No More Learning

This is the
end of all the privacy and propriety which was talked about at first.
I know no harm of Charles Maddox; but the excessive intimacy which
must spring from his being admitted among us in this manner is highly
objectionable, the _more_ than intimacy--the familiarity. I cannot
think of it with any patience; and it does appear to me an evil of such
magnitude as must, _if_ _possible_, be prevented. Do not you see it in
the same light? ”

“Yes; but what can be done? Your brother is so determined. ”

“There is but _one_ thing to be done, Fanny. I must take Anhalt myself.
I am well aware that nothing else will quiet Tom. ”

Fanny could not answer him.

“It is not at all what I like,” he continued. “No man can like being
driven into the _appearance_ of such inconsistency. After being known to
oppose the scheme from the beginning, there is absurdity in the face of
my joining them _now_, when they are exceeding their first plan in every
respect; but I can think of no other alternative. Can you, Fanny? ”

“No,” said Fanny slowly, “not immediately, but--”

“But what? I see your judgment is not with me. Think it a little over.
Perhaps you are not so much aware as I am of the mischief that _may_, of
the unpleasantness that _must_ arise from a young man’s being received
in this manner: domesticated among us; authorised to come at all hours,
and placed suddenly on a footing which must do away all restraints. To
think only of the licence which every rehearsal must tend to create. It
is all very bad! Put yourself in Miss Crawford’s place, Fanny. Consider
what it would be to act Amelia with a stranger. She has a right to be
felt for, because she evidently feels for herself. I heard enough of
what she said to you last night to understand her unwillingness to be
acting with a stranger; and as she probably engaged in the part with
different expectations--perhaps without considering the subject enough
to know what was likely to be--it would be ungenerous, it would be
really wrong to expose her to it. Her feelings ought to be respected.
Does it not strike you so, Fanny? You hesitate. ”

“I am sorry for Miss Crawford; but I am more sorry to see you drawn in
to do what you had resolved against, and what you are known to think
will be disagreeable to my uncle. It will be such a triumph to the
others! ”

“They will not have much cause of triumph when they see how infamously I
act. But, however, triumph there certainly will be, and I must brave it.
But if I can be the means of restraining the publicity of the business,
of limiting the exhibition, of concentrating our folly, I shall be
well repaid. As I am now, I have no influence, I can do nothing: I have
offended them, and they will not hear me; but when I have put them in
good-humour by this concession, I am not without hopes of persuading
them to confine the representation within a much smaller circle than
they are now in the high road for. This will be a material gain. My
object is to confine it to Mrs. Rushworth and the Grants. Will not this
be worth gaining? ”

“Yes, it will be a great point. ”

“But still it has not your approbation. Can you mention any other
measure by which I have a chance of doing equal good? ”

“No, I cannot think of anything else. ”

“Give me your approbation, then, Fanny. I am not comfortable without
it. ”

“Oh, cousin! ”

“If you are against me, I ought to distrust myself, and yet--But it is
absolutely impossible to let Tom go on in this way, riding about the
country in quest of anybody who can be persuaded to act--no matter whom:
the look of a gentleman is to be enough. I thought _you_ would have
entered more into Miss Crawford’s feelings. ”

“No doubt she will be very glad. It must be a great relief to her,” said
Fanny, trying for greater warmth of manner.

“She never appeared more amiable than in her behaviour to you last
night. It gave her a very strong claim on my goodwill. ”

“She _was_ very kind, indeed, and I am glad to have her spared”. . .

She could not finish the generous effusion. Her conscience stopt her in
the middle, but Edmund was satisfied.

“I shall walk down immediately after breakfast,” said he, “and am sure
of giving pleasure there. And now, dear Fanny, I will not interrupt you
any longer. You want to be reading. But I could not be easy till I had
spoken to you, and come to a decision. Sleeping or waking, my head has
been full of this matter all night. It is an evil, but I am certainly
making it less than it might be. If Tom is up, I shall go to him
directly and get it over, and when we meet at breakfast we shall be all
in high good-humour at the prospect of acting the fool together with
such unanimity. _You_, in the meanwhile, will be taking a trip into
China, I suppose. How does Lord Macartney go on? ”--opening a volume on
the table and then taking up some others. “And here are Crabbe’s Tales,
and the Idler, at hand to relieve you, if you tire of your great book. I
admire your little establishment exceedingly; and as soon as I am
gone, you will empty your head of all this nonsense of acting, and sit
comfortably down to your table. But do not stay here to be cold. ”

He went; but there was no reading, no China, no composure for Fanny. He
had told her the most extraordinary, the most inconceivable, the most
unwelcome news; and she could think of nothing else. To be acting! After
all his objections--objections so just and so public! After all that she
had heard him say, and seen him look, and known him to be feeling. Could
it be possible? Edmund so inconsistent! Was he not deceiving himself?
Was he not wrong? Alas! it was all Miss Crawford’s doing. She had seen
her influence in every speech, and was miserable. The doubts and alarms
as to her own conduct, which had previously distressed her, and
which had all slept while she listened to him, were become of little
consequence now. This deeper anxiety swallowed them up. Things should
take their course; she cared not how it ended. Her cousins might attack,
but could hardly tease her. She was beyond their reach; and if at last
obliged to yield--no matter--it was all misery now.



CHAPTER XVII

It was, indeed, a triumphant day to Mr. Bertram and Maria. Such a
victory over Edmund’s discretion had been beyond their hopes, and was
most delightful. There was no longer anything to disturb them in their
darling project, and they congratulated each other in private on the
jealous weakness to which they attributed the change, with all the glee
of feelings gratified in every way. Edmund might still look grave, and
say he did not like the scheme in general, and must disapprove the play
in particular; their point was gained: he was to act, and he was driven
to it by the force of selfish inclinations only. Edmund had descended
from that moral elevation which he had maintained before, and they were
both as much the better as the happier for the descent.

They behaved very well, however, to _him_ on the occasion, betraying no
exultation beyond the lines about the corners of the mouth, and seemed
to think it as great an escape to be quit of the intrusion of Charles
Maddox, as if they had been forced into admitting him against their
inclination. “To have it quite in their own family circle was what
they had particularly wished. A stranger among them would have been the
destruction of all their comfort”; and when Edmund, pursuing that idea,
gave a hint of his hope as to the limitation of the audience, they were
ready, in the complaisance of the moment, to promise anything. It was
all good-humour and encouragement. Mrs. Norris offered to contrive his
dress, Mr. Yates assured him that Anhalt’s last scene with the Baron
admitted a good deal of action and emphasis, and Mr. Rushworth undertook
to count his speeches.

“Perhaps,” said Tom, “Fanny may be more disposed to oblige us now.
Perhaps you may persuade _her_. ”

“No, she is quite determined. She certainly will not act. ”

“Oh! very well. ” And not another word was said; but Fanny felt herself
again in danger, and her indifference to the danger was beginning to
fail her already.

There were not fewer smiles at the Parsonage than at the Park on this
change in Edmund; Miss Crawford looked very lovely in hers, and entered
with such an instantaneous renewal of cheerfulness into the whole
affair as could have but one effect on him. “He was certainly right in
respecting such feelings; he was glad he had determined on it. ” And the
morning wore away in satisfactions very sweet, if not very sound. One
advantage resulted from it to Fanny: at the earnest request of Miss
Crawford, Mrs. Grant had, with her usual good-humour, agreed to
undertake the part for which Fanny had been wanted; and this was all
that occurred to gladden _her_ heart during the day; and even this, when
imparted by Edmund, brought a pang with it, for it was Miss Crawford to
whom she was obliged--it was Miss Crawford whose kind exertions were to
excite her gratitude, and whose merit in making them was spoken of
with a glow of admiration. She was safe; but peace and safety were
unconnected here. Her mind had been never farther from peace. She could
not feel that she had done wrong herself, but she was disquieted
in every other way. Her heart and her judgment were equally against
Edmund’s decision: she could not acquit his unsteadiness, and his
happiness under it made her wretched. She was full of jealousy and
agitation. Miss Crawford came with looks of gaiety which seemed an
insult, with friendly expressions towards herself which she could hardly
answer calmly. Everybody around her was gay and busy, prosperous and
important; each had their object of interest, their part, their dress,
their favourite scene, their friends and confederates: all were finding
employment in consultations and comparisons, or diversion in the playful
conceits they suggested. She alone was sad and insignificant: she had
no share in anything; she might go or stay; she might be in the midst
of their noise, or retreat from it to the solitude of the East room,
without being seen or missed. She could almost think anything would
have been preferable to this. Mrs. Grant was of consequence: _her_
good-nature had honourable mention; her taste and her time were
considered; her presence was wanted; she was sought for, and attended,
and praised; and Fanny was at first in some danger of envying her the
character she had accepted. But reflection brought better feelings, and
shewed her that Mrs. Grant was entitled to respect, which could never
have belonged to _her_; and that, had she received even the greatest,
she could never have been easy in joining a scheme which, considering
only her uncle, she must condemn altogether.

Fanny’s heart was not absolutely the only saddened one amongst them,
as she soon began to acknowledge to herself. Julia was a sufferer too,
though not quite so blamelessly.

Henry Crawford had trifled with her feelings; but she had very long
allowed and even sought his attentions, with a jealousy of her sister so
reasonable as ought to have been their cure; and now that the conviction
of his preference for Maria had been forced on her, she submitted to it
without any alarm for Maria’s situation, or any endeavour at rational
tranquillity for herself. She either sat in gloomy silence, wrapt in
such gravity as nothing could subdue, no curiosity touch, no wit amuse;
or allowing the attentions of Mr. Yates, was talking with forced gaiety
to him alone, and ridiculing the acting of the others.

For a day or two after the affront was given, Henry Crawford had
endeavoured to do it away by the usual attack of gallantry and
compliment, but he had not cared enough about it to persevere against a
few repulses; and becoming soon too busy with his play to have time for
more than one flirtation, he grew indifferent to the quarrel, or rather
thought it a lucky occurrence, as quietly putting an end to what might
ere long have raised expectations in more than Mrs. Grant. She was not
pleased to see Julia excluded from the play, and sitting by disregarded;
but as it was not a matter which really involved her happiness, as Henry
must be the best judge of his own, and as he did assure her, with a
most persuasive smile, that neither he nor Julia had ever had a serious
thought of each other, she could only renew her former caution as to
the elder sister, entreat him not to risk his tranquillity by too
much admiration there, and then gladly take her share in anything that
brought cheerfulness to the young people in general, and that did so
particularly promote the pleasure of the two so dear to her.

“I rather wonder Julia is not in love with Henry,” was her observation
to Mary.

“I dare say she is,” replied Mary coldly. “I imagine both sisters are. ”

“Both! no, no, that must not be. Do not give him a hint of it. Think of
Mr. Rushworth! ”

“You had better tell Miss Bertram to think of Mr. Rushworth. It may
do _her_ some good. I often think of Mr. Rushworth’s property and
independence, and wish them in other hands; but I never think of him. A
man might represent the county with such an estate; a man might escape a
profession and represent the county. ”

“I dare say he _will_ be in parliament soon. When Sir Thomas comes, I
dare say he will be in for some borough, but there has been nobody to
put him in the way of doing anything yet. ”

“Sir Thomas is to achieve many mighty things when he comes home,” said
Mary, after a pause. “Do you remember Hawkins Browne’s ‘Address to
Tobacco,’ in imitation of Pope? --

Blest leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense
To Templars modesty, to Parsons sense.

I will parody them--

Blest Knight! whose dictatorial looks dispense
To Children affluence, to Rushworth sense.

Will not that do, Mrs. Grant? Everything seems to depend upon Sir
Thomas’s return. ”

“You will find his consequence very just and reasonable when you see him
in his family, I assure you. I do not think we do so well without him.
He has a fine dignified manner, which suits the head of such a house,
and keeps everybody in their place. Lady Bertram seems more of a cipher
now than when he is at home; and nobody else can keep Mrs. Norris in
order. But, Mary, do not fancy that Maria Bertram cares for Henry. I
am sure _Julia_ does not, or she would not have flirted as she did last
night with Mr. Yates; and though he and Maria are very good friends, I
think she likes Sotherton too well to be inconstant. ”

“I would not give much for Mr. Rushworth’s chance if Henry stept in
before the articles were signed. ”

“If you have such a suspicion, something must be done; and as soon as
the play is all over, we will talk to him seriously and make him know
his own mind; and if he means nothing, we will send him off, though he
is Henry, for a time. ”

Julia _did_ suffer, however, though Mrs. Grant discerned it not, and
though it escaped the notice of many of her own family likewise. She had
loved, she did love still, and she had all the suffering which a warm
temper and a high spirit were likely to endure under the disappointment
of a dear, though irrational hope, with a strong sense of ill-usage.
Her heart was sore and angry, and she was capable only of angry
consolations. The sister with whom she was used to be on easy terms was
now become her greatest enemy: they were alienated from each other;
and Julia was not superior to the hope of some distressing end to the
attentions which were still carrying on there, some punishment to
Maria for conduct so shameful towards herself as well as towards Mr.
Rushworth. 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.