For her own stage debut she could barely speak above a whisper, but she cared not. This was to be her last night among them, the last night she would stand close enough to Edmund to brush against his sleeve, to hear his voice, to see the way his hair curled gently just over his collar, to feel the kindness of his affection as bestowed a sympathetic smile on her when she spoke her lines.
What with the fits and starts, and the patient coaxing of Mr. Rushworth through his two-and-forty speeches, and the impassioned bellowing by the Baron, the final curtain, had there been one, would not have been rung down until after nine o’clock. Lady Bertram had been gently snoring since the beginning of Act III, but Mrs. Norris was all enthusiasm and full of the warmest praise for the players. Mr. Yates declared himself tolerably satisfied (in truth, he was being polite, for the efforts of the others were far from the mark of excellence he himself had set). Tom proposed a bowl of punch and supper in the dining-room, and Mary and Henry Crawford were earnestly desired to stay the night. The servants, some of whom had been listening to the play by lingering in the hallway without, scattered like a flock of pigeons to bring victuals, candles, and hot punch, and to prepare enough beds for all the guests.
The young people, still with the exception of Julia, retreated to the dining-room to drink, eat and be merry, and Lady Bertram and Mrs. Norris retired for the evening, soon followed by Fanny, under plea of a slight headache.
Fanny encountered Julia on the staircase. “I see that you have given in at last, Fanny,” her cousin said scornfully.
“It was only for a rehearsal, Julia. I don’t wish to act, as you know.”
“Ah, even when you do wrong by your own admission, you do no wrong. Have you never succumbed and done what you knew to be wrong? No? I will tell you why. It is not because you are more virtuous than the rest of us—though I know you think you are. It is because nothing tempts you. You are too frightened of everything to attempt anything. Whatever is not tame and insipid is disgusting to you. Wherefore then, can you hold yourself out as better than the rest of us?”
“Julia, I never—”
But Julia brushed past her carelessly and went up to her own room.
And so, farewell, cousin! Fanny saluted her silently, and retired to her bedroom, but not to sleep. She sat instead, at the rickety little table that could barely support her washbasin, to compose a final letter to Edmund. But how much of her true feelings could she, ought she, reveal to him?
It was her intention, as she felt it to be her duty, to try to overcome all that was excessive, all that bordered on selfishness, in her affection for Edmund. To call or to fancy it a loss, a disappointment, would be a presumption for which she had not words strong enough to satisfy her own humility. To think of him as Miss Crawford might be justified in thinking, would in her be insanity. To her he could be nothing under any circumstances; nothing dearer than a friend. Why did such an idea occur to her even enough to be reprobated and forbidden? It ought not to have touched on the confines of her imagination. She would endeavour to be rational, and to deserve the right of judging of Miss Crawford's character, and the privilege of true solicitude for him by a sound intellect and an honest heart.
Only when her final letters were composed and sealed did she blow out her candle, climb into bed and attempt in vain to fall asleep.
* * * * * *
Downstairs in the dining-room, Mary Crawford laughingly congratulated her brother on his artistry. “Undoubtedly, Henry, you are the best actor amongst us. Your Frederick was truly affecting! However, I maintain that comedy is more difficult to portray than tragedy. Did I acquit myself creditably?”
“Yes, you were of course excellent—and I won’t bother to deny that I was too, but, Mary…” her brother looked around before continuing in a lower voice. “I think this will be my final performance. It is time to put some distance between myself and the fair Maria. Our little game has become too serious. I fear I may have become somewhat entangled, and should she lose her head and renounce Rushworth, I shall be at some difficulty to extricate myself.”
“Would marriage to Maria Bertram be so terrible? You know our sister wants us to marry into this family. Think of the general joy it would bring! I, myself, would be very happy to see you settled. She is a handsome girl—why do you resist?”
“As though you need to ask, Mary. Matrimony forms no part of my plans at present.”
“Yes, but Henry, you speak as though you wish never to return,” and Mary glanced across the room at Edmund Bertram.
“Alas, Mary, if I don’t get away, I fear the consequences.”
“Yet you were as ardent as ever, if not more so, with Miss Bertram tonight! Could you not simply be more discreet? Or turn your attentions back to her younger sister?”
Henry shook his head. “Tonight must bring a close, I fear. I predict that tomorrow our uncle will have suffered a gouty spell and will have written, requesting my attendance on him. At any rate, Lord Delingpole has invited me to join his hunting party.”
“You cannot mean to leave me here with only my sister and Dr. Grant to talk to!”
“Come with me, then! Lady
