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_ 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. _
Read next: VOLUME I: CHAPTER XX
Read previous: VOLUME I: CHAPTER XVIII
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