With a trembling voice, Fanny finally excused herself for the night. The others hardly acknowledged her departure, which was at once all she desired and at the same time fresh proof of her insignificance to the household and her supposed nearest relations. Her resentment toward her Aunt Norris was now strangely benumbed, replaced by anger at herself, at who and what she was: a pathetic creature who could only go away and cry. She hurried up the stairs to the second floor to reach the back staircase and gain the privacy of her own modest room in the attic, where the sound of her sobs would not be heard over the bleak cold rain drumming against her narrow window.
* * * * * *
The carriage was summoned to convey the Crawfords back to their sister’s home. Edmund handed Miss Crawford in, and briefly made as though he might climb in beside her and accompany her to her own door, but her brother and a groomsman were sufficient escort and the lady herself was not welcoming. Edmund had angered Mary earlier that evening when, in a rather sententious tone, he pronounced that it was inappropriate for a clergyman (or soon-to-be clergyman in his case,) to portray one on the stage. But by so doing, he was refusing the opportunity to play the part of her lover. His indifference had wounded Mary’s pride and she was very far from being ready to forgive him, barely acknowledging his cordial adieux.
“Well, sister,” remarked her brother in a low voice, as the carriage pulled out of Edmund’s hearing, “Perhaps we should make our excuses and go to Bath or London, rather than stay for this play-acting scheme. I think, for a party got up for pleasure, there were more long faces than happy ones at the Park tonight. Miss Julia spiteful, Bertram vexed with everyone, Edmund Bertram at his most insufferable, Miss Price near to fainting, and as for that aunt!”
“Maria plays the tragic part but she was looking particularly well pleased tonight, a matter I will leave for now to you and your conscience.” Mary Crawford nodded meaningfully at her brother, who smiled, showing himself to be rather more gratified than abashed at the accusation.
“True—I would regret leaving off such a fair opportunity to play the tragic hero. To be authorized by the script to kiss Maria and press her to my bosom, in front of her future husband, is too irresistible!” Henry laughed.
“We know where to lay the blame for Julia's ill-temper, do we not?”
“We do indeed—we lay the blame on female vanity and caprice—for despite my best efforts, Julia Bertram scorned to take any part but that of Agatha. In the face of such obduracy, reasoning is in vain and flattery useless. She must be first in consequence, and if she cannot, she chooses to be nothing at all.”
“As for that last, are you speaking now of the play, or of your affections, Henry? At any rate, the foolish girl should have more pride and resolution. Heaven knows my vanity has been mortified tonight, though I would confess it to no one but you.” Miss Crawford willed herself to not look out the window to see if Edmund was still standing in the sweep and watching the carriage as they drove away.
“When you gave Bertram your consent to apply to his friend Charles Maddox to take up the part of Anhalt, were you in earnest? Or do you object to playing love scenes with a gentleman with whom you are barely acquainted?”
“No, Charles Maddox is not objectionable—in himself. But I thought, I had thought, I had more power over—” she stopped in vexation and let out a little laugh. “Perhaps I should enlist Mrs. Norris in my cause. She could scold Edmund Bertram into playing the part!”
“You remind me, I have hit upon an idea which will spare us any further scenes as we have witnessed tonight. Let us propose our own sister for the part of Cottager’s Wife.”
“What a capital idea, Henry! She will be very pleased to be asked. And you know, Cottager’s Wife is a comic part, and although Miss Price has many fine qualities, I’m sure, I cannot discover that she has any wit about her.”
“She is an earnest little soul, not a merry one,” Henry agreed.
“Perhaps she has little enough to laugh about!”
“Yes, but we all must learn to laugh at ourselves and I fancy Miss Price cannot. Too delicate and scrupulous to walk on stage, in front of her friends!”
“But did you not perceive how she contrived to make herself the centre of attention tonight? I fancy she would have drawn less notice upon herself had she simply acquiesced! She could have, with some justice, objected on the grounds that Cottager’s Wife must half-carry your poor, expiring, wronged Agatha across the stage. Little Miss Price would be hard-pressed to do so,” Mary laughed. “She might even have done herself an injury in attempting it. Maria Bertram will need the talents of a Mrs. Siddons to convince me that she is near to expiring from want of food!
“There, you see, Henry, I can laugh at others, and in time, I promise you, I will resume laughing at myself. Only do not ask me to do so tonight. I am too chagrined.”
* * * * * *
The grandfather clock in the front
