Austen Said:

Miss Crawford had protected her only for the time; and if she were applied to again among themselves with all the authoritative urgency that Tom and Maria were capable of, and Edmund perhaps away, what should she do?

Everything was a friend, or bore her thoughts to a friend; and though there had been sometimes much of suffering to her; though her motives had often been misunderstood, her feelings disregarded, and her comprehension undervalued; though she had known the pains of tyranny, of ridicule, and neglect, yet almost every recurrence of either had led to something consolatory:

her aunt Bertram had spoken for her, or Miss Lee had been encouraging, or, what was yet more frequent or more dear, Edmund had been her champion and her friend: he had supported her cause or explained her meaning, he had told her not to cry, or had given her some proof of affection which made her tears delightful; and the whole was now so blended together, so harmonised by distance, that every former affliction had its charm.

Was she right in refusing what was so warmly asked, so strongly wished for— what might be so essential to a scheme on which some of those to whom she owed the greatest complaisance had set their hearts? Was it not ill-nature, selfishness, and a fear of exposing herself? And would Edmund's judgment, would his persuasion of Sir Thomas's disapprobation of the whole, be enough to justify her in a determined denial in spite of all the rest?

To be acting! After all his objections— objections so just and so public! After all that she had heard him say, and seen him look, and known him to be feeling. Could it be possible? Edmund so inconsistent! Was he not deceiving himself? Was he not wrong? Alas! it was all Miss Crawford's doing.

Things should take their course; she cared not how it ended. Her cousins might attack, but could hardly tease her. She was beyond their reach; and if at last obliged to yield— no matter —it was all misery now.

for it was Miss Crawford to whom she was obliged— it was Miss Crawford whose kind exertions were to excite her gratitude, and whose merit in making them was spoken of with a glow of admiration. She was safe; but peace and safety were unconnected here.

anything would have been preferable to this. Mrs. Grant was of consequence: her good-nature had honourable mention; her taste and her time were considered; her presence was wanted; she was sought for, and attended, and praised;

she received even the greatest,

she could never have been easy in joining a scheme which, considering only her uncle, she must condemn altogether.

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.

she could not, would not, dared not attempt it:

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 come. Dr. Grant, professing an indisposition,

could not spare his wife.

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.

She would do her best.

an earnest of the most serious determination,

He had never been so kind, so very kind to her in his life. His manner seemed changed, his voice was quick from the agitation of joy; and all that had been awful in his dignity seemed lost in tenderness.

He was going, and, if not voluntarily going, voluntarily intending to stay away; for, excepting what might be due to his uncle, his engagements were all self-imposed. He might talk of necessity, but she knew his independence. The hand which had so pressed hers to his heart! the hand and the heart were alike motionless and passive now!

He was gone— he had touched her hand for the last time, he had made his parting bow,

you seemed almost as fearful of notice and praise as other women were of neglect.

his great attention, his paternal kindness, but he was quite mistaken in supposing she had the smallest desire of breaking through her engagement, or was sensible of any change of opinion or inclination since her forming it. She had the highest esteem for Mr. Rushworth's character and disposition, and could not have a doubt of her happiness with him.

determined

to behave more cautiously to Mr. Rushworth in future, that her father might not be again suspecting her.

Henry Crawford had destroyed her happiness, but he should not know that he had done it; he should not destroy her credit, her appearance, her prosperity, too. He should not have to think of her as pining in the retirement of Mansfield for him, rejecting Sotherton and London, independence and splendour, for his sake.

Independence was more needful than ever; the want of it at Mansfield more sensibly felt. She was less and less able to endure the restraint which her father imposed. The liberty which his absence had given was now become absolutely necessary.

She must escape from him and Mansfield as soon as possible, and find consolation in fortune and consequence, bustle and the world, for a wounded spirit.

her wishing very much to hear it,

her having never yet heard it since its being in Mansfield.

to call again, to take them in her walk whenever she could, to come and hear more of the harp,

he did mean to go with her. He too was taking leave.

for what was it after all whether she went or staid? but if her uncle were to be a great while considering and deciding, and with very grave looks, and those grave looks directed to her, and at last decide against her, she might not be able to appear properly submissive and indifferent.

she was very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her,

she was endeavouring to put her aunt's evening work in such a state as to prevent her being missed.

there would be a something to do and to suffer for it, which she could not think lightly of;

Edmund's being so soon to take orders, coming upon her like a blow that had been suspended, and still hoped uncertain and at a distance,

She had begun to think of him; she felt that she had, with great regard, with almost decided intentions;

but she would now meet him with his own cool feelings.

It was plain that he could have no serious views, no true attachment, by fixing himself in a situation which he must know she would never stoop to. She would learn to match him in his indifference. She would henceforth admit his attentions without any idea beyond immediate amusement. If he could so command his affections, hers should do her no harm.

she had never played the game nor seen it played in her life;

what it would be not to see Edmund every day;

the church, sink the clergyman, and see only the respectable, elegant, modernised, and occasional residence of a man of independent fortune,

as the destroyer of all this,

It was time to have done with cards, if sermons prevailed;

"how she should be dressed"

the almost solitary ornament in her possession, a very pretty amber cross which William had brought her from Sicily,

for she had nothing but a bit of ribbon to fasten it to; and though she had worn it in that manner once, would it be allowable at such a time in the midst of all the rich ornaments which she supposed all the other young ladies would appear in? And yet not to wear it! William had wanted to buy her a gold chain too, but the purchase had been beyond his means, and therefore not to wear the cross might be mortifying him.

the dear friend's letter, which claimed a long visit from her in London,