No More Learning

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. He and his friend
had been out with their guns the chief of the morning, and Tom had taken
the opportunity of explaining, with proper apologies for his father’s
particularity, what was to be expected. Mr. Yates felt it as acutely as
might be supposed. To be a second time disappointed in the same way was
an instance of very severe ill-luck; and his indignation was such,
that had it not been for delicacy towards his friend, and his friend’s
youngest sister, he believed he should certainly attack the baronet
on the absurdity of his proceedings, and argue him into a little more
rationality. He believed this very stoutly while he was in Mansfield
Wood, and all the way home; but there was a something in Sir Thomas,
when they sat round the same table, which made Mr. Yates think it
wiser to let him pursue his own way, and feel the folly of it without
opposition. He had known many disagreeable fathers before, and often
been struck with the inconveniences they occasioned, but never, in
the whole course of his life, had he seen one of that class so
unintelligibly moral, so infamously tyrannical as Sir Thomas. He was
not a man to be endured but for his children’s sake, and he might be
thankful to his fair daughter Julia that Mr. Yates did yet mean to stay
a few days longer under his roof.

The evening passed with external smoothness, though almost every
mind was ruffled; and the music which Sir Thomas called for from his
daughters helped to conceal the want of real harmony. Maria was in a
good deal of agitation. It was of the utmost consequence to her that
Crawford should now lose no time in declaring himself, and she was
disturbed that even a day should be gone by without seeming to advance
that point. She had been expecting to see him the whole morning, and
all the evening, too, was still expecting him. Mr. Rushworth had set off
early with the great news for Sotherton; and she had fondly hoped for
such an immediate _eclaircissement_ as might save him the trouble of
ever coming back again. But they had seen no one from the Parsonage,
not a creature, and had heard no tidings beyond a friendly note of
congratulation and inquiry from Mrs. Grant to Lady Bertram. It was the
first day for many, many weeks, in which the families had been wholly
divided. Four-and-twenty hours had never passed before, since August
began, without bringing them together in some way or other. It was a
sad, anxious day; and the morrow, though differing in the sort of evil,
did by no means bring less. A few moments of feverish enjoyment were
followed by hours of acute suffering. Henry Crawford was again in the
house: he walked up with Dr. Grant, who was anxious to pay his respects
to Sir Thomas, and at rather an early hour they were ushered into the
breakfast-room, where were most of the family. Sir Thomas soon appeared,
and Maria saw with delight and agitation the introduction of the man she
loved to her father. Her sensations were indefinable, and so were they
a few minutes afterwards upon hearing Henry Crawford, who had a chair
between herself and Tom, ask the latter in an undervoice whether
there were any plans for resuming the play after the present happy
interruption (with a courteous glance at Sir Thomas), because, in that
case, he should make a point of returning to Mansfield at any time
required by the party: he was going away immediately, being to meet his
uncle at Bath without delay; but if there were any prospect of a renewal
of Lovers’ Vows, he should hold himself positively engaged, he should
break through every other claim, he should absolutely condition with his
uncle for attending them whenever he might be wanted. The play should
not be lost by _his_ absence.

“From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be,” said he; “I will
attend you from any place in England, at an hour’s notice. ”

It was well at that moment that Tom had to speak, and not his sister. He
could immediately say with easy fluency, “I am sorry you are going;
but as to our play, _that_ is all over--entirely at an end” (looking
significantly at his father). “The painter was sent off yesterday, and
very little will remain of the theatre to-morrow. I knew how _that_
would be from the first. It is early for Bath. You will find nobody
there. ”

“It is about my uncle’s usual time. ”

“When do you think of going? ”

“I may, perhaps, get as far as Banbury to-day. ”

“Whose stables do you use at Bath? ” was the next question; and while
this branch of the subject was under discussion, Maria, who wanted
neither pride nor resolution, was preparing to encounter her share of it
with tolerable calmness.

To her he soon turned, repeating much of what he had already said, with
only a softened air and stronger expressions of regret. But what availed
his expressions or his air? 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! Her spirit supported her, but the agony of her mind was
severe. She had not long to endure what arose from listening to language
which his actions contradicted, or to bury the tumult of her feelings
under the restraint of society; for general civilities soon called
his notice from her, and the farewell visit, as it then became openly
acknowledged, was a very short one. He was gone--he had touched her
hand for the last time, he had made his parting bow, and she might seek
directly all that solitude could do for her. Henry Crawford was gone,
gone from the house, and within two hours afterwards from the parish;
and so ended all the hopes his selfish vanity had raised in Maria and
Julia Bertram.

Julia could rejoice that he was gone. His presence was beginning to be
odious to her; and if Maria gained him not, she was now cool enough to
dispense with any other revenge. She did not want exposure to be added
to desertion. Henry Crawford gone, she could even pity her sister.

With a purer spirit did Fanny rejoice in the intelligence. She heard it
at dinner, and felt it a blessing. By all the others it was mentioned
with regret; and his merits honoured with due gradation of feeling--from
the sincerity of Edmund’s too partial regard, to the unconcern of his
mother speaking entirely by rote. Mrs. Norris began to look about her,
and wonder that his falling in love with Julia had come to nothing; and
could almost fear that she had been remiss herself in forwarding it; but
with so many to care for, how was it possible for even _her_ activity to
keep pace with her wishes?

Another day or two, and Mr. Yates was gone likewise. In _his_ departure
Sir Thomas felt the chief interest: wanting to be alone with his family,
the presence of a stranger superior to Mr. Yates must have been irksome;
but of him, trifling and confident, idle and expensive, it was every way
vexatious. In himself he was wearisome, but as the friend of Tom and
the admirer of Julia he became offensive. Sir Thomas had been quite
indifferent to Mr. Crawford’s going or staying: but his good wishes
for Mr. Yates’s having a pleasant journey, as he walked with him to the
hall-door, were given with genuine satisfaction. Mr. Yates had staid to
see the destruction of every theatrical preparation at Mansfield, the
removal of everything appertaining to the play: he left the house in all
the soberness of its general character; and Sir Thomas hoped, in seeing
him out of it, to be rid of the worst object connected with the scheme,
and the last that must be inevitably reminding him of its existence.

Mrs. Norris contrived to remove one article from his sight that might
have distressed him. The curtain, over which she had presided with such
talent and such success, went off with her to her cottage, where she
happened to be particularly in want of green baize.



CHAPTER XXI

Sir Thomas’s return made a striking change in the ways of the family,
independent of Lovers’ Vows. Under his government, Mansfield was an
altered place. Some members of their society sent away, and the spirits
of many others saddened--it was all sameness and gloom compared with
the past--a sombre family party rarely enlivened. There was little
intercourse with the Parsonage. Sir Thomas, drawing back from intimacies
in general, was particularly disinclined, at this time, for any
engagements but in one quarter. The Rushworths were the only addition to
his own domestic circle which he could solicit.

Edmund did not wonder that such should be his father’s feelings, nor
could he regret anything but the exclusion of the Grants. “But they,” he
observed to Fanny, “have a claim. They seem to belong to us; they seem
to be part of ourselves. I could wish my father were more sensible of
their very great attention to my mother and sisters while he was away. I
am afraid they may feel themselves neglected. But the truth is, that my
father hardly knows them. They had not been here a twelvemonth when he
left England. If he knew them better, he would value their society as it
deserves; for they are in fact exactly the sort of people he would
like. We are sometimes a little in want of animation among ourselves: my
sisters seem out of spirits, and Tom is certainly not at his ease. Dr.
and Mrs. Grant would enliven us, and make our evenings pass away with
more enjoyment even to my father. ”

“Do you think so? ” said Fanny: “in my opinion, my uncle would not like
_any_ addition. I think he values the very quietness you speak of, and
that the repose of his own family circle is all he wants. And it does
not appear to me that we are more serious than we used to be--I mean
before my uncle went abroad. As well as I can recollect, it was always
much the same. There was never much laughing in his presence; or, if
there is any difference, it is not more, I think, than such an absence
has a tendency to produce at first. There must be a sort of shyness; but
I cannot recollect that our evenings formerly were ever merry, except
when my uncle was in town. No young people’s are, I suppose, when those
they look up to are at home”.

“I believe you are right, Fanny,” was his reply, after a short
consideration. “I believe our evenings are rather returned to what they
were, than assuming a new character. The novelty was in their being
lively. Yet, how strong the impression that only a few weeks will give!
I have been feeling as if we had never lived so before. ”

“I suppose I am graver than other people,” said Fanny. “The evenings do
not appear long to me. I love to hear my uncle talk of the West Indies.
I could listen to him for an hour together. It entertains _me_ more than
many other things have done; but then I am unlike other people, I dare
say. ”

“Why should you dare say _that_? ” (smiling). “Do you want to be told
that you are only unlike other people in being more wise and discreet?
But when did you, or anybody, ever get a compliment from me, Fanny? Go
to my father if you want to be complimented. He will satisfy you. Ask
your uncle what he thinks, and you will hear compliments enough: and
though they may be chiefly on your person, you must put up with it, and
trust to his seeing as much beauty of mind in time. ”

Such language was so new to Fanny that it quite embarrassed her.

“Your uncle thinks you very pretty, dear Fanny--and that is the long and
the short of the matter. Anybody but myself would have made something
more of it, and anybody but you would resent that you had not been
thought very pretty before; but the truth is, that your uncle never
did admire you till now--and now he does. Your complexion is so
improved! --and you have gained so much countenance! --and your
figure--nay, Fanny, do not turn away about it--it is but an uncle. If
you cannot bear an uncle’s admiration, what is to become of you? You
must really begin to harden yourself to the idea of being worth looking
at. You must try not to mind growing up into a pretty woman. ”

“Oh!