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 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 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 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 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 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, but her kinder aunt Bertram observed—
"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 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, 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, 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 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, wondering emotions. She did not believe they had yet rehearsed it, even in private.
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 come to entreat your help."
Fanny, surprised, answered civilly, and looked at the bars of her empty grate with concern.
"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. "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; but I must read the part, for I can say very little of it."
"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, 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 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 Fann
y'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 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 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, who was ill, could not spare his wife.
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."
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.
"I do believe she can say every word of it," added Maria. "Fanny, I am sure you know the part."
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 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."
CHAPTER 19