LITMIR.BIZ

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may often rouse better feelings than are begun with. The greater length of the service, however, I admit to be sometimes too hard a stretch upon the mind. One wishes it were not so; but I have not yet left Oxford long enough to forget what chapel prayers are.’

      While this was passing, the rest of the party being scattered about the chapel, Julia called Mr Crawford’s attention to her sister, by saying, ‘Do look at Mr Rushworth and Maria, standing side by side, exactly as if the ceremony were going to be performed. Have not they completely the air of it?’

      Mr Crawford smiled his acquiescence, and stepping forward to Maria, said, in a voice which she only could hear, ‘I do not like to see Miss Bertram so near the altar.’

      Starting, the lady instinctively moved a step or two, but recovering herself in a moment, affected to laugh, and asked him, in a tone not much louder, ‘If he would give her away?’

      ‘I am afraid I should do it very awkwardly,’ was his reply, with a look of meaning.

      Julia, joining them at the moment, carried on the joke.

      ‘Upon my word, it is really a pity that it should not take place directly, if we had but a proper licence, for here we are altogether, and nothing in the world could be more snug and pleasant.’ And she talked and laughed about it with so little caution, as to catch the comprehension of Mr Rushworth and his mother, and expose her sister to the whispered gallantries of her lover, while Mrs Rushworth spoke with proper smiles and dignity of its being a most happy event to her whenever it took place.

      ‘If Edmund were but in orders!’ cried Julia, and running to where he stood with Miss Crawford and Fanny: ‘My dear Edmund, if you were but in orders now, you might perform the ceremony directly. How unlucky that you are not ordained; Mr Rushworth and Maria are quite ready.’

      Miss Crawford’s countenance, as Julia spoke, might have amused a disinterested observer. She looked almost aghast under the new idea she was receiving. Fanny pitied her. ‘How distressed she will be at what she said just now,’ passed across her mind.

      ‘Ordained!’ said Miss Crawford; ‘what, are you to be a clergyman?’

      ‘Yes; I shall take orders soon after my father’s return; probably at Christmas.’

      Miss Crawford rallying her spirits, and recovering her complexion, replied only, ‘If I had known this before, I would have spoken of the cloth with more respect,’ and turned the subject.

      The chapel was soon afterwards left to the silence and stillness which reigned in it, with few interruptions, throughout the year. Miss Bertram, displeased with her sister, led the way, and all seemed to feel that they had been there long enough.

      The lower part of the house had been now entirely shown, and Mrs Rushworth, never weary in the cause, would have proceeded towards the principal staircase, and taken them through all the rooms above, if her son had not interposed with a doubt of there being time enough. ‘For if,’ said he, with the sort of self-evident proposition which many a clearer head does not always avoid, ‘we are too long going over the house, we shall not have time for what is to be done out of doors. It is past two, and we are to dine at five.’

      Mrs Rushworth submitted, and the question of surveying the grounds, with the who and the how was likely to be more fully agitated, and Mrs Norris was beginning to arrange by what junction of carriages and horses most could be done, when the young people, meeting with an outward door, temptingly open on a flight of steps which led immediately to turf and shrubs, and all the sweets of pleasure-grounds, as by one impulse, one wish for air and liberty, all walked out.

      ‘Suppose we turn down here for the present,’ said Mrs Rushworth, civilly taking the hint and following them. ‘Here are the greatest number of our plants, and here are the curious pheasants.’

      ‘Query,’ said Mr Crawford, looking round him, ‘whether we may not find something to employ us here, before we go farther? I see walls of great promise. Mrs Rushworth, shall we summon a council on this lawn?’

      ‘James,’ said Mrs Rushworth to her son, ‘I believe the wilderness will be new to all the party. The Miss Bertrams have never seen the wilderness yet.’

      No objection was made, but for some time there seemed no inclination to move in any plan, or to any distance. All were attracted at first by the plants or the pheasants, and all dispersed about in happy independence. Mr Crawford was the first to move forward, to examine the capabilities of that end of the house. The lawn, bounded on each side by a high wall, contained beyond the first planted area a bowling-green, and beyond the bowling-green a long terrace walk, backed by iron palisades, and commanding a view over them into the tops of the trees of the wilderness immediately adjoining. It was a good spot for fault-finding. Mr Crawford was soon followed by Miss Bertram and Mr Rushworth; and when, after a little time, the others began to form into parties, these three were found in busy consultation on the terrace by Edmund, Miss Crawford, and Fanny, who seemed as naturally to unite, and who, after a short participation of their regrets and difficulties, left them and walked on. The remaining three, Mrs Rushworth, Mrs Norris, and Julia, were still far behind; for Julia, whose happy star no longer prevailed, was obliged to keep by the side of Mrs Rushworth, and restrain her impatient feet to that lady’s slow pace, while her aunt, having fallen in with the housekeeper, who was come out to feed the pheasants, was lingering behind in gossip with her. Poor Julia, the only one out of the nine not tolerably satisfied with their lot, was now in a state of complete penance, and as different from the Julia of the barouche-box as could well be imagined. The politeness which she had been brought up to practise as a duty made it impossible for her to escape; while the want of that higher species of self-command, that just consideration of others, that knowledge of her own heart, that principle of right, which had not formed any essential part of her education, made her miserable under it.

      ‘This is insufferably hot,’ said Miss Crawford, when they had taken one turn on the terrace, and were drawing a second time to the door in the middle which opened to the wilderness. ‘Shall any of us object to being comfortable? Here is a nice little wood, if one can but get into it. What happiness if the door should not be locked! but of course it is; for in these great places the gardeners are the only people who can go where they like.’

      The door, however, proved not to be locked, and they were all agreed in turning joyfully through it, and leaving the unmitigated glare of day behind. A considerable flight of steps landed them in the wilderness, which was a planted wood of about two acres, and though chiefly of larch and laurel, and beech cut down, and though laid out with too much regularity, was darkness and shade, and natural beauty, compared with the bowling-green and the terrace. They all felt the refreshment of it, and for some time could only walk and admire. At length, after a short pause, Miss Crawford began with, ‘So you are to be a clergyman, Mr Bertram. This is rather a surprise to me.’

      ‘Why should it surprise you? You must suppose me designed for some profession, and might perceive that I am neither a lawyer, nor a soldier, nor a sailor.’

      ‘Very true; but, in short, it had not occurred to me. And you know there is generally an uncle or a grandfather to leave a fortune to the second son.’

      ‘A very praiseworthy practice,’ said Edmund, ‘but not quite universal. I am one of the exceptions, and being one, must do something for myself.’

      ‘But why are you to be a clergyman? I thought that was always the lot of the youngest, where there were many to choose before him.’

      ‘Do you think the church itself never chosen, then?’

      ‘Never is a black word. But yes, in the never of conversation, which means not very often, I do think it. For what is to be done in the church? Men love to distinguish themselves, and in either of the other lines distinction may be gained, but not in the church. A clergyman is nothing.’

      ‘The nothing of conversation has its gradations, I hope, as well as the never. A clergyman cannot be high in state or fashion. He must not head mobs, or set the tone in dress. But I cannot call that situation nothing which has the charge of all that is of the

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