Bertram were together, and unless she had Fanny to herself she could hope for nothing. But at last Lady Bertram left the room, and then almost immediately Miss Crawford thus began, with a voice as well regulated as she could-"And how do _you_ like your cousin Edmund's staying away so long? Being the only young person at home, I consider _you_ as the greatest sufferer. You must miss him. Does his staying longer surprise you?"

Miss Crawford thus began, with a voice as well regulated as she could-"And how do you like your cousin Edmund's staying away so long? You must miss him. Does his staying longer surprise you?"


"I do not know," said Fanny hesitatingly. "Yes; I had not particularly expected it."


"Perhaps he will always stay longer than he talks of. It is the general way all young men do."

"Perhaps he will stay longer than he talks of, as young men do."


"He did not, the only time he went to see Mr. Owen before."


"He finds the house more agreeable _now_. He is a very-a very pleasing young man himself, and I cannot help being rather concerned at not seeing him again before I go to London, as will now undoubtedly be the case. I am looking for Henry every day, and as soon as he comes there will be nothing to detain me at Mansfield. I should like to have seen him once more, I confess. But you must give my compliments to him. Yes; I think it must be compliments. Is not there a something wanted, Miss Price, in our language-a something between compliments and-and love-to suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have had together? So many months' acquaintance! But compliments may be sufficient here. Was his letter a long one? Does he give you much account of what he is doing? Is it Christmas gaieties that he is staying for?"

"He finds the house more agreeable now. He is a very-a very pleasing young man himself, and I cannot help being rather concerned at not seeing him again before I go to London. As soon as Henry comes there will be nothing to detain me at Mansfield. I should like to have seen him once more, I confess. But you must give my compliments to him. Yes; I think it must be compliments. Is not there a something needed, Miss Price, in our language-a something between compliments and-and love-to suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have had together? But compliments may be sufficient here. Was his letter a long one? Is it Christmas gaieties that he is staying for?"


"I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle; but I believe it was very short; indeed I am sure it was but a few lines. All that I heard was that his friend had pressed him to stay longer, and that he had agreed to do so. A _few_ days longer, or _some_ days longer; I am not quite sure which."

"I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle; but I believe it was very short. All that I heard was that his friend had pressed him to stay a few days longer, and that he had agreed to do so."


"Oh! if he wrote to his father; but I thought it might have been to Lady Bertram or you. But if he wrote to his father, no wonder he was concise. Who could write chat to Sir Thomas? If he had written to you, there would have been more particulars. You would have heard of balls and parties. He would have sent you a description of everything and everybody. How many Miss Owens are there?"

"Oh! if he wrote to his father, no wonder he was concise. Who could write chat to Sir Thomas? If he had written to you, there would have been particulars of balls and parties. He would have sent you a description of everybody. How many Miss Owens are there?"


"That is the first question, you know," said Miss Crawford, trying to appear gay and unconcerned, "which every woman who plays herself is sure to ask about another. But it is very foolish to ask questions about any young ladies-about any three sisters just grown up; for one knows, without being told, exactly what they are: all very accomplished and pleasing, and one very pretty. There is a beauty in every family; it is a regular thing. Two play on the pianoforte, and one on the harp; and all sing, or would sing if they were taught, or sing all the better for not being taught; or something like it."

"That is the first question, you know," said Miss Crawford, trying to appear gay and unconcerned, "which every woman who plays herself is sure to ask about another. But one knows, without being told, exactly what any three sisters must be: all very accomplished and pleasing, and one very pretty. Two play on the pianoforte, and one on the harp; and all sing, or would sing if they were taught, or sing all the better for not being taught; or something like it."


"I know nothing of the Miss Owens," said Fanny calmly.


"You know nothing and you care less, as people say. Never did tone express indifference plainer. Indeed, how can one care for those one has never seen? Well, when your cousin comes back, he will find Mansfield very quiet; all the noisy ones gone, your brother and mine and myself. I do not like the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant now the time draws near. She does not like my going."

"You know nothing and you care less, as people say. Indeed, how can one care for those one has never seen? Well, when your cousin comes back, he will find Mansfield very quiet; all the noisy ones gone, myself included. Mrs. Grant does not like my going."


Fanny felt obliged to speak. "You cannot doubt your being missed by many," said she. "You will be very much missed."


Miss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if wanting to hear or see more, and then laughingly said, "Oh yes! missed as every noisy evil is missed when it is taken away; that is, there is a great difference felt. But I am not fishing; don't compliment me. If I _am_ missed, it will appear. I may be discovered by those who want to see me. I shall not be in any doubtful, or distant, or unapproachable region."

Miss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if wanting to hear or see more, and then laughingly said, "Oh yes! missed as every noisy evil is missed when it is taken away. But I may be found by those who want to see me. I shall not be in any distant, or unapproachable region."


Now Fanny could not bring herself to speak, and Miss Crawford was disappointed; for she had hoped to hear some pleasant assurance of her power from one who she thought must know, and her spirits were clouded again.

Now Fanny could not bring herself to speak, and Miss Crawford was disappointed; for she had hoped to hear some pleasant assurance of her power from one who she thought must know.


"The Miss Owens," said she, soon afterwards; "suppose you were to have one of the Miss Owens settled at Thornton Lacey; how should you like it? Stranger things have happened. I dare say they are trying for it. And they are quite in the right, for it would be a very pretty establishment for them. I do not at all wonder or blame them. It is everybody's duty to do as well for themselves as they can. Sir Thomas Bertram's son is somebody; and now he is in their own line. Their father is a clergyman, and their brother is a clergyman, and they are all clergymen together. He is their lawful property; he fairly belongs to them. You don't speak, Fanny; Miss Price, you don't speak. But honestly now, do not you rather expect it than otherwise?"

"The Miss Owens," said she, "suppose you were to have one of the Miss Owens settled at Thornton Lacey; how should you like it? I dare say they are trying for it. It would be a very pretty establishment for them. Their father is a clergyman, and their brother is a clergyman, and they are all clergymen together. You don't speak, Fanny; but honestly now, do not you rather expect it?"


"No," said Fanny stoutly, "I do not expect it at all."


"Not at all!" cried Miss Crawford with alacrity. "I wonder at that. But I dare say you know exactly-I always imagine you are-perhaps you do not think him likely to marry at all-or not at present."

"Not at all!" cried Miss Crawford with alacrity. "But I dare say you know-perhaps you do not think him likely to marry at all-or not at present."


"No, I do not," said Fanny softly, hoping she did not err either in the belief or the acknowledgment of it.

"No, I do not," said Fanny softly, hoping she did not err.


Her companion looked at her keenly; and gathering greater spirit from the blush soon produced from such a look, only said, "He is best off as he is," and turned the subject.

Her companion looked at her keenly; and gathering greater spirit from Fanny's blush, only said, "He is best off as he is," and turned the subject.


Henry Crawford was at Mansfield Park again the next morning, and at an earlier hour than common visiting warrants. The two ladies were together in the breakfast-room, and, fortunately for him, Lady Bertram was on the very point of quitting it as he entered. She was almost at the door, and not chusing by any means to take so much trouble in vain, she still went on, after a civil reception, a short sentence about being waited for, and a "Let Sir Thomas know" to the servant.

Henry Crawford was at Mansfield Park again early the next morning. Lady Bertram was quitting the breakfast-room as he entered.


Henry, overjoyed to have her go, bowed and watched her off, and without losing another moment, turned instantly to Fanny, and, taking out some letters, said, with a most animated look, "I must acknowledge myself infinitely obliged to any creature who gives me such an opportunity of seeing you alone: I have been wishing it more than you can have any idea. Knowing as I do what your feelings as a sister are, I could hardly have borne that any one in the house should share with you in the first knowledge of the news I now bring. He is made. Your brother is a lieutenant. I have the infinite satisfaction of congratulating you on your brother's promotion. Here are the letters which announce it, this moment come to hand. You will, perhaps, like to see them."

Henry, overjoyed to have her go, bowed and watched her off, and then turned instantly to Fanny, and, taking out some letters, said, "I have been wishing to see you alone. Knowing what your feelings as a sister are, I could hardly have borne that any one should share with you in the first knowledge of the news I bring. Your brother is a lieutenant. I have the infinite satisfaction of congratulating you on your brother's promotion. Here are the letters which announce it. You will, perhaps, like to see them."


Fanny could not speak, but he did not want her to speak. To see the expression of her eyes, the change of her complexion, the progress of her feelings, their doubt, confusion, and felicity, was enough. She took the letters as he gave them. The first was from the Admiral to inform his nephew, in a few words, of his having succeeded in the object he had undertaken, the promotion of young Price, and enclosing two more, one from the Secretary of the First Lord to a friend, whom the Admiral had set to work in the business, the other from that friend to himself, by which it appeared that his lordship had the very great happiness of attending to the recommendation of Sir Charles; that Sir Charles was much delighted in having such an opportunity of proving his regard for Admiral Crawford, and that the circumstance of Mr. William Price's commission as Second Lieutenant of H.M. Sloop Thrush being made out was spreading general joy through a wide circle of great people.

Fanny could not speak; but for him to see the expression of her eyes, the change of her complexion, was enough. She took the letters. The first was from the Admiral to inform his nephew of his having succeeded in the promotion of young Price, and enclosing two more, one from the Secretary of the First Lord to a friend, whom the Admiral had set to work in the business, the other from that friend to himself; in which it appeared that Sir Charles was delighted to prove his regard for Admiral Crawford, by the commission of Mr. William Price as Second Lieutenant.


While her hand was trembling under these letters, her eye running from one to the other, and her heart swelling with emotion, Crawford thus continued, with unfeigned eagerness, to express his interest in the event-

While her hand was trembling under these letters, her heart swelling with emotion, Crawford thus continued eagerly-


"I will not talk of my own happiness," said he, "great as it is, for I think only of yours. Compared with you, who has a right to be happy? I have almost grudged myself my own prior knowledge of what you ought to have known before all the world. I have not lost a moment, however. The post was late this morning, but there has not been since a moment's delay. How impatient, how anxious, how wild I have been on the subject, I will not attempt to describe; how severely mortified, how cruelly disappointed, in not having it finished while I was in London! I was kept there from day to day in the hope of it, for nothing less dear to me than such an object would have detained me half the time from Mansfield. But though my uncle entered into my wishes with all the warmth I could desire, and exerted himself immediately, there were difficulties from the absence of one friend, and the engagements of another, which at last I could no longer bear to stay the end of, and knowing in what good hands I left the cause, I came away on Monday, trusting that many posts would not pass before I should be followed by such very letters as these. My uncle, who is the very best man in the world, has exerted himself, as I knew he would, after seeing your brother. He was delighted with him. I would not allow myself yesterday to say how delighted, or to repeat half that the Admiral said in his praise. I deferred it all till his praise should be proved the praise of a friend, as this day _does_ prove it. _Now_ I may say that even I could not require William Price to excite a greater interest, or be followed by warmer wishes and higher commendation, than were most voluntarily bestowed by my uncle after the evening they had passed together."

"I will not talk of my own happiness," said he, "for I think only of yours. I have not lost a moment in bringing the news. How impatient, how anxious, how wild I have been; how cruelly disappointed, in not having the business finished while I was in London! I stayed there from day to day in the hope of it, for nothing less would have kept me from Mansfield. But there were difficulties and delays, and I came away on Monday, trusting that I should very soon be followed by such letters as these. My uncle, who is the very best man in the world, has exerted himself, as I knew he would, after seeing your brother. He was delighted with him. He gave William the highest commendation after the evening they passed together."


"Has this been all _your_ doing, then?" cried Fanny. "Good heaven! how very, very kind! Have you really-was it by _your_ desire? I beg your pardon, but I am bewildered. Did Admiral Crawford apply? How was it? I am stupefied."

"Has this been all your doing, then?" cried Fanny. "How very, very kind! I beg your pardon, but I am bewildered. Did Admiral Crawford apply? How was it? I am stupefied."


Henry was most happy to make it more intelligible, by beginning at an earlier stage, and explaining very particularly what he had done. His last journey to London had been undertaken with no other view than that of introducing her brother in Hill Street, and prevailing on the Admiral to exert whatever interest he might have for getting him on. This had been his business. He had communicated it to no creature: he had not breathed a syllable of it even to Mary; while uncertain of the issue, he could not have borne any participation of his feelings, but this had been his business; and he spoke with such a glow of what his solicitude had been, and used such strong expressions, was so abounding in the _deepest_ _interest_, in _twofold_ _motives_, in _views_ _and_ _wishes_ _more_ _than_ _could_ _be_ _told_, that Fanny could not have remained insensible of his drift, had she been able to attend; but her heart was so full and her senses still so astonished, that she could listen but imperfectly even to what he told her of William, and saying only when he paused, "How kind! how very kind! Oh, Mr. Crawford, we are infinitely obliged to you! Dearest, dearest William!" She jumped up and moved in haste towards the door, crying out, "I will go to my uncle. My uncle ought to know it as soon as possible." But this could not be suffered. The opportunity was too fair, and his feelings too impatient. He was after her immediately. "She must not go, she must allow him five minutes longer," and he took her hand and led her back to her seat, and was in the middle of his farther explanation, before she had suspected for what she was detained. When she did understand it, however, and found herself expected to believe that she had created sensations which his heart had never known before, and that everything he had done for William was to be placed to the account of his excessive and unequalled attachment to her, she was exceedingly distressed, and for some moments unable to speak. She considered it all as nonsense, as mere trifling and gallantry, which meant only to deceive for the hour; she could not but feel that it was treating her improperly and unworthily, and in such a way as she had not deserved; but it was like himself, and entirely of a piece with what she had seen before; and she would not allow herself to shew half the displeasure she felt, because he had been conferring an obligation, which no want of delicacy on his part could make a trifle to her. While her heart was still bounding with joy and gratitude on William's behalf, she could not be severely resentful of anything that injured only herself; and after having twice drawn back her hand, and twice attempted in vain to turn away from him, she got up, and said only, with much agitation, "Don't, Mr. Crawford, pray don't! I beg you would not. This is a sort of talking which is very unpleasant to me. I must go away. I cannot bear it." But he was still talking on, describing his affection, soliciting a return, and, finally, in words so plain as to bear but one meaning even to her, offering himself, hand, fortune, everything, to her acceptance. It was so; he had said it. Her astonishment and confusion increased; and though still not knowing how to suppose him serious, she could hardly stand. He pressed for an answer.

Henry was happy to explain what he had done. His journey to London had been undertaken with no other view than that of introducing her brother to the Admiral and prevailing on him to exert his interest. This had been his business.
He spoke with such a glow, used such strong expressions, and was so abounding in twofold motives, that Fanny could not have remained unaware of his drift, had she been able to attend; but her heart was so full that she could only listen imperfectly, saying when he paused, "How very kind! Oh, Mr. Crawford, we are infinitely obliged to you! Dearest William!" She jumped up, crying out, "My uncle ought to know it as soon as possible."
But this could not be allowed. The opportunity was too fair, and his feelings too impatient. He was after her immediately. "She must not go, she must allow him five minutes longer." He led her back to her seat, and was in the middle of his farther explanation, before she had suspected for what she was detained.
When she did understand it, however, and found herself expected to believe that she had created sensations which his heart had never known before, and that everything he had done for William was because of his attachment to her, she was exceedingly distressed, and for some moments unable to speak. She considered it all as nonsense, as mere trifling and gallantry; he was treating her improperly, and in a way that she had not deserved; but it was like himself, and entirely of a piece with what she had seen before; and she would not allow herself to show displeasure, after he had conferred such an obligation. While her heart was still bounding with joy and gratitude on William's behalf, she could not be severe; and after having twice drawn back her hand, and attempted in vain to turn away, she got up, and said only, with much agitation, "Don't, Mr. Crawford, pray don't! I beg you would not. This sort of talking is very unpleasant to me. I must go away. I cannot bear it."
But he was still talking on, describing his affection, and finally offering himself, hand, fortune, everything, to her acceptance. It was so; he had said it. Her astonishment and confusion increased; and though still not supposing him serious, she could hardly stand. He pressed for an answer.


"No, no, no!" she cried, hiding her face. "This is all nonsense. Do not distress me. I can hear no more of this. Your kindness to William makes me more obliged to you than words can express; but I do not want, I cannot bear, I must not listen to such-No, no, don't think of me. But you are _not_ thinking of me. I know it is all nothing."

"No, no, no!" she cried, hiding her face. "This is all nonsense. I can hear no more of this. Your kindness to William makes me more obliged to you than words can express; but I do not want, I cannot bear, I must not listen to such-No, no, don't think of me. But you are not thinking of me. I know it is all nothing."


She had burst away from him, and at that moment Sir Thomas was heard speaking to a servant in his way towards the room they were in. It was no time for farther assurances or entreaty, though to part with her at a moment when her modesty alone seemed, to his sanguine and preassured mind, to stand in the way of the happiness he sought, was a cruel necessity. She rushed out at an opposite door from the one her uncle was approaching, and was walking up and down the East room in the utmost confusion of contrary feeling, before Sir Thomas's politeness or apologies were over, or he had reached the beginning of the joyful intelligence which his visitor came to communicate.

She burst away from him, and at that moment Sir Thomas was heard speaking to a servant just outside the room. She rushed out at an opposite door from the one her uncle was approaching, and was walking up and down the East room in the utmost confusion of feeling, before Sir Thomas had reached the beginning of the joyful news which his visitor came to communicate.


She was feeling, thinking, trembling about everything; agitated, happy, miserable, infinitely obliged, absolutely angry. It was all beyond belief! He was inexcusable, incomprehensible! But such were his habits that he could do nothing without a mixture of evil. He had previously made her the happiest of human beings, and now he had insulted-she knew not what to say, how to class, or how to regard it. She would not have him be serious, and yet what could excuse the use of such words and offers, if they meant but to trifle?

She was feeling, thinking, trembling about everything; agitated, happy, miserable, infinitely obliged, absolutely angry. It was all beyond belief! He was inexcusable, incomprehensible! But such were his habits that he could do nothing without a mixture of evil. He had previously made her the happiest of human beings, and now he had insulted-she knew not how to regard it. She did not want him to be serious, and yet what could excuse his words, if they meant but to trifle?


But William was a lieutenant. _That_ was a fact beyond a doubt, and without an alloy. She would think of it for ever and forget all the rest. Mr. Crawford would certainly never address her so again: he must have seen how unwelcome it was to her; and in that case, how gratefully she could esteem him for his friendship to William!

But William was a lieutenant. That was a fact beyond a doubt. She would think of it and forget all the rest. Mr. Crawford would certainly never address her so again: he must have seen how unwelcome it was to her; and in that case, how gratefully she could esteem him for his friendship to William!


She would not stir farther from the East room than the head of the great staircase, till she had satisfied herself of Mr. Crawford's having left the house; but when convinced of his being gone, she was eager to go down and be with her uncle, and have all the happiness of his joy as well as her own, and all the benefit of his information or his conjectures as to what would now be William's destination. Sir Thomas was as joyful as she could desire, and very kind and communicative; and she had so comfortable a talk with him about William as to make her feel as if nothing had occurred to vex her, till she found, towards the close, that Mr. Crawford was engaged to return and dine there that very day. This was a most unwelcome hearing, for though he might think nothing of what had passed, it would be quite distressing to her to see him again so soon.

She would not stir from the East room till she had satisfied herself of Mr. Crawford's having left the house; but when convinced of his being gone, she was eager to go down and share her joy with her uncle. Sir Thomas was as joyful as she could desire, and she had so comfortable a talk with him about William as to make her feel as if nothing had occurred to vex her, till she found that Mr. Crawford was engaged to return and dine there that very day. This was most unwelcome.


She tried to get the better of it; tried very hard, as the dinner hour approached, to feel and appear as usual; but it was quite impossible for her not to look most shy and uncomfortable when their visitor entered the room. She could not have supposed it in the power of any concurrence of circumstances to give her so many painful sensations on the first day of hearing of William's promotion.


Mr. Crawford was not only in the room-he was soon close to her. He had a note to deliver from his sister. Fanny could not look at him, but there was no consciousness of past folly in his voice. She opened her note immediately, glad to have anything to do, and happy, as she read it, to feel that the fidgetings of her aunt Norris, who was also to dine there, screened her a little from view.

Mr. Crawford was soon close to her; he had a note to deliver from his sister. Fanny could not look at him. She opened her note immediately, glad to have anything to do, and happy, as she read it, to feel that the fidgetings of her aunt Norris screened her from view.


"MY DEAR FANNY,-for so I may now always call you, to the infinite relief of a tongue that has been stumbling at _Miss_ _Price_ for at least the last six weeks-I cannot let my brother go without sending you a few lines of general congratulation, and giving my most joyful consent and approval. Go on, my dear Fanny, and without fear; there can be no difficulties worth naming. I chuse to suppose that the assurance of my consent will be something; so you may smile upon him with your sweetest smiles this afternoon, and send him back to me even happier than he goes.

"My dear Fanny,-for so I may now always call you-I cannot let my brother go without sending you a few lines of congratulation, and giving my most joyful consent and approval. Go on, my dear Fanny, and without fear; there can be no difficulties worth naming. I choose to suppose that my consent will be something; so you may smile upon him with your sweetest smiles this afternoon, and send him back to me even happier than he goes


These were not expressions to do Fanny any good; for though she read in too much haste and confusion to form the clearest judgment of Miss Crawford's meaning, it was evident that she meant to compliment her on her brother's attachment, and even to _appear_ to believe it serious. She did not know what to do, or what to think. There was wretchedness in the idea of its being serious; there was perplexity and agitation every way. She was distressed whenever Mr. Crawford spoke to her, and he spoke to her much too often; and she was afraid there was a something in his voice and manner in addressing her very different from what they were when he talked to the others. Her comfort in that day's dinner was quite destroyed: she could hardly eat anything; and when Sir Thomas good-humouredly observed that joy had taken away her appetite, she was ready to sink with shame, from the dread of Mr. Crawford's interpretation; for though nothing could have tempted her to turn her eyes to the right hand, where he sat, she felt that _his_ were immediately directed towards her.

These were not expressions to do Fanny any good; for though she read in too much haste and confusion to form the clearest judgment of Miss Crawford's meaning, it was evident that she meant to compliment her on her brother's attachment, and believed it serious. Fanny did not know what to do. There was wretchedness in the idea of its being serious; there was perplexity every way. She was distressed whenever Mr. Crawford spoke to her, and he spoke to her much too often. She could hardly eat; and when Sir Thomas good-humouredly observed that joy had taken away her appetite, she was ready to sink with shame; for though nothing could have tempted her to turn her eyes to Mr. Crawford, she felt that his were immediately directed towards her.


She was more silent than ever. She would hardly join even when William was the subject, for his commission came all from the right hand too, and there was pain in the connexion.

She was more silent than ever, hardly joining even when William was the subject.


She thought Lady Bertram sat longer than ever, and began to be in despair of ever getting away; but at last they were in the drawing-room, and she was able to think as she would, while her aunts finished the subject of William's appointment in their own style.

She began to despair of ever getting away; but at last they were in the drawing-room, where her aunts finished the subject of William's appointment in their own style.


Mrs. Norris seemed as much delighted with the saving it would be to Sir Thomas as with any part of it. "_Now_ William would be able to keep himself, which would make a vast difference to his uncle, for it was unknown how much he had cost his uncle; and, indeed, it would make some difference in _her_ presents too. She was very glad that she had given William what she did at parting, very glad, indeed, that it had been in her power, without material inconvenience, just at that time to give him something rather considerable; that is, for _her_, with _her_ limited means, for now it would all be useful in helping to fit up his cabin. She knew he must be at some expense, that he would have many things to buy, though to be sure his father and mother would be able to put him in the way of getting everything very cheap; but she was very glad she had contributed her mite towards it."

Mrs. Norris seemed delighted with the saving it would be to Sir Thomas. "Now William would be able to keep himself, which would make a vast difference to his uncle; and, indeed, it would make some difference in her presents too. She was very glad that she had given William something considerable at parting, for now it would be useful in helping to fit up his cabin."


"I am glad you gave him something considerable," said Lady Bertram, with most unsuspicious calmness, "for _I_ gave him only 10."

"I am glad you gave him something considerable," said Lady Bertram, with most unsuspicious calmness, "for I gave him only 10."


"Indeed!" cried Mrs. Norris, reddening. "Upon my word, he must have gone off with his pockets well lined, and at no expense for his journey to London either!"

"Indeed!" cried Mrs. Norris, reddening. "Upon my word, he must have gone off with his pockets well lined!"


"Sir Thomas told me 10 would be enough."


Mrs. Norris, being not at all inclined to question its sufficiency, began to take the matter in another point.

Mrs. Norris, being not at all inclined to question its sufficiency, began on another point.


"It is amazing," said she, "how much young people cost their friends, what with bringing them up and putting them out in the world! They little think how much it comes to, or what their parents, or their uncles and aunts, pay for them in the course of the year. Now, here are my sister Price's children; take them all together, I dare say nobody would believe what a sum they cost Sir Thomas every year, to say nothing of what _I_ do for them."

"It is amazing," said she, "how much young people cost their friends, what with bringing them up and putting them out in the world! Now, take my sister Price's children; nobody would believe what they cost Sir Thomas every year, to say nothing of what I do for them."


"Very true, sister, as you say. But, poor things! they cannot help it; and you know it makes very little difference to Sir Thomas. Fanny, William must not forget my shawl if he goes to the East Indies; and I shall give him a commission for anything else that is worth having. I wish he may go to the East Indies, that I may have my shawl. I think I will have two shawls, Fanny."

"Very true, sister, as you say. But, poor things! they cannot help it; and you know it makes very little difference to Sir Thomas. Fanny, William must not forget my shawl if he goes to the East Indies. I wish he may go there, so that I may have my shawl. I think I will have two shawls, Fanny."


Fanny, meanwhile, speaking only when she could not help it, was very earnestly trying to understand what Mr. and Miss Crawford were at. There was everything in the world _against_ their being serious but his words and manner. Everything natural, probable, reasonable, was against it; all their habits and ways of thinking, and all her own demerits. How could _she_ have excited serious attachment in a man who had seen so many, and been admired by so many, and flirted with so many, infinitely her superiors; who seemed so little open to serious impressions, even where pains had been taken to please him; who thought so slightly, so carelessly, so unfeelingly on all such points; who was everything to everybody, and seemed to find no one essential to him? And farther, how could it be supposed that his sister, with all her high and worldly notions of matrimony, would be forwarding anything of a serious nature in such a quarter? Nothing could be more unnatural in either. Fanny was ashamed of her own doubts. Everything might be possible rather than serious attachment, or serious approbation of it toward her. She had quite convinced herself of this before Sir Thomas and Mr. Crawford joined them. The difficulty was in maintaining the conviction quite so absolutely after Mr. Crawford was in the room; for once or twice a look seemed forced on her which she did not know how to class among the common meaning; in any other man, at least, she would have said that it meant something very earnest, very pointed. But she still tried to believe it no more than what he might often have expressed towards her cousins and fifty other women.

Fanny, meanwhile, was very earnestly trying to understand what Mr. and Miss Crawford were at. Everything reasonable was against their being serious. How could she have attached a man who had been admired by so many, and flirted with so many, infinitely her superiors; who seemed so little open to serious impressions; who thought so carelessly, so unfeelingly on all such points, who was everything to everybody, and seemed to find no one essential to him? And could his sister, with all her worldly notions of matrimony, be forwarding anything serious in such a quarter? It was not possible. She had quite convinced herself of this before Sir Thomas and Mr. Crawford joined them. The difficulty was in maintaining the conviction after Mr. Crawford was in the room.


She thought he was wishing to speak to her unheard by the rest. She fancied he was trying for it the whole evening at intervals, whenever Sir Thomas was out of the room, or at all engaged with Mrs. Norris, and she carefully refused him every opportunity.

She thought he was wishing to speak to her unheard by the rest. She fancied he was trying for it the whole evening, whenever Sir Thomas was engaged with Mrs. Norris, and she carefully refused him every opportunity.


At last-it seemed an at last to Fanny's nervousness, though not remarkably late-he began to talk of going away; but the comfort of the sound was impaired by his turning to her the next moment, and saying, "Have you nothing to send to Mary? No answer to her note? She will be disappointed if she receives nothing from you. Pray write to her, if it be only a line."

At last he began to talk of going away; but turning to her the next moment, he said, "Have you nothing to send to Mary? No answer to her note? She will be disappointed if she receives nothing from you. Pray write to her, if it be only a line."


"Oh yes! certainly," cried Fanny, rising in haste, the haste of embarrassment and of wanting to get away-"I will write directly."

"Oh yes! certainly," cried Fanny, rising in embarrassed haste and wanting to get away-"I will write directly."


She went accordingly to the table, where she was in the habit of writing for her aunt, and prepared her materials without knowing what in the world to say. She had read Miss Crawford's note only once, and how to reply to anything so imperfectly understood was most distressing. Quite unpractised in such sort of note-writing, had there been time for scruples and fears as to style she would have felt them in abundance: but something must be instantly written; and with only one decided feeling, that of wishing not to appear to think anything really intended, she wrote thus, in great trembling both of spirits and hand-

She went to the table, and prepared her writing materials without knowing what in the world to say. She had read Miss Crawford's note only once, and how to reply to anything so imperfectly understood was most distressing. Yet something must be written; and wishing not to appear to think anything really intended, she wrote thus, in great trembling both of spirits and hand-


"I am very much obliged to you, my dear Miss Crawford, for your kind congratulations, as far as they relate to my dearest William. The rest of your note I know means nothing; but I am so unequal to anything of the sort, that I hope you will excuse my begging you to take no farther notice. I have seen too much of Mr. Crawford not to understand his manners; if he understood me as well, he would, I dare say, behave differently. I do not know what I write, but it would be a great favour of you never to mention the subject again. With thanks for the honour of your note,


I remain, dear Miss Crawford, etc., etc."


The conclusion was scarcely intelligible from increasing fright, for she found that Mr. Crawford, under pretence of receiving the note, was coming towards her.

The conclusion was scarcely intelligible from increasing fright, for she found that Mr. Crawford was coming towards her.


"You cannot think I mean to hurry you," said he, in an undervoice, perceiving the amazing trepidation with which she made up the note, "you cannot think I have any such object. Do not hurry yourself, I entreat."

"I do not mean to hurry you," said he, in an undervoice.


"Oh! I thank you; I have quite done, just done; it will be ready in a moment; I am very much obliged to you; if you will be so good as to give _that_ to Miss Crawford."

"Oh! I thank you; it will be ready in a moment; I am very much obliged; if you will be so good as to give that to Miss Crawford."


The note was held out, and must be taken; and as she instantly and with averted eyes walked towards the fireplace, where sat the others, he had nothing to do but to go in good earnest.

The note was held out, and must be taken; and as she instantly and with averted eyes walked towards the fireplace, he had nothing to do but to go.


Fanny thought she had never known a day of greater agitation, both of pain and pleasure; but happily the pleasure was not of a sort to die with the day; for every day would restore the knowledge of William's advancement, whereas the pain, she hoped, would return no more. She had no doubt that her note must appear excessively ill-written, that the language would disgrace a child, for her distress had allowed no arrangement; but at least it would assure them both of her being neither imposed on nor gratified by Mr. Crawford's attentions.

Fanny thought she had never known a day of greater agitation, both of pain and pleasure; but happily the pleasure was not of a sort to die with the day; whereas the pain, she hoped, would return no more. She had no doubt that her note must appear excessively ill-written, that the language would disgrace a child; but at least it would assure them both of her being neither imposed on nor gratified by Mr. Crawford's attentions.


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

Everything was now in train: theatre, actors, actresses, and dresses, were all getting forward; but Fanny found that it was not all uninterrupted enjoyment to the party. Everybody began to have their vexation. Edmund had many. Against his judgment, a scene-painter arrived from town, and was at work, increasing the expenses; and his brother was giving an invitation to every family who came in his way. Tom himself began to fret, and to feel the miseries of waiting. He had learned his part-all his parts, for he took every trifling one that could be united with the Butler, and was impatient to be acting.


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

Fanny, being a very courteous listener, came in for the complaints of most of them. She knew that Mr. Yates was in general thought to rant dreadfully; that Mr. Yates was disappointed in Henry Crawford; that Tom Bertram spoke too quick; that Mrs. Grant spoiled everything by laughing; that Edmund was behindhand with his part, and that it was misery to have anything to do with Mr. Rushworth, who needed a prompter through every speech. She knew, also, that poor Mr. Rushworth could seldom get anybody to rehearse with him: and so decidedly did her cousin Maria avoid him, and so needlessly often did she rehearse the first scene with Mr. Crawford, that Fanny was soon terrified of other complaints from him.
So far from being all satisfied, everybody required something they had not. Everybody had a part either too long or too short; nobody would attend as they ought; nobody would remember on which side they were to come in; nobody but the complainer would observe any directions.


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

Fanny derived much innocent enjoyment from the play. Henry Crawford acted well, and it was a pleasure to her to creep into the theatre, and attend the rehearsal of the first act, in spite of the feelings it excited in some speeches for Maria. Maria also acted well, too well. Fanny began to be their only audience, sometimes as prompter, sometimes as spectator.
As far as she could judge, Mr. Crawford was the best actor of all: he had more confidence than Edmund, more judgment than Tom, more talent and taste than Mr. Yates. She did not like him, but she must admit him to be the best actor. The day came at last, when Mr. Rushworth turned to her with a black look, and said, "Do you think there is anything so very fine in all this? For the life and soul of me, I cannot admire him. To see such an undersized man set up for a fine actor, is ridiculous in my opinion."


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

From this moment there was a return of his jealousy, which Maria, from increasing hopes of Crawford, was at little pains to remove; and the chances of Mr. Rushworth's ever learning his two-and-forty speeches became much less. As to his ever making anything tolerable of them, nobody had the smallest idea of that; they aspired at nothing beyond his remembering the first line of his speech, and being able to follow the prompter through the rest. Fanny, in her pity and kindheartedness, was at great pains to teach him how to learn, trying to make an artificial memory for him, and learning every word of his part herself, but without his being much the forwarder.


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

Many apprehensive feelings she certainly had; but with these claims on her attention, she was far from finding herself without employment. She was occasionally useful to all; she was perhaps as much at peace as any.


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

There was a great deal of needlework to be done, moreover, in which her help was wanted; and Mrs. Norris thought her quite as well off as the rest-"Come, Fanny," she cried, "these are fine times for you, but you must not be always looking on at your ease; I want you here. I have been slaving till I can hardly stand, to contrive Mr. Rushworth's cloak without sending for more satin; now you may help me in putting it together. There are but three seams; you may do them in a trice. If nobody did more than you, we should not get on very fast."


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

Fanny took the work very quietly, but her kinder aunt Bertram observed-


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

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


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

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


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

"I believe," said Fanny to her aunt Bertram, "there will be three acts rehearsed to-morrow evening, when you may see all the actors."


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

"You had better stay till the curtain is hung," interposed Mrs. Norris; "the curtain will be hung in a day or two, and you will find it draws up into very handsome festoons."


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

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


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

She had read and read the scene again with many painful, wondering emotions. She did not believe they had yet rehearsed it, even in private.


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

The morrow came, and Fanny worked diligently under her aunt's directions, but her diligence concealed a very absent, anxious mind. About noon she made her escape with her work to the East room, to avoid another unnecessary rehearsal of the first act, which Henry Crawford was proposing. She worked and meditated in the East room, undisturbed, for a quarter of an hour, when a gentle tap at the door was followed by the entrance of Miss Crawford.


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

"Am I right? Yes; this is the East room. My dear Miss Price, I beg your pardon, but I have come to entreat your help."


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

Fanny, surprised, answered civilly, and looked at the bars of her empty grate with concern.


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

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


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


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

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


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

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


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

"None of it, I suppose. We must have two chairs for the front of the stage. There-very good school-room chairs, fitted for little girls to sit and kick their feet against. What would your governess and your uncle say to see them used for such a purpose? If Sir Thomas could see us now, he would bless himself, for we are rehearsing all over the house. Yates is storming away in the dining-room, and the theatre is engaged of course by Agatha and Frederick. By the bye, I looked in upon them five minutes ago, at exactly one of the times when they were trying not to embrace, and Mr. Rushworth was with me. I thought he began to look a little queer, so I whispered to him, 'We shall have an excellent Agatha; there is something so completely maternal in her manner.' Was not that well done of me? He brightened up directly. Now for my soliloquy."


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

She began, and Fanny joined in, but with looks and voice so feminine as to be no very good picture of a man. With such an Anhalt, however, Miss Crawford had courage enough; and they had got through half the scene, when a tap at the door, and the entrance of Edmund, suspended it.


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

Surprise, consciousness, and pleasure appeared in each on this unexpected meeting. Edmund was come on the very same business that had brought Miss Crawford. He too had his book, and was seeking Fanny to ask her to rehearse with him, without knowing Miss Crawford was in the house. Great was the joy of being thus thrown together, and sympathising in praise of Fanny's kind offices.


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

She could not equal them in their warmth. Her spirits sank under the glow of theirs, and she felt herself becoming too nearly nothing to both to have any comfort in having been sought by either.
They must now rehearse together. Edmund entreated it, till the lady, not very unwilling, could refuse no longer, and Fanny was wanted only to prompt and observe them. She was earnestly desired to tell them all their faults; but shrank from the task. To prompt them must be enough; and it was sometimes more than enough; for in watching them she forgot herself; and, agitated by the increasing spirit of Edmund's manner, closed the page and turned away exactly as he wanted help. It was imputed to very reasonable weariness, and she was thanked and pitied; but she deserved their pity more than she hoped they would ever guess.
At last the scene was over, and Fanny forced herself to add her praise to the compliments each was giving the other. When again alone, she was inclined to believe their performance would, indeed, have such feeling in it as must ensure their credit, and make it very painful to herself. However, she must bear the brunt of it again that very day.


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

The rehearsal of the three first acts was to take place in the evening; and everyone concerned was looking forward with eagerness. With the exception of Lady Bertram, Mrs. Norris, and Julia, everybody was in the theatre early, waiting only the arrival of Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords to begin.


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

They did not wait long for the Crawfords, but there was no Mrs. Grant. She could not come. Dr. Grant, who was ill, could not spare his wife.


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


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

Here was disappointment! They could not rehearse without her. What was to be done? After a pause, some eyes were turned towards Fanny, and a voice said, "If Miss Price would be so good as to read the part." She was immediately surrounded by supplications; even Edmund said, "Do, Fanny, if it is not very disagreeable to you."


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

Fanny could not endure the idea of it. Why had not she gone safely to her room, instead of attending the rehearsal? She had known it her duty to keep away. She was properly punished.


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

"You have only to read the part," said Henry Crawford.


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

"I do believe she can say every word of it," added Maria. "Fanny, I am sure you know the part."


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

As they all persevered, as Edmund repeated his wish, she must yield. She would do her best. Everybody was satisfied; and she was left to the tremors of a palpitating heart, while the others prepared to begin.


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

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


Edmund had great things to hear on his return. Many surprises were awaiting him. The first that occurred was not least in interest: the appearance of Henry Crawford and his sister walking together through the village as he rode into it. He had concluded-he had meant them to be far distant. His absence had been extended beyond a fortnight purposely to avoid Miss Crawford. He was returning to Mansfield with spirits ready to feed on melancholy remembrances, and tender associations, when her own fair self was before him, leaning on her brother's arm, and he found himself receiving a welcome, unquestionably friendly, from the woman whom, two moments before, he had been thinking of as seventy miles off, and as farther, much farther, from him in inclination than any distance could express.

Edmund had great things to hear on his return. Many surprises were awaiting him. The first that occurred was not least in interest: the appearance of Henry Crawford and his sister walking together through the village as he rode into it. He had thought them to be far distant. His absence had been extended beyond a fortnight purposely to avoid Miss Crawford. He was returning to Mansfield ready to feed on melancholy remembrances, when her own fair self was before him, leaning on her brother's arm, and he found himself receiving a friendly welcome from the woman whom, two moments before, he had been thinking of as seventy miles off.


Her reception of him was of a sort which he could not have hoped for, had he expected to see her. Coming as he did from such a purport fulfilled as had taken him away, he would have expected anything rather than a look of satisfaction, and words of simple, pleasant meaning. It was enough to set his heart in a glow, and to bring him home in the properest state for feeling the full value of the other joyful surprises at hand.

Her reception of him was of a sort which he could not have hoped for. Coming as he did from his ordainment, he would have expected anything rather than a look of satisfaction, and words of simple, pleasant meaning. It was enough to set his heart in a glow, and to bring him home in the right state for feeling the full value of the other joyful surprises at hand.


William's promotion, with all its particulars, he was soon master of; and with such a secret provision of comfort within his own breast to help the joy, he found in it a source of most gratifying sensation and unvarying cheerfulness all dinner-time.

In William's promotion he found a source of cheerfulness all dinner-time.


After dinner, when he and his father were alone, he had Fanny's history; and then all the great events of the last fortnight, and the present situation of matters at Mansfield were known to him.

After dinner, when he and his father were alone, he had Fanny's history; and then all the great events of the last fortnight were known to him.


Fanny suspected what was going on. They sat so much longer than usual in the dining-parlour, that she was sure they must be talking of her; and when tea at last brought them away, and she was to be seen by Edmund again, she felt dreadfully guilty. He came to her, sat down by her, took her hand, and pressed it kindly; and at that moment she thought that, but for the occupation and the scene which the tea-things afforded, she must have betrayed her emotion in some unpardonable excess.

Fanny suspected what was going on. They sat so much longer than usual in the dining-parlour, that she was sure they must be talking of her; and when she saw Edmund again, she felt dreadfully guilty. He sat down by her, took her hand, and pressed it kindly; and she thought that, but for the occupation which the tea-things afforded, she must have betrayed her emotion.


He was not intending, however, by such action, to be conveying to her that unqualified approbation and encouragement which her hopes drew from it. It was designed only to express his participation in all that interested her, and to tell her that he had been hearing what quickened every feeling of affection. He was, in fact, entirely on his father's side of the question. His surprise was not so great as his father's at her refusing Crawford, because, so far from supposing her to consider him with anything like a preference, he had always believed it to be rather the reverse, and could imagine her to be taken perfectly unprepared, but Sir Thomas could not regard the connexion as more desirable than he did. It had every recommendation to him; and while honouring her for what she had done under the influence of her present indifference, honouring her in rather stronger terms than Sir Thomas could quite echo, he was most earnest in hoping, and sanguine in believing, that it would be a match at last, and that, united by mutual affection, it would appear that their dispositions were as exactly fitted to make them blessed in each other, as he was now beginning seriously to consider them. Crawford had been too precipitate. He had not given her time to attach herself. He had begun at the wrong end. With such powers as his, however, and such a disposition as hers, Edmund trusted that everything would work out a happy conclusion. Meanwhile, he saw enough of Fanny's embarrassment to make him scrupulously guard against exciting it a second time, by any word, or look, or movement.

He was not intending, however, to convey to her his unqualified encouragement. He wished only to express his interest and affection. He was, in fact, entirely on his father's side of the question. He was not so surprised as his father at her refusing Crawford, because he had never believed her to have a preference for him-rather the reverse; and he believed she had been completely unprepared; but the connexion had every recommendation to him. He earnestly hoped and believed that it would be a match at last, and that their dispositions were exactly fitted to make them blessed in each other. Crawford had been too hasty. He had not given her time to attach herself. He had begun at the wrong end. With such powers as his, however, and such a disposition as hers, Edmund trusted that everything would work out a happy conclusion. Meanwhile, he scrupulously guarded against saying anything to give Fanny further embarrassment.


Crawford called the next day, and on the score of Edmund's return, Sir Thomas felt himself more than licensed to ask him to stay dinner; it was really a necessary compliment. He staid of course, and Edmund had then ample opportunity for observing how he sped with Fanny, and what degree of immediate encouragement for him might be extracted from her manners; and it was so little, so very, very little-every chance, every possibility of it, resting upon her embarrassment only; if there was not hope in her confusion, there was hope in nothing else-that he was almost ready to wonder at his friend's perseverance. Fanny was worth it all; he held her to be worth every effort of patience, every exertion of mind, but he did not think he could have gone on himself with any woman breathing, without something more to warm his courage than his eyes could discern in hers. He was very willing to hope that Crawford saw clearer, and this was the most comfortable conclusion for his friend that he could come to from all that he observed to pass before, and at, and after dinner.

Crawford called the next day, and Sir Thomas asked him to stay to dinner. Edmund had then ample opportunity for observing how much encouragement he received from Fanny's manner; and it was so little, so very, very little, that he was almost ready to wonder at his friend's perseverance. Fanny was worth it all; he held her to be worth every effort of patience, but he did not think he could have gone on himself with any woman breathing, without something more to warm his courage.


In the evening a few circumstances occurred which he thought more promising. When he and Crawford walked into the drawing-room, his mother and Fanny were sitting as intently and silently at work as if there were nothing else to care for. Edmund could not help noticing their apparently deep tranquillity.

In the evening, circumstances occurred which he thought more promising. When he and Crawford walked into the drawing-room, his mother and Fanny were sitting silently at work, in apparently deep tranquillity.


"We have not been so silent all the time," replied his mother. "Fanny has been reading to me, and only put the book down upon hearing you coming." And sure enough there was a book on the table which had the air of being very recently closed: a volume of Shakespeare. "She often reads to me out of those books; and she was in the middle of a very fine speech of that man's-what's his name, Fanny?-when we heard your footsteps."

"Fanny has been reading to me," said his mother. There was a volume of Shakespeare on the table. "She often reads to me; and she was in the middle of a very fine speech when we heard your footsteps."