No More Learning

With no material fault of temper, or difference of opinion,
to prevent their being very good friends while their interests were
the same, the sisters, under such a trial as this, had not affection or
principle enough to make them merciful or just, to give them honour or
compassion. Maria felt her triumph, and pursued her purpose, careless of
Julia; and Julia could never see Maria distinguished by Henry Crawford
without trusting that it would create jealousy, and bring a public
disturbance at last.

Fanny saw and pitied much of this in Julia; but there was no outward
fellowship between them. Julia made no communication, and Fanny took
no liberties. They were two solitary sufferers, or connected only by
Fanny’s consciousness.

The inattention of the two brothers and the aunt to Julia’s
discomposure, and their blindness to its true cause, must be imputed to
the fullness of their own minds. They were totally preoccupied. Tom was
engrossed by the concerns of his theatre, and saw nothing that did not
immediately relate to it. Edmund, between his theatrical and his real
part, between Miss Crawford’s claims and his own conduct, between love
and consistency, was equally unobservant; and Mrs. Norris was too busy
in contriving and directing the general little matters of the company,
superintending their various dresses with economical expedient, for
which nobody thanked her, and saving, with delighted integrity, half
a crown here and there to the absent Sir Thomas, to have leisure for
watching the behaviour, or guarding the happiness of his daughters.



CHAPTER XVIII

Everything was now in a regular train: theatre, actors, actresses, and
dresses, were all getting forward; but though no other great impediments
arose, Fanny found, before many days were past, that it was not all
uninterrupted enjoyment to the party themselves, and that she had not to
witness the continuance of such unanimity and delight as had been almost
too much for her at first. Everybody began to have their vexation.
Edmund had many. Entirely against _his_ judgment, a scene-painter
arrived from town, and was at work, much to the increase of the
expenses, and, what was worse, of the eclat of their proceedings; and
his brother, instead of being really guided by him as to the privacy of
the representation, was giving an invitation to every family who came
in his way. Tom himself began to fret over the scene-painter’s slow
progress, 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 began to be impatient to be acting; and every day
thus unemployed was tending to increase his sense of the insignificance
of all his parts together, and make him more ready to regret that some
other play had not been chosen.

Fanny, being always a very courteous listener, and often the only
listener at hand, came in for the complaints and the distresses 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 so quick he would be unintelligible; 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 was wanting a prompter through every speech. She knew, also, that
poor Mr. Rushworth could seldom get anybody to rehearse with him: _his_
complaint came before her as well as the rest; and so decided to her
eye was her cousin Maria’s avoidance of him, and so needlessly often the
rehearsal of the first scene between her and Mr. Crawford, that she had
soon all the terror of other complaints from _him_. So far from being
all satisfied and all enjoying, she found everybody requiring something
they had not, and giving occasion of discontent to the others. 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 believed herself to derive as much innocent enjoyment from the
play as any of them; 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, she also thought, acted well, too well; and after the first
rehearsal or two, Fanny began to be their only audience; and sometimes
as prompter, sometimes as spectator, was often very useful. As far as
she could judge, Mr. Crawford was considerably 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 as a man, but she must admit
him to be the best actor, and on this point there were not many who
differed from her. Mr. Yates, indeed, exclaimed against his tameness and
insipidity; and 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; and,
between ourselves, to see such an undersized, little, mean-looking man,
set up for a fine actor, is very ridiculous in my opinion. ”

From this moment there was a return of his former jealousy, which Maria,
from increasing hopes of Crawford, was at little pains to remove; and
the chances of Mr. Rushworth’s ever attaining to the knowledge of his
two-and-forty speeches became much less. As to his ever making anything
_tolerable_ of them, nobody had the smallest idea of that except
his mother; _she_, indeed, regretted that his part was not more
considerable, and deferred coming over to Mansfield till they were
forward enough in their rehearsal to comprehend all his scenes; but the
others aspired at nothing beyond his remembering the catchword, and 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, giving him all the helps and directions in her
power, trying to make an artificial memory for him, and learning every
word of his part herself, but without his being much the forwarder.

Many uncomfortable, anxious, apprehensive feelings she certainly had;
but with all these, and other claims on her time and attention, she was
as far from finding herself without employment or utility amongst them,
as without a companion in uneasiness; quite as far from having no
demand on her leisure as on her compassion. The gloom of her first
anticipations was proved to have been unfounded. 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 that Mrs. Norris thought her quite as well off
as the rest, was evident by the manner in which she claimed it--“Come,
Fanny,” she cried, “these are fine times for you, but you must not be
always walking from one room to the other, and doing the lookings-on at
your ease, in this way; I want you here. I have been slaving myself till
I can hardly stand, to contrive Mr. Rushworth’s cloak without sending
for any more satin; and now I think you may give me your help in putting
it together. There are but three seams; you may do them in a trice. It
would be lucky for me if I had nothing but the executive part to do.
_You_ are best off, I can tell you: but if nobody did more than _you_,
we should not get on very fast. ”

Fanny took the work very quietly, without attempting any defence; but
her kinder aunt Bertram observed on her behalf--

“One cannot wonder, sister, that Fanny _should_ be delighted: it is
all new to her, you know; you and I used to be very fond of a play
ourselves, and so am I still; and as soon as I am a little more at
leisure, _I_ mean to look in at their rehearsals too. What is the play
about, Fanny? you have never told me. ”

“Oh! sister, pray do not ask her now; for Fanny is not one of those who
can 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, and that will give you an opportunity of
seeing all the actors at once. ”

“You had better stay till the curtain is hung,” interposed Mrs. Norris;
“the curtain will be hung in a day or two--there is very little sense in
a play without a curtain--and I am much mistaken if you do not find it
draw 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 most 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 very
little short of a declaration of love be made by the lady.

She had read and read the scene again with many painful, many wondering
emotions, and looked forward to their representation of it as a
circumstance almost too interesting. She did not _believe_ they had yet
rehearsed it, even in private.

The morrow came, the plan for the evening continued, and Fanny’s
consideration of it did not become less agitated. She worked very
diligently under her aunt’s directions, but her diligence and her
silence concealed a very absent, anxious mind; and about noon she
made her escape with her work to the East room, that she might have no
concern in another, and, as she deemed it, most unnecessary rehearsal of
the first act, which Henry Crawford was just proposing, desirous at
once of having her time to herself, and of avoiding the sight of Mr.
Rushworth. A glimpse, as she passed through the hall, of the two ladies
walking up from the Parsonage made no change in her wish of retreat, and
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 made my way to you on purpose to entreat your help. ”

Fanny, quite surprised, endeavoured to shew herself mistress of the room
by her civilities, and looked at the bright bars of her empty grate with
concern.

“Thank you; I am quite warm, very warm. Allow me to stay here a little
while, and do 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 here to-day intending to rehearse it with Edmund--by
ourselves--against the evening, but he is not in the way; 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. “Here it is. I did not think much of it at
first--but, upon my word. There, look at _that_ speech, and _that_, and
_that_. How am I ever to look him in the face and say such things? Could
you do it? But then 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 with the greatest readiness; but I must
_read_ the part, for I can say very little of it. ”

“_None_ of it, I suppose. You are to have the book, of course. Now for
it. We must have two chairs at hand for you to bring forward to the
front of the stage. There--very good school-room chairs, not made for a
theatre, I dare say; much more fitted for little girls to sit and kick
their feet against when they are learning a lesson. What would your
governess and your uncle say to see them used for such a purpose? Could
Sir Thomas look in upon us just now, he would bless himself, for we
are rehearsing all over the house. Yates is storming away in the
dining-room. I heard him as I came upstairs, and the theatre is engaged
of course by those indefatigable rehearsers, Agatha and Frederick. If
_they_ are not perfect, I _shall_ be surprised. By the bye, I looked in
upon them five minutes ago, and it happened to be exactly at 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 turned it off as
well as I could, by whispering to him, ‘We shall have an excellent
Agatha; there is something so _maternal_ in her manner, so completely
_maternal_ in her voice and countenance. ’ Was not that well done of me?
He brightened up directly. Now for my soliloquy. ”

She began, and Fanny joined in with all the modest feeling which the
idea of representing Edmund was so strongly calculated to inspire; but
with looks and voice so truly 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 brought
a pause, and the entrance of Edmund, the next moment, suspended it all.

Surprise, consciousness, and pleasure appeared in each of the three
on this unexpected meeting; and as Edmund was come on the very same
business that had brought Miss Crawford, consciousness and pleasure were
likely to be more than momentary in _them_. He too had his book, and was
seeking Fanny, to ask her to rehearse with him, and help him to prepare
for the evening, without knowing Miss Crawford to be in the house;
and great was the joy and animation of being thus thrown together, of
comparing schemes, and sympathising in praise of Fanny’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 proposed, urged, entreated it, till the lady,
not very unwilling at first, could refuse no longer, and Fanny was
wanted only to prompt and observe them. She was invested, indeed, with
the office of judge and critic, and earnestly desired to exercise it and
tell them all their faults; but from doing so every feeling within her
shrank--she could not, would not, dared not attempt it: had she been
otherwise qualified for criticism, her conscience must have restrained
her from venturing at disapprobation. She believed herself to feel too
much of it in the aggregate for honesty or safety in particulars. To
prompt them must be enough for her; and it was sometimes _more_ than
enough; for she could not always pay attention to the book. In watching
them she forgot herself; and, agitated by the increasing spirit of
Edmund’s manner, had once 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 surmise. At last the scene was over, and Fanny forced herself
to add her praise to the compliments each was giving the other; and when
again alone and able to recall the whole, she was inclined 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.

The first regular rehearsal of the three first acts was certainly to
take place in the evening: Mrs. Grant and the Crawfords were engaged to
return for that purpose as soon as they could after dinner; and every
one concerned was looking forward with eagerness. There seemed a general
diffusion of cheerfulness on the occasion. Tom was enjoying such an
advance towards the end; Edmund was in spirits from the morning’s
rehearsal, and little vexations seemed everywhere smoothed away. All
were alert and impatient; the ladies moved soon, the gentlemen soon
followed them, and with the exception of Lady Bertram, Mrs. Norris, and
Julia, everybody was in the theatre at an early hour; and having lighted
it up as well as its unfinished state admitted, were 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, professing an indisposition, for which he
had little credit with his fair sister-in-law, could not spare his wife.

“Dr. Grant is ill,” said she, with mock solemnity. “He has been ill ever
since he did not eat any of the pheasant today. He fancied it tough,
sent away his plate, and has been suffering ever since”.

Here was disappointment! Mrs. Grant’s non-attendance was sad indeed.
Her pleasant manners and cheerful conformity made her always valuable
amongst them; but _now_ she was absolutely necessary. They could not
act, they could not rehearse with any satisfaction without her. The
comfort of the whole evening was destroyed. What was to be done? Tom, as
Cottager, was in despair. After a pause of perplexity, some eyes began
to be turned towards Fanny, and a voice or two to say, “If Miss Price
would be so good as to _read_ the part. ” She was immediately surrounded
by supplications; everybody asked it; even Edmund said, “Do, Fanny, if
it is not _very_ disagreeable to you. ”

But Fanny still hung back. She could not endure the idea of it. 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.

“You have only to _read_ the part,” said Henry Crawford, with renewed
entreaty.

“And I do believe she can say every word of it,” added Maria, “for she
could put Mrs. Grant right the other day in twenty places. Fanny, I am
sure you know the part. ”

Fanny could not say she did _not_; and as they all persevered, as
Edmund repeated his wish, and with a look of even fond dependence on
her good-nature, she must yield. She would do her best. Everybody was
satisfied; and she was left to the tremors of a most palpitating heart,
while the others prepared to begin.

They _did_ begin; and being too much engaged in their own noise to be
struck by an unusual noise in the other part of the house, had proceeded
some way when the door of the room was thrown open, and Julia, appearing
at it, with a face all aghast, exclaimed, “My father is come! He is in
the hall at this moment. ”



CHAPTER XIX

How is the consternation of the party to be described? To the greater
number it was a moment of absolute horror. Sir Thomas in the house! All
felt the instantaneous conviction. Not a hope of imposition or mistake
was harboured anywhere. Julia’s looks were an evidence of the fact that
made it indisputable; and after the first starts and exclamations, not a
word was spoken for half a minute: each with an altered countenance was
looking at some other, and almost each was feeling it a stroke the most
unwelcome, most ill-timed, most appalling! Mr. Yates might consider
it only as a vexatious interruption for the evening, and Mr. Rushworth
might imagine it a blessing; but every other heart was sinking under
some degree of self-condemnation or undefined alarm, every other heart
was suggesting, “What will become of us? what is to be done now? ” It
was a terrible pause; and terrible to every ear were the corroborating
sounds of opening doors and passing footsteps.

Julia was the first to move and speak again. Jealousy and bitterness
had been suspended: selfishness was lost in the common cause; but at the
moment of her appearance, Frederick was listening with looks of devotion
to Agatha’s narrative, and pressing her hand to his heart; and as soon
as she could notice this, and see that, in spite of the shock of her
words, he still kept his station and retained her sister’s hand, her
wounded heart swelled again with injury, and looking as red as she had
been white before, she turned out of the room, saying, “_I_ need not be
afraid of appearing before him. ”

Her going roused the rest; and at the same moment the two brothers
stepped forward, feeling the necessity of doing something. A very few
words between them were sufficient. The case admitted no difference of
opinion: they must go to the drawing-room directly. Maria joined them
with the same intent, just then the stoutest of the three; for the
very circumstance which had driven Julia away was to her the sweetest
support. Henry Crawford’s retaining her hand at such a moment, a moment
of such peculiar proof and importance, was worth ages of doubt and
anxiety. She hailed it as an earnest of the most serious determination,
and was equal even to encounter her father. They walked off, utterly
heedless of Mr. Rushworth’s repeated question of, “Shall I go too? Had
not I better go too? Will not it be right for me to go too? ” but they
were no sooner through the door than Henry Crawford undertook to answer
the anxious inquiry, and, encouraging him by all means to pay his
respects to Sir Thomas without delay, sent him after the others with
delighted haste.

Fanny was left with only the Crawfords and Mr. Yates. She had been quite
overlooked by her cousins; and as her own opinion of her claims on Sir
Thomas’s affection was much too humble to give her any idea of classing
herself with his children, she was glad to remain behind and gain a
little breathing-time. Her agitation and alarm exceeded all that was
endured by the rest, by the right of a disposition which not even
innocence could keep from suffering. She was nearly fainting: all her
former habitual dread of her uncle was returning, and with it compassion
for him and for almost every one of the party on the development before
him, with solicitude on Edmund’s account indescribable. She had found
a seat, where in excessive trembling she was enduring all these fearful
thoughts, while the other three, no longer under any restraint, were
giving vent to their feelings of vexation, lamenting over such an
unlooked-for premature arrival as a most untoward event, and without
mercy wishing poor Sir Thomas had been twice as long on his passage, or
were still in Antigua.

The Crawfords were more warm on the subject than Mr. Yates, from better
understanding the family, and judging more clearly of the mischief that
must ensue. The ruin of the play was to them a certainty: they felt
the total destruction of the scheme to be inevitably at hand; while Mr.
Yates considered it only as a temporary interruption, a disaster for the
evening, and could even suggest the possibility of the rehearsal being
renewed after tea, when the bustle of receiving Sir Thomas were over,
and he might be at leisure to be amused by it. The Crawfords laughed
at the idea; and having soon agreed on the propriety of their walking
quietly home and leaving the family to themselves, proposed Mr. Yates’s
accompanying them and spending the evening at the Parsonage. But Mr.
Yates, having never been with those who thought much of parental claims,
or family confidence, could not perceive that anything of the kind was
necessary; and therefore, thanking them, said, “he preferred remaining
where he was, that he might pay his respects to the old gentleman
handsomely since he _was_ come; and besides, he did not think it would
be fair by the others to have everybody run away. ”

Fanny was just beginning to collect herself, and to feel that if she
staid longer behind it might seem disrespectful, when this point was
settled, and being commissioned with the brother and sister’s apology,
saw them preparing to go as she quitted the room herself to perform the
dreadful duty of appearing before her uncle.

Too soon did she find herself at the drawing-room door; and after
pausing a moment for what she knew would not come, for a courage which
the outside of no door had ever supplied to her, she turned the lock in
desperation, and the lights of the drawing-room, and all the collected
family, were before her. As she entered, her own name caught her ear.
Sir Thomas was at that moment looking round him, and saying, “But where
is Fanny? Why do not I see my little Fanny? ”--and on perceiving her,
came forward with a kindness which astonished and penetrated her,
calling her his dear Fanny, kissing her affectionately, and observing
with decided pleasure how much she was grown! Fanny knew not how to
feel, nor where to look. She was quite oppressed. 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 led her nearer the light
and looked at her again--inquired particularly after her health, and
then, correcting himself, observed that he need not inquire, for
her appearance spoke sufficiently on that point. A fine blush having
succeeded the previous paleness of her face, he was justified in his
belief of her equal improvement in health and beauty. He inquired next
after her family, especially William: and his kindness altogether was
such as made her reproach herself for loving him so little, and thinking
his return a misfortune; and when, on having courage to lift her eyes to
his face, she saw that he was grown thinner, and had the burnt, fagged,
worn look of fatigue and a hot climate, every tender feeling was
increased, and she was miserable in considering how much unsuspected
vexation was probably ready to burst on him.

Sir Thomas was indeed the life of the party, who at his suggestion
now seated themselves round the fire. He had the best right to be the
talker; and the delight of his sensations in being again in his own
house, in the centre of his family, after such a separation, made him
communicative and chatty in a very unusual degree; and he was ready to
give every information as to his voyage, and answer every question
of his two sons almost before it was put. His business in Antigua had
latterly been prosperously rapid, and he came directly from Liverpool,
having had an opportunity of making his passage thither in a private
vessel, instead of waiting for the packet; and all the little
particulars of his proceedings and events, his arrivals and departures,
were most promptly delivered, as he sat by Lady Bertram and looked with
heartfelt satisfaction on the faces around him--interrupting himself
more than once, however, to remark on his good fortune in finding them
all at home--coming unexpectedly as he did--all collected together
exactly as he could have wished, but dared not depend on. Mr. Rushworth
was not forgotten: a most friendly reception and warmth of hand-shaking
had already met him, and with pointed attention he was now included in
the objects most intimately connected with Mansfield. There was nothing
disagreeable in Mr. Rushworth’s appearance, and Sir Thomas was liking
him already.

By not one of the circle was he listened to with such unbroken,
unalloyed enjoyment as by his wife, who was really extremely happy to
see him, and whose feelings were so warmed by his sudden arrival as to
place her nearer agitation than she had been for the last twenty years.
She had been _almost_ fluttered for a few minutes, and still remained so
sensibly animated as to put away her work, move Pug from her side, and
give all her attention and all the rest of her sofa to her husband. She
had no anxieties for anybody to cloud _her_ pleasure: her own time had
been irreproachably spent during his absence: she had done a great
deal of carpet-work, and made many yards of fringe; and she would have
answered as freely for the good conduct and useful pursuits of all
the young people as for her own. It was so agreeable to her to see
him again, and hear him talk, to have her ear amused and her whole
comprehension filled by his narratives, that she began particularly
to feel how dreadfully she must have missed him, and how impossible it
would have been for her to bear a lengthened absence.

Mrs. Norris was by no means to be compared in happiness to her
sister. Not that _she_ was incommoded by many fears of Sir Thomas’s
disapprobation when the present state of his house should be known, for
her judgment had been so blinded that, except by the instinctive caution
with which she had whisked away Mr. Rushworth’s pink satin cloak as her
brother-in-law entered, she could hardly be said to shew any sign of
alarm; but she was vexed by the _manner_ of his return. It had left her
nothing to do. Instead of being sent for out of the room, and seeing
him first, and having to spread the happy news through the house, Sir
Thomas, with a very reasonable dependence, perhaps, on the nerves of his
wife and children, had sought no confidant but the butler, and had been
following him almost instantaneously into the drawing-room. Mrs. Norris
felt herself defrauded of an office on which she had always depended,
whether his arrival or his death were to be the thing unfolded; and was
now trying to be in a bustle without having anything to bustle about,
and labouring to be important where nothing was wanted but tranquillity
and silence. Would Sir Thomas have consented to eat, she might have gone
to the housekeeper with troublesome directions, and insulted the footmen
with injunctions of despatch; but Sir Thomas resolutely declined all
dinner: he would take nothing, nothing till tea came--he would rather
wait for tea. Still Mrs. Norris was at intervals urging something
different; and in the most interesting moment of his passage to England,
when the alarm of a French privateer was at the height, she burst
through his recital with the proposal of soup. “Sure, my dear Sir
Thomas, a basin of soup would be a much better thing for you than tea.
Do have a basin of soup. ”

Sir Thomas could not be provoked. “Still the same anxiety for
everybody’s comfort, my dear Mrs. Norris,” was his answer. “But indeed I
would rather have nothing but tea. ”

“Well, then, Lady Bertram, suppose you speak for tea directly; suppose
you hurry Baddeley a little; he seems behindhand to-night. ” She carried
this point, and Sir Thomas’s narrative proceeded.

At length there was a pause. His immediate communications were
exhausted, and it seemed enough to be looking joyfully around him, now
at one, now at another of the beloved circle; but the pause was not
long: in the elation of her spirits Lady Bertram became talkative, and
what were the sensations of her children upon hearing her say, “How
do you think the young people have been amusing themselves lately, Sir
Thomas? They have been acting. We have been all alive with acting. ”

“Indeed! and what have you been acting? ”

“Oh! they’ll tell you all about it. ”

“The _all_ will soon be told,” cried Tom hastily, and with affected
unconcern; “but it is not worth while to bore my father with it now. You
will hear enough of it to-morrow, sir. We have just been trying, by way
of doing something, and amusing my mother, just within the last week,
to get up a few scenes, a mere trifle. We have had such incessant rains
almost since October began, that we have been nearly confined to the
house for days together. I have hardly taken out a gun since the 3rd.
Tolerable sport the first three days, but there has been no attempting
anything since. The first day I went over Mansfield Wood, and Edmund
took the copses beyond Easton, and we brought home six brace between
us, and might each have killed six times as many, but we respect your
pheasants, sir, I assure you, as much as you could desire. I do not
think you will find your woods by any means worse stocked than they
were. _I_ never saw Mansfield Wood so full of pheasants in my life
as this year. I hope you will take a day’s sport there yourself, sir,
soon. ”

For the present the danger was over, and Fanny’s sick feelings subsided;
but when tea was soon afterwards brought in, and Sir Thomas, getting up,
said that he found that he could not be any longer in the house without
just looking into his own dear room, every agitation was returning. He
was gone before anything had been said to prepare him for the change he
must find there; and a pause of alarm followed his disappearance. Edmund
was the first to speak--

“Something must be done,” said he.

“It is time to think of our visitors,” said Maria, still feeling her
hand pressed to Henry Crawford’s heart, and caring little for anything
else. “Where did you leave Miss Crawford, Fanny? ”

Fanny told of their departure, and delivered their message.

“Then poor Yates is all alone,” cried Tom. “I will go and fetch him. He
will be no bad assistant when it all comes out. ”

To the theatre he went, and reached it just in time to witness the first
meeting of his father and his friend. Sir Thomas had been a good deal
surprised to find candles burning in his room; and on casting his eye
round it, to see other symptoms of recent habitation and a general air
of confusion in the furniture. The removal of the bookcase from before
the billiard-room door struck him especially, but he had scarcely more
than time to feel astonished at all this, before there were sounds from
the billiard-room to astonish him still farther. Some one was talking
there in a very loud accent; he did not know the voice--more than
talking--almost hallooing. He stepped to the door, rejoicing at that
moment in having the means of immediate communication, and, opening it,
found himself on the stage of a theatre, and opposed to a ranting young
man, who appeared likely to knock him down backwards. At the very moment
of Yates perceiving Sir Thomas, and giving perhaps the very best start
he had ever given in the whole course of his rehearsals, Tom Bertram
entered at the other end of the room; and never had he found greater
difficulty in keeping his countenance. His father’s looks of solemnity
and amazement on this his first appearance on any stage, and the gradual
metamorphosis of the impassioned Baron Wildenheim into the well-bred and
easy Mr. Yates, making his bow and apology to Sir Thomas Bertram, was
such an exhibition, such a piece of true acting, as he would not have
lost upon any account. It would be the last--in all probability--the
last scene on that stage; but he was sure there could not be a finer.
The house would close with the greatest eclat.

There was little time, however, for the indulgence of any images of
merriment. It was necessary for him to step forward, too, and assist
the introduction, and with many awkward sensations he did his best. Sir
Thomas received Mr. Yates with all the appearance of cordiality which
was due to his own character, but was really as far from pleased
with the necessity of the acquaintance as with the manner of its
commencement. Mr. Yates’s family and connexions were sufficiently known
to him to render his introduction as the “particular friend,” another of
the hundred particular friends of his son, exceedingly unwelcome; and it
needed all the felicity of being again at home, and all the forbearance
it could supply, to save Sir Thomas from anger on finding himself thus
bewildered in his own house, making part of a ridiculous exhibition in
the midst of theatrical nonsense, and forced in so untoward a moment to
admit the acquaintance of a young man whom he felt sure of disapproving,
and whose easy indifference and volubility in the course of the first
five minutes seemed to mark him the most at home of the two.

Tom understood his father’s thoughts, and heartily wishing he might be
always as well disposed to give them but partial expression, began to
see, more clearly than he had ever done before, that there might be some
ground of offence, that there might be some reason for the glance his
father gave towards the ceiling and stucco of the room; and that when he
inquired with mild gravity after the fate of the billiard-table, he was
not proceeding beyond a very allowable curiosity. A few minutes were
enough for such unsatisfactory sensations on each side; and Sir
Thomas having exerted himself so far as to speak a few words of
calm approbation in reply to an eager appeal of Mr. Yates, as to the
happiness of the arrangement, the three gentlemen returned to the
drawing-room together, Sir Thomas with an increase of gravity which was
not lost on all.

“I come from your theatre,” said he composedly, as he sat down; “I found
myself in it rather unexpectedly. Its vicinity to my own room--but in
every respect, indeed, it took me by surprise, as I had not the smallest
suspicion of your acting having assumed so serious a character. It
appears a neat job, however, as far as I could judge by candlelight,
and does my friend Christopher Jackson credit. ” And then he would
have changed the subject, and sipped his coffee in peace over domestic
matters of a calmer hue; but Mr. Yates, without discernment to catch Sir
Thomas’s meaning, or diffidence, or delicacy, or discretion enough to
allow him to lead the discourse while he mingled among the others with
the least obtrusiveness himself, would keep him on the topic of the
theatre, would torment him with questions and remarks relative to it,
and finally would make him hear the whole history of his disappointment
at Ecclesford. Sir Thomas listened most politely, but found much to
offend his ideas of decorum, and confirm his ill-opinion of Mr. Yates’s
habits of thinking, from the beginning to the end of the story; and when
it was over, could give him no other assurance of sympathy than what a
slight bow conveyed.

“This was, in fact, the origin of _our_ acting,” said Tom, after
a moment’s thought. “My friend Yates brought the infection from
Ecclesford, and it spread--as those things always spread, you know,
sir--the faster, probably, from _your_ having so often encouraged the
sort of thing in us formerly. It was like treading old ground again. ”

Mr. Yates took the subject from his friend as soon as possible, and
immediately gave Sir Thomas an account of what they had done and were
doing: told him of the gradual increase of their views, the happy
conclusion of their first difficulties, and present promising state of
affairs; relating everything with so blind an interest as made him not
only totally unconscious of the uneasy movements of many of his
friends as they sat, the change of countenance, the fidget, the hem! of
unquietness, but prevented him even from seeing the expression of the
face on which his own eyes were fixed--from seeing Sir Thomas’s dark
brow contract as he looked with inquiring earnestness at his daughters
and Edmund, dwelling particularly on the latter, and speaking a
language, a remonstrance, a reproof, which _he_ felt at his heart. Not
less acutely was it felt by Fanny, who had edged back her chair behind
her aunt’s end of the sofa, and, screened from notice herself, saw all
that was passing before her. Such a look of reproach at Edmund from his
father she could never have expected to witness; and to feel that it
was in any degree deserved was an aggravation indeed. Sir Thomas’s
look implied, “On your judgment, Edmund, I depended; what have you
been about? ” She knelt in spirit to her uncle, and her bosom swelled to
utter, “Oh, not to _him_! Look so to all the others, but not to _him_! ”

Mr. Yates was still talking. “To own the truth, Sir Thomas, we were in
the middle of a rehearsal when you arrived this evening. We were going
through the three first acts, and not unsuccessfully upon the whole. Our
company is now so dispersed, from the Crawfords being gone home, that
nothing more can be done to-night; but if you will give us the honour of
your company to-morrow evening, I should not be afraid of the result. We
bespeak your indulgence, you understand, as young performers; we bespeak
your indulgence. ”

“My indulgence shall be given, sir,” replied Sir Thomas gravely, “but
without any other rehearsal. ” And with a relenting smile, he added, “I
come home to be happy and indulgent. ” Then turning away towards any
or all of the rest, he tranquilly said, “Mr. and Miss Crawford were
mentioned in my last letters from Mansfield. Do you find them agreeable
acquaintance? ”

Tom was the only one at all ready with an answer, but he being entirely
without particular regard for either, without jealousy either in love
or acting, could speak very handsomely of both. “Mr. Crawford was a
most pleasant, gentleman-like man; his sister a sweet, pretty, elegant,
lively girl. ”

Mr. Rushworth could be silent no longer. “I do not say he is not
gentleman-like, considering; but you should tell your father he is not
above five feet eight, or he will be expecting a well-looking man. ”

Sir Thomas did not quite understand this, and looked with some surprise
at the speaker.

“If I must say what I think,” continued Mr. Rushworth, “in my opinion it
is very disagreeable to be always rehearsing. It is having too much of a
good thing. I am not so fond of acting as I was at first. I think we are
a great deal better employed, sitting comfortably here among ourselves,
and doing nothing. ”

Sir Thomas looked again, and then replied with an approving smile, “I am
happy to find our sentiments on this subject so much the same. It gives
me sincere satisfaction. That I should be cautious and quick-sighted,
and feel many scruples which my children do _not_ feel, is perfectly
natural; and equally so that my value for domestic tranquillity, for a
home which shuts out noisy pleasures, should much exceed theirs. But at
your time of life to feel all this, is a most favourable circumstance
for yourself, and for everybody connected with you; and I am sensible of
the importance of having an ally of such weight. ”

Sir Thomas meant to be giving Mr. Rushworth’s opinion in better words
than he could find himself. He was aware that he must not expect a
genius in Mr. Rushworth; but as a well-judging, steady young man, with
better notions than his elocution would do justice to, he intended to
value him very highly. It was impossible for many of the others not to
smile. Mr. Rushworth hardly knew what to do with so much meaning; but by
looking, as he really felt, most exceedingly pleased with Sir Thomas’s
good opinion, and saying scarcely anything, he did his best towards
preserving that good opinion a little longer.



CHAPTER XX

Edmund’s first object the next morning was to see his father alone, and
give him a fair statement of the whole acting scheme, defending his own
share in it as far only as he could then, in a soberer moment, feel his
motives to deserve, and acknowledging, with perfect ingenuousness, that
his concession had been attended with such partial good as to make his
judgment in it very doubtful. He was anxious, while vindicating himself,
to say nothing unkind of the others: but there was only one amongst
them whose conduct he could mention without some necessity of defence
or palliation. “We have all been more or less to blame,” said he, “every
one of us, excepting Fanny. Fanny is the only one who has judged rightly
throughout; who has been consistent. _Her_ feelings have been steadily
against it from first to last. She never ceased to think of what was due
to you. You will find Fanny everything you could wish. ”

Sir Thomas saw all the impropriety of such a scheme among such a party,
and at such a time, as strongly as his son had ever supposed he must; he
felt it too much, indeed, for many words; and having shaken hands with
Edmund, meant to try to lose the disagreeable impression, and forget how
much he had been forgotten himself as soon as he could, after the house
had been cleared of every object enforcing the remembrance, and restored
to its proper state. He did not enter into any remonstrance with his
other children: he was more willing to believe they felt their error
than to run the risk of investigation. The reproof of an immediate
conclusion of everything, the sweep of every preparation, would be
sufficient.

There was one person, however, in the house, whom he could not leave
to learn his sentiments merely through his conduct. He could not help
giving Mrs. Norris a hint of his having hoped that her advice might
have been interposed to prevent what her judgment must certainly have
disapproved. The young people had been very inconsiderate in forming the
plan; they ought to have been capable of a better decision themselves;
but they were young; and, excepting Edmund, he believed, of unsteady
characters; and with greater surprise, therefore, he must regard her
acquiescence in their wrong measures, her countenance of their unsafe
amusements, than that such measures and such amusements should have
been suggested. Mrs. Norris was a little confounded and as nearly
being silenced as ever she had been in her life; for she was ashamed to
confess having never seen any of the impropriety which was so glaring
to Sir Thomas, and would not have admitted that her influence was
insufficient--that she might have talked in vain. Her only resource was
to get out of the subject as fast as possible, and turn the current
of Sir Thomas’s ideas into a happier channel. She had a great deal to
insinuate in her own praise as to _general_ attention to the interest
and comfort of his family, much exertion and many sacrifices to glance
at in the form of hurried walks and sudden removals from her own
fireside, and many excellent hints of distrust and economy to Lady
Bertram and Edmund to detail, whereby a most considerable saving had
always arisen, and more than one bad servant been detected. But her
chief strength lay in Sotherton. Her greatest support and glory was
in having formed the connexion with the Rushworths. _There_ she
was impregnable. She took to herself all the credit of bringing Mr.
Rushworth’s admiration of Maria to any effect. “If I had not been
active,” said she, “and made a point of being introduced to his mother,
and then prevailed on my sister to pay the first visit, I am as certain
as I sit here that nothing would have come of it; for Mr. Rushworth
is the sort of amiable modest young man who wants a great deal of
encouragement, and there were girls enough on the catch for him if we
had been idle. But I left no stone unturned. I was ready to move heaven
and earth to persuade my sister, and at last I did persuade her. You
know the distance to Sotherton; it was in the middle of winter, and the
roads almost impassable, but I did persuade her. ”

“I know how great, how justly great, your influence is with Lady Bertram
and her children, and am the more concerned that it should not have
been. ”

“My dear Sir Thomas, if you had seen the state of the roads _that_ day!
I thought we should never have got through them, though we had the four
horses of course; and poor old coachman would attend us, out of his
great love and kindness, though he was hardly able to sit the box on
account of the rheumatism which I had been doctoring him for ever since
Michaelmas. I cured him at last; but he was very bad all the winter--and
this was such a day, I could not help going to him up in his room before
we set off to advise him not to venture: he was putting on his wig; so
I said, ‘Coachman, you had much better not go; your Lady and I shall be
very safe; you know how steady Stephen is, and Charles has been upon the
leaders so often now, that I am sure there is no fear. ’ But, however, I
soon found it would not do; he was bent upon going, and as I hate to be
worrying and officious, I said no more; but my heart quite ached for him
at every jolt, and when we got into the rough lanes about Stoke, where,
what with frost and snow upon beds of stones, it was worse than anything
you can imagine, I was quite in an agony about him. And then the poor
horses too! To see them straining away! You know how I always feel for
the horses. And when we got to the bottom of Sandcroft Hill, what do you
think I did? You will laugh at me; but I got out and walked up. I did
indeed. It might not be saving them much, but it was something, and I
could not bear to sit at my ease and be dragged up at the expense of
those noble animals. I caught a dreadful cold, but _that_ I did not
regard. My object was accomplished in the visit. ”

“I hope we shall always think the acquaintance worth any trouble that
might be taken to establish it. There is nothing very striking in Mr.
Rushworth’s manners, but I was pleased last night with what appeared to
be his opinion on one subject: his decided preference of a quiet family
party to the bustle and confusion of acting. He seemed to feel exactly
as one could wish. ”

“Yes, indeed, and the more you know of him the better you will like him.
He is not a shining character, but he has a thousand good qualities; and
is so disposed to look up to you, that I am quite laughed at about it,
for everybody considers it as my doing. ‘Upon my word, Mrs. Norris,’
said Mrs. Grant the other day, ‘if Mr. Rushworth were a son of your own,
he could not hold Sir Thomas in greater respect. ’”

Sir Thomas gave up the point, foiled by her evasions, disarmed by her
flattery; and was obliged to rest satisfied with the conviction that
where the present pleasure of those she loved was at stake, her kindness
did sometimes overpower her judgment.

It was a busy morning with him. Conversation with any of them occupied
but a small part of it. He had to reinstate himself in all the wonted
concerns of his Mansfield life: to see his steward and his bailiff; to
examine and compute, and, in the intervals of business, to walk into
his stables and his gardens, and nearest plantations; but active and
methodical, he had not only done all this before he resumed his seat as
master of the house at dinner, he had also set the carpenter to work in
pulling down what had been so lately put up in the billiard-room,
and given the scene-painter his dismissal long enough to justify the
pleasing belief of his being then at least as far off as Northampton.
The scene-painter was gone, having spoilt only the floor of one room,
ruined all the coachman’s sponges, and made five of the under-servants
idle and dissatisfied; and Sir Thomas was in hopes that another day or
two would suffice to wipe away every outward memento of what had been,
even to the destruction of every unbound copy of Lovers’ Vows in the
house, for he was burning all that met his eye.

Mr. Yates was beginning now to understand Sir Thomas’s intentions,
though as far as ever from understanding their source.