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.